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Authors: Merline Lovelace
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my new line of work more than the old. I’ve got an appointment with a local vintner tomorrow morning. Why don’t you come with me?”
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I need to find a notary and fax my signature to the American Express office. And follow up with the embassy about my passport. And sort out this mess with the rental-car agency.”
“I’m sure Gilbért knows the location of a notary. We’ll stop by and obtain his or her chop on the way to the vintner. You can make any calls you need to on my cell phone.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already imposed on you too much.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it? We’ll talk again in the morning.”
“Speaking of sleep…”
Her shoulders sagging, she laid down her fork. She’d taken only a few bites of her dinner. Cutter could see that was all she’d manage. The color had seeped from her cheeks and left them gray with fatigue.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to poop out on you. Jet lag is catching up with a vengeance.”
“No problem.” He rose and came around to slide back her chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Mallory.”
“You, too.”
As she turned to face him, her flowery scent teased his senses again. Cutter resisted the urge to brush a wayward strand of corn-silk hair off her cheek. If her allegations against Congressman Kent held even a grain of truth, Ms. Dawes didn’t take kindly to being touched.
He wanted to, though, with a sudden, gut-twisting urgency that surprised the hell out of him. Controlling the urge, he stepped away from her.
Cutter Smith wasn’t like the others.
The thought teased at Mallory’s tired mind as she dragged up the stairs.
She’d seen that spark of heat in his eyes a few moments ago. Felt the sudden, subtle tension sizzle through the air between them. But he’d promised she’d be safe with him.
He’d also promised he wouldn’t hit on her unless she wanted him to. Now here she was, wishing she’d given him the green light.
Was she an idiot, or what?
Chapter 6
S till on Central American jungle time, Cutter’s internal alarm failed to go off in time for his usual dawn run. He didn’t jerk awake until his cell phone buzzed.
The ring tone sounded ordinary enough, but he was so attuned to the sequence of musical notes that he went from total unconsciousness to fully alert in two seconds flat.
“Yeah, I know,” Mike Callahan said when his craggy face appeared on the screen. “It’s early as hell.”
“It is for me,” Cutter agreed, scraping a hand over his chin. “Late as hell for you.”
Callahan must have stayed at Control a second night in a row. Wondering what had kept him there, Cutter threw off the duvet and swung upright. He’d left the windows open to the sea breeze last night. The air carried a damp bite this morning, but that wasn’t what prickled the skin of his bare chest and arms. Callahan wouldn’t have initiated contact without good reason.
“What’s up, Hawk?”
“Thought you might want to know about your friend, Walters.”
Cutter’s mind clicked instantly to the heavyset tourist who’d accosted Mallory yesterday. Robert Walters. Age: fifty-three. Siding and storm doors. High roller.
“Did you pull his phone records?”
“I did,” Mike confirmed. “Found some very interesting threads, but that’s not why I contacted you. I intercepted State Department message traffic a few hours ago. The Bureau of Consular Affairs is trying to locate Walters’s next-of-kin. Seems he met with an unfortunate accident yesterday, a few hours after your run-in with him.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“He tumbled down some steps at Mont St. Michel and broke his neck.”
An image of the steep, narrow passageways cut into solid rock flashed into Cutter’s head. The steps were accidents waiting to happen, particularly to unwary tourists who’d imbibed one glass too many in a local bistro.
“What do the preliminary police reports say?”
“Although they’re treating
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I need to find a notary and fax my signature to the American Express office. And follow up with the embassy about my passport. And sort out this mess with the rental-car agency.”
“I’m sure Gilbért knows the location of a notary. We’ll stop by and obtain his or her chop on the way to the vintner. You can make any calls you need to on my cell phone.”
“Thanks, but I’ve already imposed on you too much.”
“Why don’t you sleep on it? We’ll talk again in the morning.”
“Speaking of sleep…”
Her shoulders sagging, she laid down her fork. She’d taken only a few bites of her dinner. Cutter could see that was all she’d manage. The color had seeped from her cheeks and left them gray with fatigue.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to poop out on you. Jet lag is catching up with a vengeance.”
“No problem.” He rose and came around to slide back her chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep well, Mallory.”
“You, too.”
As she turned to face him, her flowery scent teased his senses again. Cutter resisted the urge to brush a wayward strand of corn-silk hair off her cheek. If her allegations against Congressman Kent held even a grain of truth, Ms. Dawes didn’t take kindly to being touched.
He wanted to, though, with a sudden, gut-twisting urgency that surprised the hell out of him. Controlling the urge, he stepped away from her.
Cutter Smith wasn’t like the others.
The thought teased at Mallory’s tired mind as she dragged up the stairs.
She’d seen that spark of heat in his eyes a few moments ago. Felt the sudden, subtle tension sizzle through the air between them. But he’d promised she’d be safe with him.
He’d also promised he wouldn’t hit on her unless she wanted him to. Now here she was, wishing she’d given him the green light.
Was she an idiot, or what?
Chapter 6
S till on Central American jungle time, Cutter’s internal alarm failed to go off in time for his usual dawn run. He didn’t jerk awake until his cell phone buzzed.
The ring tone sounded ordinary enough, but he was so attuned to the sequence of musical notes that he went from total unconsciousness to fully alert in two seconds flat.
“Yeah, I know,” Mike Callahan said when his craggy face appeared on the screen. “It’s early as hell.”
“It is for me,” Cutter agreed, scraping a hand over his chin. “Late as hell for you.”
Callahan must have stayed at Control a second night in a row. Wondering what had kept him there, Cutter threw off the duvet and swung upright. He’d left the windows open to the sea breeze last night. The air carried a damp bite this morning, but that wasn’t what prickled the skin of his bare chest and arms. Callahan wouldn’t have initiated contact without good reason.
“What’s up, Hawk?”
“Thought you might want to know about your friend, Walters.”
Cutter’s mind clicked instantly to the heavyset tourist who’d accosted Mallory yesterday. Robert Walters. Age: fifty-three. Siding and storm doors. High roller.
“Did you pull his phone records?”
“I did,” Mike confirmed. “Found some very interesting threads, but that’s not why I contacted you. I intercepted State Department message traffic a few hours ago. The Bureau of Consular Affairs is trying to locate Walters’s next-of-kin. Seems he met with an unfortunate accident yesterday, a few hours after your run-in with him.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“He tumbled down some steps at Mont St. Michel and broke his neck.”
An image of the steep, narrow passageways cut into solid rock flashed into Cutter’s head. The steps were accidents waiting to happen, particularly to unwary tourists who’d imbibed one glass too many in a local bistro.
“What do the preliminary police reports say?”
“Although they’re treating
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