Page 70 of Cutter’s Lady

Leslie nodded. She wished he would take her in his arms. She would have liked to burrow against his chest, seeking his warmth and strength. But he didn’t hold her; he simply dug his fingers into her arms while his eyes bored into hers. He looked so hard and coldly furious that it made Leslie shiver, even though she knew she wasn’t the object of his anger.

“Damn!” he swore softly, “I wanted to get that guy. I’d like to—” He broke off abruptly. “Come on, let’s go inside.” He propelled her into her room and switched on the light. Leslie sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him as he made a thorough search of the room for bugs and cameras, then looked into the closet and bathroom and even under the beds. He turned back to Leslie. “Okay. We’re clean. Tell me what happened.”

“Not much, really. I came into the room, and somebody slammed the door and grabbed me. He put his hand over my mouth. I couldn’t see him; he was behind me. He wore a very strong cologne.”

“What did he do? Did he hurt you? Say anything?”

“He didn’t do anything to me until I kicked him.”

A grin tugged at Cutter’s mouth. “I should have known.”

Leslie rolled her eyes at his remark, but in truth, his words warmed her. How desperate was that, that even his jabs pleased her? “But he did say something.”

“What?”

“Basically, ‘Forget Blake Westfield.’ Stop looking into his disappearance.”

Cutter watched her silently for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d fly back to the States tomorrow,” he said in a resigned voice.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Of course not! I wouldn’t quit now for anything. That guy was trying to scare us off, which means we must be on to something. We can’t abandon it now.”

“I didn’t say we. I’ll stay on and keep looking. I’m talking about you.”

“No.” She gave a decisive shake of her head.

Cutter sighed. “What the hell is the matter with you? Don’t you understand the kind of danger you’re in?”

“You’re in danger, too,” she pointed out.

“And you’re going to protect me?”

“Sometimes an extra pair of hands is helpful.” It was a stupid idea, of course; she couldn’t do anything for Cutter he couldn’t do much better himself. But she wasn’t being realistic. She was being emotional. She wanted to protect him. She also couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him even a day or two early. Despite the tension between them, Leslie wanted to be with him every moment she had left.

“Leslie…” Cutter began exasperatedly, then broke off. “Oh, hell! I know better than to think I’ll make you listen to reason. But I’m sleeping here tonight.”

Leslie’s eyes widened, but she also couldn’t suppress a thrill of excitement. Cutter growled and jabbed his finger toward the room’s second bed. “There! In the other bed. Don’t worry; I’m not going to try to take advantage of you. But there’s no way I can protect you sleeping in the room next door.”

“Surely he won’t try anything again tonight,” Leslie demurred. She didn’t know if she could stand Cutter’s sleeping so close to her all night without being able to touch him or kiss him.

“You want to take that chance?”

There was a pause and Leslie glanced at Cutter uncertainly. His face might have been carved in granite, it gave so little away. She wondered what he felt. Finally she sighed and replied, “No. All right. You’ll sleep in this room.”

“Thank you so much,” he responded sarcastically.

They stood for a few moments, looking at each other awkwardly. Finally Leslie said in a low voice, “Well. I guess I’ll get ready for bed.”

She walked stiffly into the bathroom. There wasn’t much to do aside from wash her face with the hotel soap. All her cosmetics and creams were still in her room at El Palacio in La Luz, as were her nightgowns and robe. She sucked in her breath. What would she sleep in? She couldn’t just boldly undress in front of Cutter and get into bed, not with the anger and distance between them. She returned to the room fully clothed. Cutter was checking the locks on the terrace door. When she came in he glanced at her briefly and finished what he was doing. Leslie perched on the edge of the bed, her whole body rigid. Cutter went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and she jumped to her feet and skinned out of her clothes. By the time he returned to the room, she was safely ensconced in the bed, the sheets pulled up to her chin.

She rolled over on her side to avoid watching him undress, but there was no way she could fail to hear the sounds—the pop of the button at his waist, the scrape of the zipper, the rustle of his jeans falling to the floor. Leslie squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the warmth budding between her legs. She heard the cover and sheets being turned back and the creak of the bed as he got in. Stiffly, she refused to turn and look. The bedside lamp snapped off.

It seemed forever before she went to sleep.

***

A persistent knocking on the door awakened Leslie the next morning. She opened her eyes to see Cutter standing beside his bed, pulling on his jeans. He reached over, pulled his gun from the nightstand and tucked it into the back of his jeans. Leslie swallowed nervously and sat up, holding the sheet close.

“Stay put,” Cutter ordered in a low voice, and walked toward the door. Leslie slipped out of bed, quickly threw on her own clothes and followed him to the end of her bed, where she could see who was outside. The knocking continued impatiently.

Cutter opened the door, his right hand resting on his waist, within easy reach of the automatic pistol. A well-dressed man stood on the other side, and he and Cutter gazed at each other blankly for a moment. Then the man’s eyes moved past Cutter to the room beyond.

“Hello, Leslie.”

Leslie stared. Her knees were suddenly liquid, and her stomach dropped to the floor. “Blake.”