This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

  Cyn sat quietly but impatiently until Nate and the other man approached her. When the two neared, she got a close-up look at her bodyguard. He was big and blond, with a hard, weathered-looking face and a muscular body that seemed to be in prime condition.

  "This is Dundee," Nate told her, then gave the other man a warning stare. "Make sure nothing happens to her." With that said, Nate got in his Jeep and drove away, not once looking back.

  Cyn tried to open the van door, wanting to run after Nate, needing to cry out to him for one final word of goodbye, but Dundee's big body pressed against the door. "It's time to leave for Jacksonville, Ms. Porter."

  Clinging to the last shreds of her composure, Cyn nod­ded her head, silently agreeing. Perhaps it was best not to be allowed a farewell look, a final touch.

  As Cyn made the journey from Sweet Haven to her Jack­sonville apartment, she remembered the last moments she had shared with Nate. They had made love twice, each time a passionate sharing, an eternal bonding that transcended the merely physical act that brought them both so much pleasure.

  After they had showered together and redressed, he had set her down at the kitchen table and told her about Ian Ry-ker. She knew he hadn't told her everything, that he had spared her all but the necessary facts.

  "I knew Ryker in Viet Nam. We hated each other," Nate had told her. "Ryker was a mercenary, and it was a known fact that he was supplying drugs to Uncle Sam's boys. Although American by birth, Ryker's loyalties were question­able, and his morals nonexistent."

  Cyn had listened patiently while Nate explained the rea­sons Ryker held such a deadly grudge against him. "On an assignment deep into Vietcong-held territory to capture a hamlet chief that we hoped could give us specific informa­tion about enemy supplies and movements, Ryker and I met face-to-face.

  "Ryker was involved with the village chief's daughter and had sold out to the NYA. During the Vietcong chief's cap­ture, his daughter was accidently killed in the crossfire when she ran to Ryker for protection. I have no idea whose fire actually killed the girl, only that in the split second that it took Ryker to react to his lover's death, I opened fire on him. My SEAL team barely escaped with our lives and our prisoner."

  Cyn realized how difficult it was for Nate to tell her about what had happened so long ago, in a country halfway around the world. In those moments while he shared a painful part of his past with her, Cyn began to understand what had made Nate Hodges the hard and lonely man he was today. And it made her love him all the more.

  "For several years after the incident, I thought Ryker was dead, but then he showed up, out of the blue, missing a hand and an eye and warning me that, one day, he'd get even with me.

  "I didn't live in fear, but I dreaded the day he'd make good on his threats," Nate had told her, while he sat tall and rigid at her kitchen table, his face solemn, his eyes haunted with tormented memories. "I stayed in the SEALs. Spent twenty years in the navy, and I always kept vigil, waiting for Ryker."

  "Oh, Nate." When she had reached across the table and tried to take hold of Nate's hands, he'd pulled away.

  "Five years ago, reports came in from South America that Ryker had been imprisoned for smuggling and had been killed in a prison fight. The reports were wrong. He reap­peared a few months ago. I knew then that it was only a matter of time."

  Cyn pulled into the parking area of her apartment com­plex. Leaving her suitcases inside, she locked the van and looked around, searching for Dundee. He parked and got out of his car. Dear God, how could her life have changed so drastically in so short a period of time? Although vio­lence had marred her safe existence when Evan had been brutally murdered, Cyn lived her daily life on a fairly nor­mal, safe routine. Violence had lain on the outskirts of her civilized life.

  But Nate Hodges had changed all that. Loving a warrior had thrown her into harm's way. Filled with all of man­kind's imperfections, this earth fell far short of paradise, but Cyn wanted this life and the love of the man her heart and soul had been waiting to find. Eternity's perfection could wait. All she had ever wanted was within her grasp. The man of her dreams was here with her in this imperfect world—here, this side of heaven. * * *

  Morning sunlight brightened Nate's den, shimmering on the wall-mounted swords and reflecting off the numerous glass cases. Nate snapped the lid on the suede-lined case and placed his prized Gurkha hunting dagger alongside several other cases containing many precious treasures. A loner by choice, Nate was attached to few people and even fewer things. But his extensive knife collection meant a great deal to him.

  He would never forget Cyn's reaction to this room filled with the acquisitions of a lifetime. She hated knives as much as Nate loved them. For he did, indeed, love knives. He loved the look and feel of them. And he loved their capa­bilities. In the right hands, a knife was a tool of endless di­versity.

  But Cyn's husband had been stabbed to death, and erro­neously, she blamed the weapon as well as its user. Damn, how had this happened to him? How had he allowed him­self to become involved with a woman as gentle and loving as Cynthia Porter? She offered him her heart and her body, freely, but he knew loving her could cost him dearly. He had found with Cyn something he'd only dreamed about, something he didn't believe existed. She had given his soul the sanctuary it craved. Her pure, sweet goodness had en­veloped the cold darkness within him, bringing him warmth. She filled his world with light. But he would have to keep his past from destroying her before he could accept what she offered.

  The loud pounding noise aroused Nate from his thoughts. When he opened the front door, Nick Romero rushed in­side.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Nate asked. "If you've got a man to cover Cyn, you could have called."

  "I'm still working on that." Nick ran his fingers through his curly black hair. "Dammit, man, why did you have to pick now to finally get seriously involved with a woman?"

  "What the hell's the matter with you?" Nate knew something was bothering Romero, more than having to twist a few arms and call in some favors to get protection from the agency for Cyn.

  "I could use a cup of coffee. I haven't had time for even a taste this morning." Romero didn't look directly at Nate.

  "In the kitchen. Come on."

  Nate led Romero into his makeshift kitchen, poured him a cup of hot coffee and led him outside to the patio. A sky filled with soft clouds and morning sunshine promised the warmth of an early spring day.

  "So, what's up?" Nate asked.

  Romero took several hefty swigs from the coffee, then, looking out at the overgrown garden, he said, "John is all right, but there was an explosion aboard one of your cruis­ers early this morning."

  Cold fear chilled Nate's body and coated his mouth with a metallic flavor. "Where's John?"

  "He's been with the police all morning, trying to answer questions without telling them the complete truth." Rom­ero took another deep swallow of coffee. "There's nothing left of the boat, and one of your employees, a guy named Wickman, got hit with some of the debris. He was on the pier."

  "How is he?"

  "Emergency room's already released him."

  "I need to see John," Nate said.

  "No, you don't." Romero finished the last sips of his coffee, and, clutching the empty cup in one hand, he placed his other hand on Nate's shoulder. "John is taking his wife and son home to Alabama to stay with her family until this thing with Ryker is settled. He wanted me to tell you. He said you'd understand."

  "Hell, yes, I understand." Nate shrugged off Romero's hand as he paced up and down the long archway that led from the patio to the wraparound porch. "His first prior­ity is to protect the woman he loves and their child."

  "Ryker is in St. Augustine," Romero said. "The bomb explosion was just his way of announcing his arrival. We both know that."

  "Looks like my time has just about run out.'' * * *

  Cyn flipped through the television channels, hoping to find something interesting enough to grab her attention.
Alone and restless after a full day's work at Tomorrow House, she longed to forget that a hired bodyguard stood watch outside her apartment, that miles away Nate might be engaged in battle with his enemy, that she was powerless to change the inevitable.

  "National Geographic" was on the educational channel, and under normal circumstances, the program would have piqued her curiosity about the subject, but tonight she didn't care about the plight of any species. All she could think about was Nate, alone and in danger.

  Rational thought told her that he was better off without her, that her presence would have harmed him far more than it would have helped him. But her irrational heart told her that he needed her, that a woman should stand by her man and face the enemy with him. She was beginning to under­stand that there were times in one's life when turning the other cheek meant certain death. When violence is thrust upon you...

  She flipped off the television, dropping the remote con­trol on the plaid colonial sofa. Well, what was she going to do? She had already eaten a late dinner, cleaned the kitchen, done a load of laundry and taken a bubble bath. She had tried reading, doing a crossword puzzle and watching TV. Nothing worked. Nothing had taken her mind off Nate. They had been apart less than twenty-four hours, and al­ready she was miserable without him. If only he were safe. If only this nightmare would end. If only he would come to her and stay with her forever.

  Cyn went into her compact kitchen and opened the re­frigerator. Resisting the urge to devour a quart of choco­late ice cream, she reached for the diet cola and poured herself a tall glass.

  Maybe she could play solitaire until she got sleepy. Where had she put that deck of playing cards? she wondered. Re­membering that she and Mimi had played poker several months ago right here at the kitchen table, Cyn figured she had put the cards in one of the nearby cabinets. Before she had a chance to search for the missing deck, the telephone rang.

  She removed the receiver from the wall phone. "Hello."

  "Cynthia Porter." The voice on the other end was dis­tinctly male, deeply baritone.

  "Yes." She felt an irrational uncertainty creep through her like a slowly spreading plague.

  "You have made a fatal mistake," he said, enunciating each word with precise deliberation.

  "Who is this?" She knew, dammit, she knew. If he had found her, he had found Nate.

  "You signed your own death warrant when you became the Conquistador's woman."

  "What?" Cyn cried out. The dial tone sang in her ear.

  She dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a resound­ing clatter. Stepping back, she stared at the dangling cord, her mind reeling with panic. Taking several deep breaths, Cyn hunched over and covered her face with her hands. Stay calm, she told herself. Think. Think.

  Reaching down, she picked up the telephone and dialed Nate's number. The phone rang and rang and rang. Where are you? Answer, please answer. I need you.

  "Hello," Nate said.

  "Oh, thank God, Nate."

  "Cyn, what's wrong?"

  "Please, tell me that you're all right." She leaned against the wall, clutching the phone tightly in both hands.

  "I'm fine. Do you hear me? I'm all right. Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"

  "He... he called."

  "Who called?"

  "Ryker."

  "Did he tell you who he was?" Nate asked.

  Pressing her hand into her mouth, Cyn bit down on her fist trying to curb the flow of tears.

  "Cyn!" Nate's voice was loud and insistent.

  "He said... he said that I had signed my own death war­rant...when...when I became the Conquistador's woman."

  "Listen to me very carefully," Nate told her. "Go out­side and get Dundee. Tell him that I said for him to stay in­side with you until I get there."

  "But Nate—"

  "Do what I told you. I'll be there as quick as I can."

  "Nate, why did he call me?"

  "Because he's playing a game," Nate told her. "It's called 'Let's make Nate sweat.' He wants me to know that he's aware that you're important to me, that he knows where you live and how to get to you."

  After she'd spoken to Nate, Cyn calmed down consider­ably and fixed a fresh pot of coffee for Dundee and her. They were both on their third cup when the doorbell rang.

  Dundee pulled a Magnum from his shoulder holster and stood to the side of the door, his big hand hovering over the doorknob.

  "Ask who it is," he instructed her in a whisper.

  "Who is it?" she asked, her voice so tight and highly pitched she barely recognized it as her own.

  "Nate. Open the damned door!"

  Releasing the safety latch, she opened the door and flung herself into Nate's waiting arms. He lifted her off the floor in his protective embrace. God, he hated himself for allowing this woman to become so important to him. Until she had come into his life, he'd never had a weakness, and now he had a major one, just at a time when he needed to be strong and invulnerable.

  Half walking her, half carrying her, Nate guided Cyn to the sofa. Dundee closed the door behind them.

  Cyn ran her fingers over Nate's face, stroking his flesh, cherishing the sight of him, alive and safe in her arms. "I was so afraid that he'd found you... that—"

  Nate covered her moving lips with his index finger, mo­mentarily silencing her babbling. He looked over her head where it rested on his chest and saw that Dundee held a Magnum in his right hand.

  "Go check around outside. Scout out the area," Nate said. "I'm going to take her to a friend's house, and I want to make sure we aren't followed."

  "Sure thing," Dundee said. "I'm glad you're here. I couldn't convince her that you were all right."

  The moment Dundee left, Nate took Cyn's face in his hands, stared at her tear-filled eyes, then released her. Why her? he asked himself, and why now? The last thing he needed was to have to worry about her safety when his own life was on the line. Ryker must be laughing his fool head off, Nate thought. The minute Carranza told Ryker about Cyn, he probably realized that using her to destroy Nate would be the sweetest form of revenge. After all, he blamed Nate for his lover's death.

  "Call Mimi and tell her that you'll be spending the night," Nate said. "Then go pack a bag."

  "Mimi's? You want me to stay with Mimi?" Cyn's gaze questioned him. "I don't understand. I don't understand any of this."

  "Ryker knows where you live."

  "But how—"

  "How doesn't matter." If he told her about Carranza, she'd think it was her fault and start feeling guilty. But she wasn't guilty of anything except loving a man like him—a man who had no right to let his emotions overrule his common sense. "Dundee will stay with you at Mimi's until I talk to Romero and get a government man to protect you."

  "No, please, Nate." She grabbed hold of his jacket la­pels, tugging fiercely. "Don't leave me. Don't send me to Mimi's. Let me go home with you. You can protect me."

  He held her face tightly, probing the depth of conviction that showed plainly in her rich brown eyes. He released her face and pulled away from her. "I can't protect you and fight Ryker at the same time. Try to understand that you're safer without me."

  "Are you safer without me?" she asked.

  He stood up, rammed his hands into his jeans pockets and strode across the room. "Yes."

  She turned to face him, nodding her head in a gesture of understanding. "Why... why did he call you the Conquis­tador?"

  Nate's face visibly paled. No one had used that damna­ble nickname in years. Hell, how had a label given to him by a friend turned into a curse? "It was my nickname. I ac­quired it in SEAL training at Coronado."

  "Why—"

  "Nick Romero dubbed me. Everybody called him Ro­meo because he was such a ladies' man. While we were in training I acquired a reputation. Because of my Hispanic looks and... undisputed abilities as a commando, Nick started calling me the Conquistador. The name stuck. In Nam, and for years after the war."

  "I see."

  "No, lad
y, you don't see." His voice was filled with all the pent-up rage he felt.

  Nate cared for Cyn, more than he'd ever cared for an­other human being, but he hated himself for caring so damned much. He had allowed her to become far too im­portant to him. He had put her life in danger by loving her. "You don't see a damned thing but some fairy tale legend about a couple of ancient lovers. Of all the men on earth, why did you pick me, huh? Why me?"

  She gasped, new tears flooding her eyes as she huddled into a ball and hugged her legs up against her chest.

  More than anything, Nate wanted to drop to his knees beside the sofa and put his arm around her trembling shoulders. But that sort of stupidity would solve nothing. This woman was one of his biggest problems. He had to get her out of his life—for both their sakes.

  "You've made me weak." he stood with his back to her, fear and anger combining to strengthen the warrior within him. "I've never had a weakness before in my life, and it's the last thing I need right now. You are the last thing I need." When he heard her choked sobs, the anger inside him grew, building until he wanted to rage at the world, to ap­pease that anger on Ryker. But Ryker wasn't here.

  He turned on her then, facing her, afraid for her. "Ry-ker's going to try to use you against me. He's already using you. He knew when he called you that the first thing you'd do was get in touch with me, tell me what he said. It was his way of turning the screws, of prolonging my agony. He knows that, if you're with me, all I'll be able to think about is protecting you. I won't be thinking like a warrior, but like a lover. That kind of thinking could get us both killed."

  "Are you saying that... that..."

  "I don't want you with me. You're trouble, lady, more trouble than I can handle."

  "Nate, please..." She reached out for him again, and felt as if he'd physically shoved her away when she saw the re­jection in his eyes, the withdrawal in his stance. She was losing him, and she couldn't bear the loss. "If you loved me—"