Page 1 of Cutter’s Lady

Chapter 1

Even before she met him, Leslie Harper was certain she wouldn’t like him. She knew it as soon as she heard his name. “Cutter?” she had asked Avery, her voice threaded with disbelief. “That’s all? Is that his first name or his last?”

Avery gave a languid, one-shouldered shrug. “Who knows? That’s all Ashe called him. Cutter.”

“I don’t like it. There’s something fishy about a man with only one name.”

Now, standing just inside the door of Harry Zymchek’s bar, Leslie repeated her words. “I don’t like it.”

She cast an encompassing look around the room. It was as dingy and smoke-filled as any bar in South Texas, which was saying a lot. The tan walls were smudged with dirty handprints and years-old beer stains. The ceiling of faded yellow acoustical tiles was splotched with a huge brown water stain, and a fourth of the tiles were missing. Cigarette burns pocked the Formica bar. A neon light advertising Pearl beer sputtered on the wall amidst the liquor bottles. The opposite wall was lined with green vinyl booths, the seats torn and mended with black electrician’s tape. The rest of the room was cluttered with empty tables and chairs. Cigarette butts dotted the linoleum floor.

“I suppose this place has never heard of a smoking ban.” Leslie Harper shot a hard look at the slender, well-dressed man beside her. “Really, Avery.”

He ran one elegant hand over his perfectly coiffed silver hair. “Sweetheart, you don’t find men who know the jungles of San Cristóbal at the Hyatt.”

“You mean he’s staying here?” Leslie was startled out of her usual cool composure.

“There’s a motel out back.”

“Good God.” Leslie felt suddenly unsure—it wasn’t a feeling she was accustomed to. And she didn’t enjoy it. “Do you really think he can help? I mean, it was odd enough that he doesn’t have a cell phone or a permanent address, but anyone who’s reduced to living here—well, I mean, he can’t be very good, can he?”

“Morally or professionally?”

“Professionally,” she answered before stopping to think. “Though…I guess I’d have to worry about his ethics, too, if I’m to trust him to find Blake and not make off with the cash.” She sighed.

“You want to back out?”

Leslie smoothed down the skirt of her white Chanel suit. Discreet pearls shimmered at her throat and ears. Her dark hair was parted down the middle and pulled back tightly to a knot on her neck. Only someone with classically elegant features could wear her hair that way and succeed. Leslie Harper managed it. She looked crisp and cool, more as if she were at a garden party than standing in Harry Zymchek’s bar in Purcell, Texas.

“No. I’m not backing out. Let’s meet this guy.”

Avery cupped her elbow with his hand and guided her across the floor. Every eye in the place followed her progress. The orange-haired woman behind the bar leaned confidentially toward the customer on the bar stool closest to her. “Donna, them shoes cost more than you and I make in a week.” Her estimate was low.

Only one man in the room paid no attention to the elegant couple crossing the floor, and it was toward him that Avery made his way. He sat in the booth farthest from the door, arms crossed on the table, seriously studying the row of empty shot glasses and squeezed-out lime rinds before him. He was dressed in a nondescript tan shirt, faded jeans and scuffed brown boots. A brown felt cowboy hat with the front brim turned down was pushed far back on his head to reveal thick, tangled brown hair.

Avery and Leslie paused beside the table, but the man didn’t glance up. Avery cleared his throat. Still there was no response.

“Mr. Cutter!” Leslie said loud enough to be heard over the music, conversations, and even a jet plane—had one been passing by at the time.

He raised his head that time. “Yeah?”

Leslie’s lips thinned with disgust. The man before them hadn’t shaved in days. His fingernails were dirty, his eyes bloodshot, and he reeked of sweat, alcohol and poor decisions.

“Is your name Cutter?” Avery questioned.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“This is hopeless. Let’s go home.” Leslie started to turn away, but Avery put a detaining hand on her arm.

“I am Avery Browning. This is Leslie Harper.”

The red-rimmed eyes went to Leslie and traveled down her slender figure. He looked back at Avery. “So?”

“So Ashe Harlan sent us to you.”

“He obviously made a mistake,” Leslie added bitingly.

“There’s a job we want done, and Mr. Harlan said you were the man to do it.”