Page 15 of Cutter’s Lady

They spent the rest of the flight in silence, Cutter flipping through the SkyMall catalog like he cared about any of the useless nonsense inside it and Leslie reading a novel she’d picked up at JFK airport. Even though they were only inches apart, they managed to ignore each other, their only contact happening when the stewardess brought them their drinks. Cutter handed Leslie’s to her, and their hands touched for an instant; she snatched it away as if his fingers had burned hers. She felt stupid immediately. She’d acted as if the touch of his hand in passing meant something. As if it were something to be afraid of.

When they landed at the small La Luz airport, Cutter took down their bags from the overhead compartment and handed Leslie hers, carefully extending it so that it was easy for her to take it without meeting his hand. Leslie felt even more foolish, and she grabbed the bag, purposefully colliding with his hand to show she didn’t care. But he grinned knowingly, spoiling the effect she had hoped to have.

Leslie followed him down the plane steps and across the asphalt to the small concrete box that was the La Luz airport. The place was filled with people, most talking in languages she didn’t know, and she felt overwhelmed by how little she knew about everything in this foreign land. She hadn’t even tried to learn basic phrases in Spanish, which was the most commonly spoken language in the region. Leslie was usually over-prepared for everything. When she had gone to France the summer before she started at Harvard, she had taken a two week crash course in the language so she could easily communicate with the people at hotels and restaurants. She never liked reinforcing the ugly American stereotypes, but she had so little lead time with this trip that she’d barely had a chance to pack, much less find out the finer points of customs and greetings in the region.

She followed Cutter meekly, grateful for the moment to have someone to show her the way. He wound through the crowd to the baggage area, where workers were tossing pieces of luggage onto the long metal rack.

Cutter glanced back at her. “What’s your luggage look like?”

“Brown. Louis Vuitton.”

“What the hell does that mean? What does it look like?”

“There.” She pointed. “The garment bag and the large case.”

Cutter grimaced and shoved his arm through the strap of his duffel bag, settling it on his back, then picked up the large suitcase and grabbed the garment bag with his other hand. Without saying a word to her, he shoved his way back through the people toward the counters at the far end of the room. Leslie went after him.

“Wait. I can carry something. Give me the garment bag.”

He cast her an unfriendly glance. “I’m working for you, remember?”

They handed their passports to a man behind one of the four counters, and he perused them, stamped them and handed them back to Cutter. They walked a few more steps to another counter, behind which stood a pretty, dark-haired girl in a uniform. Cutter set their bags on the counter, and the girl flashed him a smile. She opened Leslie’s large bag and poked through it slowly, glancing up at Cutter several times during the process with a bright, flirtatious glance or remark. He answered her in the same way; once he even winked at the woman. It grated on Leslie’s nerves. She had the deep suspicion they were laughing at her.

“Do you think you could flirt with her some other time?” she grumbled to Cutter. “This is slow enough as it is.”

He glanced down at her coolly. “You’ll have to get used to it, darlin’. Things are slower here.”

Leslie decided that she disliked his “darlin’” fully as much as she had disliked his previous use of “lady” in addressing her. The customs girl cast a glance at her and suppressed a giggle, murmuring something in Spanish. Cutter and the girl at the other counter both laughed. Leslie’s level of irritation rose several notches. As the girl passed their luggage down the counter and Cutter swept it up, Leslie marched around to face him, pulling her face into its coolest, haughtiest lines. “I’ll thank you not to call me ‘darlin’’ or ‘lady’ anymore. It’s demeaning.”

His eyebrows rose. “Excuse me. I didn’t realize,” he retorted sarcastically. “What should I call you—Your Highness?”

“Leslie will do, thank you.”

“What an honor.”

“If you think you can tear yourself away from your new friends, I’d like to leave this place.”

She whirled around and marched through the doors into the non-restricted area of the airport. Here there were porters by the dozens, all clamoring for their trade. Leslie motioned to one to take their bags, and he hurried over, almost yanking the luggage from Cutter’s hands. Leslie intended the gesture to show that she was in control once again. She was accustomed to running her life and felt a little ashamed for her momentary weakness when she had gratefully let Cutter take over. She wasn’t about to give him the impression that she was a helpless female whom he could order around.

However, Cutter didn’t seem to take the hint, and the gesture was further spoiled by the fact that Leslie didn’t have the slightest idea where to go from here. Cutter grasped her arm just above her elbow and propelled her across the room and out the glass doors on the right. Leslie shielded her eyes against the fierce sunlight and almost gasped in dismay when she saw the line of banged-up blue-and-white cars lined up at the curb.

“Are those taxis?”

Cutter hid a grin and walked toward one, pulling Leslie along with him. The cars were all foreign and very old, mostly Kias and Saabs that looked as if they had been in numerous wrecks. The taxi driver bounced out, grinning, and opened the door for them, then went to load the baggage into the trunk. Leslie reached in her purse and pulled out her wallet, but Cutter had already whipped out a San Cristóbalian bill and handed it to the porter. Leslie frowned, stuck her wallet back in her purse and slid into the car. Cutter got in after her and started instructing the driver in Spanish. The driver nodded and said, “Sí. El Palacio.”

“What did you say?” Leslie demanded.

“I told him to take us to a hotel named El Palacio.”

“Just like that? You’ve decided where we’re going to stay? Don’t I get a say in the matter? In case you didn’t know, I have started three very successful hotels in the US and I know quite a lot about the industry.”

“Do you know about every hotel in the world? Or even just the specific hotels in San Cristóbal? Did you have a chance to look them all up while you were packing the largest suitcase I’ve ever seen someone intend to take on a back country rescue mission?”

“Well, no… I haven’t explored all our options.” Leslie suddenly wished she’d used the time on the flight to look some things up instead of reading her book. “But you could have at least asked me.”

“You are really something else, lady—excuse me, Leslie. I speak Spanish, and you don’t. I know La Luz, and you don’t. Yet you think you’re the one who ought to decide where we go and who should do the talking?”

Put that way, it sounded stupid, Leslie knew. If it had been Avery or another friend with her instead of Cutter, she would have been glad to let him handle it for her. But with Cutter, she was suspicious of his motives. More than that, she was terrified of letting him get the upper hand. She couldn’t remember ever feeling that way about any other man, but there was something about Cutter that made him different. It set her nerves on edge and turned her snappish; it made her defensive and a little frightened and…somehow excited. She wished she knew what set Cutter apart from all the others, but she suspected that the less she knew about him, the better it would be for her peace of mind.