The oven timer sounded. Cyn slipped her hand into the mitt, lifted the muffin tin from the stove and placed it on a wire rack to cool.
"Don't do this," she said aloud. "Be sensible, Cynthia Ellen. You can't take care of the whole world. You can't fix whatever's wrong in this man's life."
The whole time she was giving herself rational advice, she was searching the cabinets for a jar of Mimi's homemade orange marmalade. The delectable preserves would taste great spread atop the bran muffins.
She lined the basket with a soft, clean towel, then removed the muffins from the tin and placed them in the linen nest. Covering the muffins, she slid the small marmalade jar and a container of her favorite gourmet coffee inside the basket.
Taking a deep, confidence-boosting breath, Cyn picked up the basket and headed out the back door. She didn't want a sexual relationship with Nate Hodges, she told herself, despite the fact that no man had ever made her feel the way he'd made her feel last night. She had simply allowed her imagination to run rampant, she'd given herself over to the magic of moonlight, the power of an old legend and the potency of a virile man. In broad daylight, it would be different. He was a troubled human being; she was a woman long used to giving comfort to the troubled. Indeed, Cyn couldn't remember a time in her life when someone hadn't needed her, depended on her, expected her to take care of them.
Perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps Nate would throw her offer of friendship back in her face. But, mother-to-the-world that she was, Cynthia Porter couldn't turn her back on the loneliness and pain she'd felt in Nate Hodges. She knew, on some instinctive level, that if ever anyone had needed her, he did. * * *
Nate gulped down the last drops of strong, black coffee, then reached for the glass pot and poured his third cup for the morning. After less than three hours' sleep, he needed the caffeine boost.
His informative meeting with Nick Romero, the one-sided combat with Lazarus Jones and the ever-present knowledge that Ryker was alive and bent on revenge pumped adrenaline through Nate's body, preparing him for what lay ahead. A man long used to sleepless nights, Nate was surprised that he felt so lousy this morning. Hell, it was all her fault. That brown-eyed witch. He wasn't used to thinking about one specific woman, worrying about her, wanting her until he ached with frustration.
He had wanted her last night, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life—and he could have taken her. Even though she'd been repulsed by the idea of his past, she had still wanted him. He knew she had felt exactly what he had. Life wasn't fair, he thought. It offered you the fulfillment of a dream, then changed that dream into a nightmare. He couldn't have Cyn Porter. Making her his woman would put her life in jeopardy.
Through the dense fog of his thoughts, Nate heard a loud rapping on his front door. Who the hell? No one knew where he was, except Romero and John Mason.
Within minutes he opened the heavy wooden door and glared at his unexpected visitor who, holding a small wicker basket in her hands, flashed him a brilliant, cheerful smile. Looking like springtime sunshine in her pale yellow slacks and matching cotton sweater, Cyn was beautiful—neat, clean and flowery-sweet. Her hair was knotted in a large loose bun at the nape of her neck, and a pair of tiny diamond studs glimmered at her ears.
"Good morning," Cyn said, reaching deep down inside herself to find the courage not to run from his scowling expression. He needs you, she reminded herself. Just like the kids at Tomorrow House. He's a wounded soul. "It's a glorious day, isn't it?"
Nate stared at her, wondering why she was here and puzzled by her warm, friendly attitude. After last night, he had been fairly sure she'd never want to see him again. After all, he'd hardly gone out of his way to be charming.
When he didn't reply, she laughed, the sound a forced show of bravado. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" she asked. "I've brought breakfast."
He gave her a quizzical look, then glanced down at the basket she held out in front of her. "You've brought—"
"Breakfast. I baked fresh bran muffins, and I've got some homemade orange marmalade." She took a tentative step forward, and when he didn't speak or make any attempt to allow her entrance into his home, she shoved the basket at his midsection. "Here, take this and show me to the kitchen. Have you made coffee yet? I've brought some vanilla nut coffee. It's a new blend I tried, and it's delicious."
Without thinking, Nate reached out and took the wicker basket, stepped backward, just enough for her to move past him, then turned to watch her prance into his home. Dammit, she was like a steamroller—a velvet steamroller, but a steamroller none the less. It was quite obvious that Cyn Porter was a woman used to taking charge, accustomed to issuing orders and expecting them to be obeyed. A hint of a smile curved the corner of his mouth as he thought that it was one thing they had in common.
"You haven't done much in here, have you?" Cyn wasn't sure what she had expected, but it certainly wasn't this dreary expanse of hallway. She glanced around at the open double doors on each side of the entrance. One room was empty, void of any furniture, and the windows were covered with dusty shutters that blocked out the vibrant morning sunshine.
"I've only been here a couple of months." He closed the front door. "The kitchen is straight back."
He wasn't sure what sort of game she was playing, but he'd indulge her for the time being. Maybe she was as hungry for him as he was for her. If she was looking for a quick tumble, he would, under ordinary circumstances, be more than interested. But his life was hardly his own at the present, and the last thing he needed was a woman in his life, a woman Ryker could use against him.
Cyn headed down the long, dark corridor, her sandaled feet making loud clip-clap noises as she walked along the stone floor. "You need to open this place up and air it out. It's awfully musty."
He followed her into the kitchen, set the basket down on the small wooden table in the center of the room, and pointed toward the drip coffee maker. "I've already made coffee. I'm afraid it's nothing special, just plain old high-octane Java."
"Oh, that's all right. One cup won't hurt me. Pour us both a cup and I'll fix the muffins." Cyn glanced around the room, trying not to let her disgust show. The plastered walls probably had once been a soft yellow; now they were a putrid shade of tan. A small compact refrigerator sat in the corner, like a square white dwarf in the huge room. A long, wooden table placed against the back wall held a shiny new microwave, a rusty-looking hot plate, and a coffee machine. Two rickety wall shelves hung between the only window, an antiquated sink sat directly below. Sunshine sparkled off the metal faucets.
Nate wanted to ask her what she was doing here. Last night they had come close to making love. Then she'd discovered his knife sheath and had been unable to disguise her fear and disgust. "I'm pretty much baching it here. All I've got are some paper plates."
He looked over at her then, and his heart stopped for a split second. Her back was to the window and the radiant sunshine turned her hair to pale gold. She smiled at him, her brown eyes warm and inviting. Whether she knew it or not, she was offering him something he badly needed. She brought light into his darkness, giving solace to his pain, happiness to his sorrow, and matching his hard strength with a gentle strength equally as powerful.
"That's fine," she said, taking a step toward him. She had caught a glimmer of emotion in his dark green eyes, a glitch in his armor. "Get the paper plates and napkins. You do have some napkins, don't you?"
Nate shook is head. Damn, he hadn't planned on entertaining while he was here. "I've got some paper towels."
"Okay." Glancing around, she saw no chairs. "Where do you sit to eat?"
"In the den," he told her, handing her a couple of paper plates and a roll of towels. "It's the only other room in the house with furniture except for my bedroom."
While Nate poured coffee into two clean cups, ignoring his already filled mug, Cyn placed muffins on the paper plates and set the marmalade jar on the table. "I'll need a spo
on or knife or something if you want some orange marmalade."
"I'll take my muffins plain," he said, handing her a cup of coffee, then picking up a plate. "Let's go in the den and sit down."
Cyn watched him carefully as he turned around and headed out of the kitchen. Wearing cutoff jeans and an unbuttoned shirt, he was every bit as big and savage-looking in broad daylight as he had been in moonlight. Maybe more so, with his long hair hanging loose, almost touching his massive shoulders.
She followed him back down the dark hallway, through a set of double doors and into a huge room. Well, he isn't a total barbarian, she thought as she surveyed Nate Hodges's den. The floors were wooden, the walls a faded white plaster, the arched, open-shuttered windows long and unadorned. Bright light filled every nook and cranny. Although sparsely decorated, the room held a leather sofa, three unmatched chairs, a desk, a small corner cabinet and several tables.
Her footsteps faltered, then stopped abruptly. She stood, frozen in the center of the room, her gaze riveted to the wall.
Nate realized immediately what was wrong. She was staring, transfixed, at part of his extensive knife collection hanging on the walls. Even though he'd known he would be living here only until his confrontation with Ryker, he hadn't been able to leave behind his highly prized knife collection at his house in St. Augustine. That was why the den had been the only room he'd bothered to fix up.
She trembled, sloshing the hot coffee around inside her mug. Acting quickly on instinct, Nate set his cup and plate on the desk, rushed over to her and grabbed her mug out of her hand. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes. No. I..." Cyn felt numb. All her life she'd had an aversion to violence, to guns and knives, weapons of any kind. But since Evan's brutal murder, the very sight of a knife sent shivers of fear spiraling through her.
"May...may I sit down?" she asked, her voice quivering.
Nate put her plate and her mug down on the wood-and-metal trunk in front of the sofa, then placed his arm around her, guiding her down and into the cool softness of the leather cushions. "Take it easy. Okay? Maybe I should have warned you."
"I... it was seeing all these knives... the swords." Cyn sat rigid, crossing her legs at the ankles, arching her back away from the sofa.
Nate ran a soothing hand across her shoulders. "Hey, Brown Eyes, I'm sorry. I knew you didn't like the feel of my knife last night, but... I'm sorry. I just wasn't thinking when I suggested we come in here."
She turned to face him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes overly bright. "My husband was stabbed to death." She took in a deep breath, then let out a long sigh, willing herself not to cry.
So, Nate thought, she hates my knives because some bastard used one to kill her husband. He was finding out just how different he and Cynthia Porter really were—oppo-sites in every way. The more she found out about him, the more she was bound to dislike him. "I'm sorry about your husband."
"I apologize for overreacting." She forced herself to glance around the room. Knives, swords, sabers and daggers filled her line of vision.
"I've been collecting knives all my life. I'll bet you collect something. Most people do." He wanted to make her understand that his knife collection wasn't some deadly monster any more than he was. He wanted her to see past the superficial, past the obvious, for her to take a chance and reach his soul. He didn't know why it was so important that this woman accept him. He just knew that it was.
"I collect records from the fifties. I've got an extensive collection, and I've put most on cassette tapes." Her body's outward trembling subsided, but tremors still churned in her stomach. She knew he was trying to help her relax and adjust to the unfamiliarity of her surroundings. Somewhere beneath all that burly macho hardness, a touch of compassion existed in him.
He studied her intently, memorizing every line of her smooth, flawless face, every golden glimmer in her rich brown eyes.
He turned from her, uncertain what to say or do. How could he make a gentle woman understand the brutal life he'd led? How could he ask her to give his bitter existence her sweetness, to turn his anger into joy, to accept the man he was? He couldn't, even if he wanted to. If she was a part of his life, Ryker would find out and use her against him. Nate Hodges had no weaknesses. And God only knew he didn't need any now.
Seeing such an anguished look of desperation cross his face broke Cyn's heart. She didn't want to hurt him, for on some instinctive level, she knew he had already been hurt enough. What he needed, what he wanted, what his heart craved, was solace, compassion and... love. She had never turned from a fellow human being in need. But was it her motherly instinct that longed to comfort Nate Hodges, or her womanly instinct that longed to know him and care for him? She wasn't certain. All she knew was that, despite her better judgment, she couldn't desert this man.
Cyn reached out and placed her hand on his arm. He flinched. She squeezed his hard, smooth flesh. "I want to thank you for last night... for stepping in and... and subduing Lazarus Jones."
"I thought you were angry because I scared off your runaway boys." Nate looked down to where her small hand gripped his arm. He liked her touch—strong, yet gentle.
"I never should have gone to the Brazen Hussy. I acted irresponsibly." She squeezed his arm again, then released it. Reaching out, she retrieved her coffee mug from the trunk. "I wanted to help Bobby... and Casey, too. I did what I thought Evan would have done."
"Evan?"
"My husband." She held the mug in both hands, entwining her fingers.
"What happened to him?" Nate felt a twinge of something alien, an emotion he'd never known. It was foolish, but he couldn't help but think of Cyn's dead husband as a rival.
Cyn took several quick sips of coffee, thankful that it was still relatively hot. "Evan was a minister. After our marriage, he asked the church to assign him to Tomorrow House. The place had just opened, and we both knew we could make a contribution."
"Your husband was a minister?" Nate hadn't even realized he'd spoken the words aloud until he saw her nod her head. Nate wondered how he, a man waiting to kill or be killed, could compete with the memory of a saint?
"Evan was devoted to the kids, to trying to help them. It was his whole life, and it became mine, too." She didn't want to admit to Nate that there had been times when she had, selfishly, envied those kids to whom her husband had given all his time and most of his love. "Four years ago, a young boy named Darren Kilbrew came to us. He was a drug addict."
Nate saw the torment in her eyes, could hear her quickened breathing. "If this is too painful—"
"I thought I had come to terms with what happened. I...I thought..."
"You don't have to tell me."
"Perhaps if I tell you, you'll understand why I feel the way I do."
Nate nodded his head, his gaze attentive, never once leaving her face.
"Darren stabbed Evan to death, then robbed him." Cyn bit her bottom lip, tightened her hold on her mug and turned to face Nate. "The last thing Evan said to me before he died was that he wanted me to continue his work at Tomorrow House."
Taking her mug from her, Nate placed it back on top of the trunk. He put his arms around her and pulled her into his embrace, the action as natural to him as breathing. As if he'd done it countless times.
She went to him, allowed him to enfold her within the strength of his big body. It felt so right, as if the place was familiar, as if he'd held and comforted her often.
Cyn could never remember feeling so safe, so protected. Relaxing against him, she absorbed his strength, somehow knowing that he understood how desperately she needed him. She waited for the tears, but they didn't come. Had she given all there was to give to Evan's memory? she wondered. Had the pain finally subsided enough where she could truly accept his death and the death of his killer?
"Darren, the boy who killed Evan, eluded the police and wasn't captured until last year," she told Nate, still safe within his arms. "He... he was killed in jail
. By... by another inmate. Stabbed to death." The last words escaped her lips on a tortured sigh.
Nate hugged her to him, feeling fiercely protective, primitively possessive. He stroked her hair, letting his fingers lace through the long blond strands as he loosened the bun. "Scream if you want to, rant and rave and cry at the injustice. You don't have to be strong right now. Nothing's going to hurt you. I'm here. I'll take care of you."
The sobs that clogged her throat, almost choking her, erupted then, and tears filled her eyes. And for the first time since she'd been a small child, Cyn accepted comfort and strength from another, instead of giving it. They sat there on the tan leather sofa in Nate's brutally male den while Cyn cleansed her heart of a pain she'd been unable to wash away with four years of crying. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal, her ragged little cries silenced. She eased out of his arms, not allowing herself to look at him. If she saw his eyes, she would be lost—forever.
Wiping the remnants of moisture from her eyes and cheeks with the tips of her fingers, Cyn tried to smile. "You must think I'm a real crybaby. I'm usually in much better control."
"Maybe you keep too tight a control over your emotions," he said, reaching out to take her chin in his big hand.
"Normally, I'm a tower of strength." Even when he tilted her face upward, she refused to look at him, cutting her eyes sideways, glancing over to the windows.
"Cyn?" He wanted her to look at him so that he could see what she was thinking. Her brown eyes were like windows to her soul, so expressive, so transparent.
She jerked away from him, stood up and began pacing around the room. "I haven't been down here to the cottage since last summer. I just came for a minivacation. I'll probably be returning to my apartment in Jacksonville in another week or so."
"Were you running away? Is that why you came to Sweet Haven?" he asked, then cursed himself.
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