“So you say.”
“Cutter, I made a good living. I was happy and satisfied with my work.”
“So how did eight hundred thousand dollars find its way into your checking account?”
She stomped the quick rise of anger. “I see you did your homework.”
“I always do, Mattie. I read your file.”
“Then you know that throughout my trial, I maintained my innocence. I have no idea how the money got into my account.”
“What else are you going to say?”
“Look, if I was going to accept money for selling secrets, you can bet I’d set up a Swiss account or an account in the Cayman Islands at the very least. I wouldn’t deposit it into my personal account.”
Cutter stared hard at her, studying her reactions, her body language, her ability to maintain eye contact with him. Everything about her said that she was telling the truth. As unlikely as it seemed, was it possible she’d been framed? Or was the keen attraction he felt for her skewing his judgment?
The last time his hormones had gotten involved when he was on assignment, someone had ended up dead. He’d nearly ended up dead himself. And to this day he couldn’t look at the scars on his body and not shiver with horror.
“The feds are not stupid, Mattie,” he said.
“No, but it was an election year and in a post 9/11 world, they were under intense pressure to find the culprit and bring them to justice.” She blew out a pent-up breath. “They didn’t look any harder than they had to, Cutter. It was all right there. Neatly planted. Motive. Means. Opportunity. Like a puzzle a five-year-old child could solve. All they had to do was put the pieces together.”
He wasn’t sure which was worse, believing that this lovely, angel-faced woman was guilty of treason. Or entertaining the possibility that she’d endured a trial and spent four months in prison for a crime she hadn’t committed.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” she said.
The hurt and hopelessness in her eyes told him otherwise. “Look, when we get back,” he heard himself say, “I’ll make some inquiries.”
“You’ll look into it?”
“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll take another look at your file. At the transcripts. I’ll make a few calls. See if I can come up with anything.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Choking back a sound that was part laugh, part sob, she blinked back tears. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m not doing this for you.”
“Then why—”
“If you’re innocent, then the person who sold those secrets to The Jaguar is still out there. We both know it’s only a matter of time before he does it again.”
Chapter Eight
“You’re going to have to let me take a look at that bullet wound.” The last thing Mattie wanted to do was clean up a bloody bullet wound, but she figured they both knew that once they left the cabin they likely wouldn’t get another chance.
Cutter glanced her way from his sentry post at the window. “It’ll keep.”
“It bled a lot.”
“It’s only a graze.”
“Grazes get infected, too.” She could tell by his expression that he knew she was right.
Looking none too happy at the prospect of her administering first aid, he crossed to the chair near the fire and sat down. “Fine. If it will make you happy, take a look.”
“What will make me happy is getting off this godforsaken mountain so I can clear my name and get my life back.”
He watched her as she crossed to him, and Mattie felt a tinge of self-consciousness. He had the most penetrating stare of any person she’d ever met.
“I know it’s cold in here, but you’re going to have to take off your shirt,” she said.
His expression was impassive as his fingers worked the buttons of his flannel shirt. But rather than remove it, he simply opened it.
All thoughts about bullet wounds and terrorists and clearing her name fled the instant his chest loomed into view. Mattie had seen plenty of male chests in her thirty-one years, but she had never seen one as perfect as Sean Cutter’s. It was a work of art carved into stone by an artisan with an eye for male beauty.
“So am I going to live?” he asked.
His words drew her from her momentary stupor. Mattie reached out and slid one side of the shirt down his injured shoulder. The sight of the wound made her gasp. The bullet had cut a jagged, two-inch-long path through his flesh. The surrounding skin was the color of eggplant and covered with dried blood.
“If this is a graze, I’d hate to see your idea of a serious wound,” she said.
“I’ve had my tetanus shot.”
“What about rabies?”
“I don’t bite.” His smile was wan. “Most of the time, anyway.”
“That remains to be seen.”