This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

  Romero reached out and took Cyn's hand, brought it to his lips and brushed a feather-light kiss across her knuck­les. "I'm delighted, Ms. Porter. I was afraid Nate might forget to introduce us. I'm Nicholas Romero, and the man who just saved you from a rather unpleasant evening is Na­than Hodges. But you can call him Nate."

  Nathan? Nathan Hodges. Nate. His name was Nate. Cyn noticed the stormy darkness in his eyes as he glared at his friend. Up until this very moment she'd thought his eyes were deep, dark brown because they appeared almost black. But they weren't brown. They were green—an incredibly dark green. Powerful eyes. Stunningly green, set in a hard, bronzed face with sharp cheekbones, a strong nose and a wide, full mouth. Recognition shot through her like a surge of electricity. Those were his eyes. Her phantom protector. Her dream lover.

  She stared at him, unable to stop herself. Her breathing quickened, her pulse accelerated, her flesh tingled with some unknown excitement.

  It isn't him, she told herself. It can't be.

  Nate studied her closely as she stared at him. He didn't think he'd ever seen such a beautiful woman—every fea­ture perfect, combining to create an unforgettable face. Large brown eyes framed by thick dark lashes. Small, tip-tilted nose, luscious, full-lipped mouth. And golden blond hair hanging in long silken waves down to her tiny waist.

  He looked at her, lost in the warmth of her rich brown eyes. He knew those eyes. They had haunted his dreams for twenty-five years.

  The blood in his veins ran hot and wild, some primitive longing surging through him. He couldn't, wouldn't, give a name to what he was feeling.

  It isn't her, he told himself. It couldn't be.

  "Could we give you a ride home, Ms. Porter?" Nick Romero smiled as he looked back and forth from Nate to Cyn.

  "What?" she asked, aware of nothing and no one except the big, dark man whose green eyes held her under their spell.

  "I asked if you came here in a cab and need a ride home. I'd be glad to take you." Romero grasped Cyn's hand.

  "I'll take her." Placing his arm around Cyn's shoulder, Nate gave his old friend a warning glare.

  Romero released her and stepped backward, grinning.

  "That... that won't be necessary, thank you," she said. "I drove here. I'm parked out front."

  "Then let us escort you," Romero said.

  "I will." Nate pulled Cyn close to his side, completely ig­noring Romero.

  Before Cyn knew what had happened, Nate had escorted her outside. She felt overwhelmed. Nate Hodges was quite a commanding person.

  "Where's your car?" he asked.

  "It's the white van over there." She pointed down the street. "I'll be all right now. Thanks."

  Nate didn't release her. Cyn sighed, and allowed him to walk her to her van. Opening her purse, she fumbled with the keys, almost dropping them. Nate took the gold initial key ring from her trembling fingers.

  "Don't ever do something this stupid again," he said as he inserted the key and unlocked the van.

  "What did you say?" How dare he issue her orders.

  "Coming into this part of town alone was a stupid thing to do. You were asking for trouble. You were damned lucky that I was here tonight."

  "I've lived thirty-five years without your help, and I think I'll make it another thirty-five. Just who do you think you are, my guardian angel?"

  He took her chin in his big hand, tilting it upward so that she was forced to look into his eyes. "Tonight, that's ex­actly what I was."

  His words sent a tremor racing through her. This man was a dominant, protective male, and for some reason she felt as if he'd staked his claim on her. "Then thank you, Mr. Hodges and... and goodbye."

  Cyn stepped up into the van, inserted the key into the ig­nition and started the motor.

  "Don't come back to this part of town even if Bobby and Casey don't show up at the shelter." Nate leaned down into the van, his face so close to hers she could feel his breath.

  "Has anyone ever told you that you're—"

  "I'm used to giving orders and having them obeyed," he said.

  "That's obvious."

  "Go straight home."

  "Yes, sir!" Cyn slammed the door, then maneuvered the minivan out of the parking space.

  Nate watched until the van's taillights disappeared into the traffic. He turned, walking in the opposite direction where his Jeep Cherokee was parked. When he passed the front entrance of the Brazen Hussy, he noticed Nick Romero coming out the door.

  "She's quite a woman, isn't she?" Romero slapped his old friend on the back.

  "Stay away from her," Nate warned.

  "Well, well. I've never seen you so proprietary when it came to a woman. What is it with you and her?"

  "Nothing, absolutely nothing." Nate began walking away, moving toward his car.

  Nate neither wanted nor needed Cynthia Porter in his life, especially not now when just being his friend was poten­tially dangerous. All he wanted was peace. Blessed peace. He had longed to put the past behind him. He wanted to forget the memories of a war that still haunted him, and to come to terms with the man he had been, the man who had served his country for twenty years.

  Romero followed. "You said you'd met her before?"

  Nate slowed his quick strides and turned to face his old SEAL comrade. "There's a cottage across the road from the house I bought. It's the only other house within a mile. She's staying there. She was there last night and again this morn­ing, and I've got to find a way to make her leave. She's in danger."

  "Hey, pal, Ryker's coming after you, not after Cynthia Porter."

  Nate tried to erase the scene forming in his mind, the vi­sion of his woman's lifeless body in Ryker's arms. "Any­one near me when Ryker shows up will be in danger."

  "Whatever your feelings are for Ms. Porter, they're mu­tual. I saw the way she looked at you." Romero put his hand on Nate's shoulder.

  "I have no feelings for her, and if you think she has any for me, then you're mistaken." Nate unlocked his car. "She isn't going to be in my life long enough for Ryker to know of her existence."

  Cynthia Porter wasn't the woman in his dreams. She couldn't be. Ryker was going to kill that woman—and de­stroy Nate's soul.

  Chapter 3

  The drive from Jacksonville to Sweet Haven seemed end­less to Cyn. Her mind was racked with utter confusion, and her heart rioted with a mixture of far too many emotions. She had never experienced a night quite like this one, and she'd certainly never met a man like Nate Hodges.

  Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Cyn turned east off Interstate 1. She glanced in her rearview mirror to see if he was still following her. He was. Damn him. She tried to tell herself that if he was staying somewhere in the state park he was on his way home, too, and not actually following her. But her feminine instincts told her that his Jeep would still be behind her van when she left the highway in Sweet Ha­ven and drove down the narrow road to the beach.

  While keeping her eyes glued to the road, she rummaged around in the cassette holder between the bucket seats, counted the tapes until she reached the fourth one, then pulled it out and slipped it into the player. Within seconds, fifties sound filled the inside of the very nineties van.

  Cyn loved the music from the period just before and af­ter her birth, the romantic, sentimental songs that prom­ised love and happiness no matter how many times your heart had been broken. The song playing on the tape was "True Love," and Cyn found herself humming, then mouthing the lyrics along with the singer.

  No one seeing her now would believe that the trim, at­tractive, mature Cynthia Porter had once been a plump, naive teenager who had lived in a world of romantic fanta­sies, listening to dreamy songs like the ones Johnny Mathis sang and watching movies like Love Story and Dr. Zhi­vago.

  The songs on the tape changed again and again as Cyn raced through the dark night, her speed ten miles over the limit, as if she thought she could outrun the feelings that the man driving so close behind her had created. N
ate Hodges's eyes might remind her of the man in her dreams, but he wasn't him. Nate was too big, too mysterious... too dan­gerous to be the gentle, protective guardian who had al­ways come to her to offer her comfort and hope in times of greatest loss and deepest sorrow. But why, then, did she sense that she knew Nate, that it was inevitable that their lives would be joined, that sometime, somewhere, she had belonged to him?

  The bright headlights of an oncoming car nearly blinded Cyn. She slowed the van to several miles below the speed limit just in time to see the turnoff to the beach. Taking a right, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that Nate had turned directly behind her.

  She was tempted to pull off on the side of the road, wait until he stopped, then get out and demand that he quit fol­lowing her. She wanted to tell him that he didn't have to see her safely home, that there was no danger for her in Sweet Haven. But she didn't stop until she pulled into the drive­way at her cottage.

  Jerking the keys from the ignition, she opened the door and hopped down onto the stone walkway. Expecting Nate to drive his Jeep in beside her van, Cyn turned around to greet him, the words "thank you and goodbye" on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes widened in surprise when she watched him pass her cottage. Where is he going? she won­dered. Didn't he realize she lived on a dead-end road, and even though he probably lived nearby, there was no way out except the way he'd come in?

  He turned into the overgrown drive across the road. She sighed with relief, assuming he was going to turn around. When his Jeep disappeared behind the old shell-rock and wooden house that had stood deserted since its last owner had died nearly two years ago, Cyn planted her hands on her hips, shaking her head in bewilderment. What did he think he was doing?

  She waited for a few minutes, thinking his Jeep would reappear. It didn't. Well, whatever kind of game he was playing, she wasn't going to cooperate. With an exasper­ated groan, Cyn went into her cottage.

  Stumbling over a footstool in the living room, she cursed herself for not leaving on a light when she'd left. She kicked off her heels, then reached out to turn on a nearby table lamp. Hopping around on one foot, she massaged the throbbing toes that had collided with the footstool. She headed toward the kitchen, flipping on light switches as she went. She opened the freezer, pulled out a half-gallon con­tainer of chocolate-marshmallow ice cream and set it on the table.

  "Where is he?" she said aloud. Was it possible that he planned to stay the night in the abandoned house across the road so he could watch over her? "You're fantasizing again, Cynthia Ellen. Nate Hodges is not your protector. He's a ruthless, deadly man. Tonight, you saw what he's capable of doing."

  Cyn retrieved a long-handled spoon from a nearby drawer, sat down at the table and opened the ice cream car­ton. Sticking the spoon into the frozen dessert, she lifted a huge bite to her mouth.

  Think about something besides him, she told herself. You've got enough problems without borrowing trouble. You took a dangerous chance tonight hoping to help Bobby, and maybe even Casey, and where did it get you? Into trou­ble—trouble spelled N-A-T-E. Stop that now! Concentrate on finding a way to help Bobby. There was no telling where the boy was right now. She only prayed that he wasn't with Casey.

  Cyn slipped the smooth, creamy chocolate concoction into her mouth, savoring the rich, sweet taste. She dipped the spoon in again and again as she devoured her edible nerve-soother. That's what Mimi called Cyn's addiction to sweets, especially ice cream.

  Mimi. That's it. She needed to talk to Mimi. Checking her watch, she saw that it was after midnight. She couldn't call the elderly woman at this hour, no matter how badly she needed a motherly shoulder to cry on. The heart-to-heart talk she so badly needed would have to wait.

  While Cyn finished almost a third of a carton of ice cream, she tried to figure out just what she would do if Nate should appear at her door tonight. She'd tell him to get lost. No. She'd thank him again for coming to her rescue, then she'd say a polite goodbye. Or maybe she would invite him in for coffee.

  Without even thinking about what she was doing, Cyn got up and prepared her coffeemaker. Just as she flipped on the switch, she realized what she'd done. What was wrong with her? Did she actually want Nate Hodges to come by for coffee? A man like that? A man who carried a deadly knife. A man who had subdued a muscular young man half his age with the ease of a wolf overpowering a rabbit.

  She took a deep breath, groaning at the pungent odors her own body and clothes emitted. God, she smelled like a sweaty, smoky, whiskey-perfumed streetwalker. Running her fingers over her face, she realized she probably didn't look much better. She'd overdone the makeup just a bit to­night in the hopes of fitting in at the Brazen Hussy.

  Forget about Nate Hodges, about phoning Mimi, about where Bobby and Casey are, she told herself. What she needed was a long soak in the bathtub and a good night's sleep.

  Maybe she wouldn't dream about a man with incredible green eyes. * * *

  Nate prowled around the den, feeling like a caged ani­mal. If he let himself, his feelings for Cynthia Porter could close in, corner and trap him. He didn't know why, now of all times, she had come into his life. He'd been alone most of his forty-two years. He didn't want or need the compli­cations of a permanent relationship—now or ever. He'd never been in love, had never believed the crap about that undying, forever-after emotion.

  Love was only a word. His mother had loved his father, but that love had given her nothing but grief. The man for whom she'd borne a child hadn't cared enough about her to marry her. For all Nate knew, his mother had been one of countless women his father had loved and left behind.

  And when his mother had died, he'd been handed over to his uncle, a man who'd taught Nate, early on, that love was for weaklings and only the strong survived. Nate was strong. He'd lived through years of physical and verbal abuse from the man who'd taught him to trust and depend on nothing and no one except himself. Hate was a powerful teacher. And Nate hated Collum Hodges—almost as much as his uncle had hated him.

  He didn't want or need a woman in his life, depending on him, caring for him, demanding more of him than he could give. Oh, he'd had his share of women over the years, but he'd never allowed one to mean more to him than a tem­porary pleasure. No woman had ever pierced through the painful scan that protected his heart—except her. The woman from his dreams, the woman with the warm, rich brown eyes, the woman who gave his heart and soul sanc­tuary within her loving arms.

  And for some stupid reason he had allowed himself to think, for a few crazy minutes, that Cynthia Porter might be that dream woman come to life. What had given him such delusions? Even if his beautiful neighbor did have the same hypnotic brown eyes, it didn't mean that she was—Stop it! He cursed himself for being a fool. He had more important things to worry about than a woman—any woman.

  Ryker was in Miami working for one of the most notori­ous drug families in the country. Nate knew his days were numbered. Soon, maybe sooner than he'd planned, Ian Ryker would go hunting, searching for a man he blamed for the death of his lover and the loss of his eye and hand.

  Nate had relived that day a hundred, no, a thousand times, and he knew there was nothing that he or any of the other SEAL team could or would have done differently. They had all regretted that the woman had been killed, ac­cidentally, in the crossfire when she'd tried to protect Ry­ker. Momentarily paralyzed by the sight of his Vietnamese lover's lifeless body, Ryker's reaction to Nate's attack had been a second off, costing him his eye, his hand and per­haps, over a period of time, his sanity.

  Nate longed for a drink, a stiff belt of strong whiskey, not the watered-down bourbon he'd been served at the Brazen Hussy earlier tonight. He didn't want to remember Nam or any of the death-defying assignments he'd taken part in during the years he'd been a SEAL. He wanted no more vi­olence in his life. All he wanted was peace.

  Running his fingers through his hair, he loosed the band that held the thick black mass into a subdued ponytail, re­leasing it to fall free
ly down his neck and against his face. He walked over to the three-legged pine cabinet sitting in the corner of the den, opened a drawer and pulled out an al­most-full bottle of Jack Daniel's. Undoing the cap, he tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a short, quick swig. The straight whiskey burned like fire as it coated his mouth, anesthetizing his tongue, burning a trail down his gut when he swallowed.

  Hell, he shouldn't need this. He'd never been a man to use liquor to solve his problems. He recapped the bottle and shoved it into the drawer.

  Cyn. He'd heard the boy named Casey call her Cyn. What a name for a church shelter worker. She looked like sin— pure, damn-a-man's-immortal-soul type of sin. All soft, female flesh, with round hips, tiny waist and full breasts. And golden-blond hair. God, a man could go crazy think­ing about that mane of sunshine covering his naked body.

  But the one thing he couldn't forget about her, no matter how hard he tried, were her eyes. Those rich, warm brown eyes.

  Nate took in a hefty gulp of air, then released it slowly. The heady aroma of sweat and smoke and liquor clung to his body, hair and clothes. Damn, he needed a shower—a cold shower—and about eight hours of dreamless sleep.

  Within minutes, Nate had stripped and stood beneath the cleansing chill of the antiquated shower in the house's one bathroom, located just off the kitchen. For a while he sim­ply stood and let the water pour over his hot, sticky body. A body heavy with desire.

  He had to focus on something besides Cyn Porter, or he'd be up half the night if he didn't settle for a less-than-satisfactory, temporary solution. Think of something pleasant, he told himself. He tried to recall the carefree shore leaves he'd shared with Nick and occasionally with John, days they'd sowed their wild oats in countries all over the world.

  But his most pleasant memories were hidden deep in his heart, tucked away in a private section he had marked with No Trespassing signs. The happiest moments of his life had been spent with his mother when he'd been a small boy. Al­though she'd died when he was six, he could still remember what she looked like, what she smelled like, how she'd felt when she'd held him close.