“Sounds like a winner.” Cutter finished his drink. “Good to see you. I’ve got to run, though.”
“Too bad. I was thinking if you didn’t have plans, we might grab a bite to eat together. Catch up on old times.”
“Maybe another day.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll give you a call. You in the book?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, in the book. Look me up.”
Cutter pulled some bills from his pocket and left them on the bar, more than enough to cover the price of the drink and a tip. He didn’t look back as he pushed through the door and back into the humidity of a hot June afternoon.
He had another interview scheduled, this one at a new car dealership out on I-45. He made a quick decision to blow it off. Selling cars just wasn’t going to cut it. Not that he had a clue what would.
He missed the danger, missed knowing that every decision was crucial, missed feeling the heat of the enemy breathing down his neck even when he couldn’t see them. Most of all, he’d lost the feeling that what he was doing made a real difference.
Houston wasn’t a walking town, but Cutter couldn’t bring himself to crawl back into the new black Chevy pickup truck he’d left parked in the lot. He stopped by it just long enough to shed his tie and sports jacket and toss them into the backseat of the double-cab. Then, rolling up his sleeves, he headed down Montrose Boulevard.
Breaking a sweat felt good. He covered the blocks fast in spite of his slight limp, turning onto Westheimer and then onto a dozen more streets he never bothered to check the names of. Cars whizzed by him. A black man on a bicycle almost ran him over. A guy walking a pair of poodles walked by Cutter without glancing his way.
A young woman in a thin summer dress that hugged her perky breasts and swung from her narrow hips walked out of a coffee shop on his right. She caught his eye and smiled at him invitingly. He considered stopping to see how far her invitation went, but decided against it. She was about ten years too young for him and likely a lifetime too innocent.
He kept walking, past cafés that were no more than holes in the wall emitting odors of peppers and chilies and frying tortillas. Past upscale dining spots with white-shirted valets parking Mercedes and BMWs.
He was in an eclectic area of shops, restaurants, and aging houses infiltrated by sleek new townhomes, all practically within the shadows of the downtown skyscrapers.
It was dark when he ended up back at the bar, and the parking lot was full. He started to go in for another drink but decided to head back to the tiny claustrophobic condo where he was staying. Two rooms, unless you counted the closet-size bath. A living/kitchen area and a bedroom. Fortunately, there were lots of windows.
Merlee had bought the property a few years back when Hank had first been diagnosed with cancer and was under-going chemo. It was near the hospital and had eliminated the long commute during that already stressful time.
She’d decided to keep it after he died and now she and her friend Josie used it when they wanted a few days of city living. Culture, she called it, though the theater and symphony attendance was rivaled by shopping and baseball. Merlee was a rabid Astros fan.
She’d given Cutter the key to the condo when he’d started searching for employment. He’d have to take the job hunt more seriously tomorrow. Deal with more applications.
Skills: Hand-to-hand combat. Smelling out the enemy. Putting his life on the line.
None of them looked particularly good on a résumé.
There was a light on in the condo when he pulled in to his parking spot. He didn’t remember leaving it on, and it couldn’t be Merlee or Josie. They were off on an Alaskan cruise. He’d driven them to the airport himself.
His instincts for trouble checked in. He hesitated at the door. Interesting odors wafted out. Garlic. Onions.
The voices coming from inside were even more interesting. The male was undoubtedly George Strait singing “All My Exes Live in Texas.” The female singing along with a definite lack of enthusiasm and totally off-key was anybody’s guess. Except…
No. He was imagining things.
Cutter opened the door, unlocked now, though he was sure he’d left it locked this morning. He stepped inside. There was definitely a woman in his kitchen and singing along with his CD. He headed that way.
“Honey, I’m home.”
“Cutter.”
No mistaking the voice when it called his name. His body tightened. His stomach flipped. A second later Linney Gayle Ringle stood in the doorway. Her red hair was caught up in a knot at the nape of her neck, but more than a few tangled curls fell over her cheeks and danced about her forehead.
He gave in to the initial spicy thrill of her, letting his gaze scan her shapely body before reining in his natural instincts and reminding himself of the misery that had stemmed from their last encounter. Not to mention the fact that she was now a married woman.
She looked up at him from beneath her thick lashes, her emerald-green eyes as bewitching as ever, though the sparkle he remembered was shadowed.
“God, you look good, Cutter, much better than that newspaper photo.”
To say she looked good would be the understatement of the year. She was dynamite. Too hot too handle. Nothing new there.
“Nice to see you, too, Linney. Now, care to tell me why you broke into my condo?”
“I didn’t. Merlee gave me a key.”
“That explains it.” He let his gaze scan her body again, then wished he hadn’t. Her breasts were perky little mounds that pushed against the thin cotton T-shirt that scooped just low enough to show a hint of cleavage. The white shorts hit midthigh, showing off the perfectly tanned legs. Legs that had once wrapped around him while—
He fought the stirrings back into submission before he reached really dangerous territory. “So why are you here, or do you chase after every guy who gets his picture in the paper?”
“Just the cute ones.”
She walked over, rose to her tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek. “We’re friends, Cutter. I wanted to welcome you home.”
There was a tenseness about her that made him sure that wasn’t the whole story—not by a long shot. “You can do better than that, Linney.”
“Not in present company.” Linney put her hand out and Cutter spotted the little girl who’d just stuck her head around the counter that separated the living area from the kitchen. The preschool-age child walked over and scrunched behind Linney’s shapely hip before stealing a sheepish glance at Cutter.
So Alfred and Linney had a daughter. Might even have a house full of kids. “Where’s big Al,” he asked, “or is he going to jump out next?”
“You heard about the marriage?”
“Word gets around.”
“All the way to the Middle East?”
“Just the big stuff.”
“Alfred and I are divorced.”
That he hadn’t heard. “Is this where I’m supposed to say I’m sorry?”
“Are you?”
No and yes. It was easier to resent the both of them if they were living their idyllic life in the world of the rich and modestly famous. “Divorce is tough on kids,” he said, knowing it was the most honest statement he could offer.
“Alfred and I didn’t have children.”
So there was a new man in her life. And still Linney was here, in his condo, the spitting image of the woman who’d starred in thousands of his unsolicited