This Side of Heaven

Beverly Barton This Side of Heaven

To Linda Howard Okay, so you were right—again!

Prologue

They walked together along the isolated beach, the small Timucuan maiden and her big Spanish conquistador. Each knew the other's thoughts and could feel the other's pain, but they could not touch in a physical way, for their mortal bodies had long since returned to the earth's soil.

They knew the time was near. The fulfillment of the an­cient legend's prophecy was at hand. Soon a troubled war­rior and the woman who could give him sanctuary within her heart and body would come to their beach, would abide within the walls of the old mission, and discover a passion known only by a precious few.

The maiden and her conquistador had known such pas­sion, but had lost their lives in the hatred and destruction wrought by mankind's greed for wealth and power. For centuries the two lovers had roamed this Florida beach waiting for the heirs of their love to arrive and set them free.

"Soon," she whispered. "Soon, they will come."

"Yes," he said. "They will share the same eternal love that we do."

"And when their lives are united as ours could never be, we will be allowed to go."

"Yes, querida."

And they continued their nightly stroll along the surf-kissed sand, waiting here, this side of heaven—waiting for the day they could enter paradise.

Chapter 1

He heard the blood-curdling scream. Tremors racked his body. He knew he couldn't save her. With a moan of an­guished pain and animalistic rage, he cursed the powers of heaven and earth.

Nate Hodges opened his eyes. His harsh, erratic breath­ing gradually slowed as he lay on his sweat-dampened bed. He looked around the dark bedroom, seeking reassurances in the familiar, reassurance that the agony he had just en­dured had, indeed, been a dream. No, not a dream—a nightmare. The same gut-wrenching nightmare that had tormented his sleep for the past few weeks.

Even though he knew why the dreams had begun again after all these years, he didn't understand why this dream was so different from the old nightmares, those cursed sou­venirs of the war. Until two months ago when he had moved into the ancient coquina house by the ocean, he'd never ex­perienced this particular dream. Unlike the ones that had plagued him after Vietnam, this one didn't involve the war.

He had not been overcome by the sickening smell of rot­ting flesh. He hadn't felt the splattering of a friend's blood on his face, or heard the moans of a teenager dying in his arms. He hadn't seen piles of pulverized bodies lying on the deck of an incoming boat. Those had been the old dreams, the substance of long-ago nightmares.

Only two things had been the same. Ryker had been there, his one icy blue eye staring triumphantly at Nate, his thin lips curved into a smile of psychotic pleasure. And she had been there. In the past, the woman had been his salva­tion—the calm voice, the soothing hand, his sanctuary from the madness from which he could not escape.

But in these recent dreams, she had cried out for him, and he had not been able to save her. His only hope for peace-destroyed by an old enemy.

Nate eased out of bed, the feel of the cold stone against his feet chilling his feverish body. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he took several deep breaths. Reaching down to the cane-seated chair beside the bed, he picked up his jeans and pulled them on over his naked body. He re­trieved the K-Bar knife that lay beneath his pillow, slid it into its sheath and attached it to his belt that hung loosely through the loopholes in his jeans. It had been almost five years since he'd worn a knife—since he'd felt the need for constant protection.

But for the last five years he'd thought Ryker was dead.

Nate slipped into a pair of leather sandals, then, as an afterthought, he grabbed his shirt and threw it over his shoulder.

Opening the heavy wooden door, he walked out into the long narrow hallway and, moving slowly, made his way to his den. The room lay in darkness, except for the shadowy glow of moonlight.

Looking through the wide, open-shuttered windows, Nate noticed the nearly full moon, its silvery yellow light illumi­nating the patio, the unkept gardens, the rock walkway leading from the back of the house to the gravel road. He opened the huge, arched wooden door and stepped out­side. The salty, airy smell of the ocean filled his nostrils, mingling with the thick, heavy aroma of verdant Florida vegetation.

The cool night breeze caressed his bare chest, shoulders and arms. He slipped into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Slowly, cautiously, he walked along the patio, through the high arched openings that ran the length of the L-shaped porch that extended from the back to the side of the house.

He'd done little to improve the shabby conditions of his new home since he'd moved in the last of January. But he hadn't purchased this place for its beauty or with any desire to redecorate or restore. This sturdy, solid fortress of a house had been purchased because of its isolated location. Except for the lone cottage across the road right on the beach, the nearest neighbors were a mile away at the state park. The realtor had assured him that the owners of the cottage seldom used the place except in summer. And that was good. Nate didn't want anyone else around when he had to confront Ryker. That was why he'd left St. Augustine, left his business—to protect his friend and partner John Mason, and John's family. Even with his departure, Nate wasn't sure the Masons were safe from a man as diaboli­cally bent on revenge as Ryker, who would use anyone and anything to settle an old score.

Nate knew the final battle would be over long before summer. Ryker had been spotted in South America three months ago. It was only a matter of time until that mad dog would make his way to the States, find out where Nate was, and come after him.

Nate walked across the road, leaned against a massive cypress tree dripping with thick Spanish moss, and looked out at the ocean. So peaceful. So serene. Comforting—like the woman in his dreams. If there was one thing on earth Nate wanted, it was peace, blessed sanctuary from the scars of a war long ended, the savage memories of a lifetime spent as a navy SEAL, the bitter regrets of a childhood he could never change.

He had given up any hope of love or happiness so many years ago he could barely remember thinking such emo­tions existed. In childhood, he'd learned that he could count on no one except himself. As a protective mechanism, he'd closed his heart to love, and over the years, he'd found no woman capable of teaching him to entrust his life to an­other.

His years in the special services had only reinforced his negative attitudes. He had seen the ugly side of life more times than he cared to remember. He'd thought he could find the peace his soul craved when he left the navy nearly five years ago. But that had been when he'd thought Ryker was dead.

Nate rested his head against the tree, closed his eyes and remembered tonight's dream. He hadn't known where he was. He'd been lost in a dark, gloomy room filled with dirt and cobwebs, the smell of rotting wood and damp musti-ness everywhere. He had realized he was in terrible danger. Ryker was there. Close. Yet out of reach. And she was there. What the hell was she doing with Ryker?

Nate opened his eyes suddenly, not wanting to see. But with his eyes wide open, he saw her lifeless body in Ryker's arms. The pain ripped through him hotter and more deadly than any blade could have. No. No. She couldn't be dead. She was his lifeline. She was his sanctuary. And Ryker had killed her for revenge. To get even with him.

Restless with a need he could not explain, Nate started walking toward the beach. He felt like a fool. The woman in his dreams had no name, no face. All he ever remem­bered afterward were her eyes—rich, warm brown—and her body. When she'd given herself to him in his dreams, he'd found a sanctuary for his heart and his soul in her arms.

The first time he'd dreamed of her, he'd been eighteen and a newly trained SEAL in Nam. He hadn't dreamed about her in at least a dozen years, not until—until he'd moved to Sweet Haven, to the secluded house where he waited for a man who was as ruthless and dangerous as he was himself.

Suddenly, Nate stopped dead still. His trained instincts told him he wasn't alone. Then he saw her. In a long, flow­ing dress—white and shimmering in the moonlight—she walked along the beach, at the very edge of the ocean. For one split second he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Was it her, the woman from his dreams? He shook his head, then looked again. She was still there. She was real. No dream. No fantasy.

He knew she wasn't aware of him, of a stranger so close. She seemed to be lost in her private thoughts, and some­how, Nate could feel her loneliness. It was as if her frustra­tion and pain and anger had invaded his mind.

"Damn idiot," he mumbled under his breath. "You've been by yourself for too long." That's what's wrong, he thought. Whoever she is, she isn't her. The woman in his dreams didn't exist.

Nate made his way back to the tree, stopping briefly be­fore starting across the road. He slowed his steps, cursing himself for the need to see her again. He turned around and watched while she walked farther up the beach, then stopped, slumping down, cuddling her body up against her knees.

Who was she? he wondered. What was she doing here? And what was wrong with her? He resisted the temptation to go to her.

For what seemed like hours, Nate stood in the shadows of the ancient tree and watched her. Once, he thought he heard her crying and had to fight his desire to comfort her. He wasn't the kind of man who comforted women, and yet...

She stood up, her long blond hair blowing in the mild spring breeze, her dress billowing around her small body. He watched, fascinated by the way she moved, the way her waist-length hair created a shawl around her shoulders. When she came nearer, he saw that her dress wasn't white. It was pale yellow—a pale yellow lace robe that hung open all the way down the front, with a matching nightgown be­neath.

Nate's body hardened with arousal. He groaned in­wardly. So what? he told himself as she headed toward the two-story stucco-and-wood cottage. She's a beautiful woman and you haven't had sex in a long time.

He didn't turn and go back to his house until she disap­peared inside the cottage. He had no idea who she was, but obviously she was now his nearest neighbor. She was too close. He'd have to see what he could do to get rid of her. * * *

Cynthia Porter poured herself a cup of hot coffee, laced it with low-calorie creamer and a sugar substitute, then walked outside onto the patio. The morning was crisp and clear, the sky baby-blue and filled with thin, wispy clouds. The early morning sun warred with the sharp April wind for domi­nance, one issuing Florida warmth, the other a reminder that winter had just ended in the Sunshine State.

She set down her cup on the glass-and-concrete table be­fore pulling her royal blue sweater together, closing the top button. Seating herself in an enormous wooden rocker, Cyn picked up her coffee, sipping it leisurely as she tilted her head backward and closed her eyes.

It was her first night back here at her family's beach­front cottage in nearly six months, and she hadn't been able to get more than a few hours' sleep. Late in the night, she'd been so restless that she'd gotten up and taken a long walk on the beach, then she'd slept for a while. But she'd had that dream again—the familiar vision that she'd first had at fif­teen, a week after her mother's tragic death in a plane crash.

But the familiar dream had been different this time—dif­ferent from when she'd been fifteen; different from when she'd been twenty-one and the dream had come to her after her father's stroke; and different from when, four years ago, Evan had been brutally murdered. Always, at times of grief and great stress, the dreams would come, and somehow they comforted her. They gave her strength. He gave her strength.

The man in her dreams had no name, no face, no real identity, and yet she knew him as she had never known an­other man. Her heart knew him. Her soul recognized him as its mate. When she awoke, the only things she could re­member were his eyes—the most incredible, moss-green eyes she'd ever seen—and his body, big and strong and protect­ing. This phantom of her dreams came to her to give her strength and protection and... love.

Cyn opened her eyes quickly and ran trembling fingers down the side of her face. Dear God, she had to stop this! She had to stop fantasizing about a man who didn't exist. Taking another sip of her sweet, creamy coffee, she began to rock.

The shrill ring of the portable phone brought her back to reality. She knew before she answered that the caller was Mimi. Dear, good-hearted Mimi. Her title could best be described as chief cook and bottle washer, but what would Tomorrow House do without Mimi Burnside's grandmoth­erly wisdom and love? How many runaways had been saved because of her generous nature?

"Hello," Cyn said.

"So, was I right?" Mimi asked. "Wasn't getting away to Sweet Haven just what you needed?"

"You were right, as usual. All I need is a few days to re­cover from the trial—"

"I'd say a few weeks." Mimi's tone was gentle, yet com­manding. "Everybody, including me, expected you to be able to handle Darren's death." When Cyn made no reply, Mimi grunted. "If only we could have gotten through to that boy when Evan first brought him to Tomorrow House."

"It was already too late... even then." Cyn's hand quiv­ered. The warm liquid sloshed in the cup. Standing abruptly, she threw the last drops of her coffee into the yard, then set the cup down. Clutching the phone tightly with both hands, Cyn choked back the tears, trying not to remember her husband's death, trying to forget the sight of his bloody body.

"Evan didn't think so," Mimi said.

Cyn remembered how Evan, in his gentle and caring way, had been so sure they could help Darren. Evan had been wrong. "Darren's drug addiction had taken over his life and turned him into a monster capable of killing."

"You'll come to terms with this the same way you did with Evan's death," Mimi assured her. "You have to con­tinue Evan's work at Tomorrow House. There are so many hopeless kids out there who need our shelter, and need someone like you who really cares."

"I thought that I had put the past behind me when I went to see Darren in jail and accepted his pleas for forgive­ness."

"None of us expected another inmate to kill Darren. It was a shock to all of us.''

"I shouldn't have gone to pieces the way I did. People are counting on me, depending on—"

"Well, honey child, we all know you're a tower of strength. You've held your family together more than once, and you kept Tomorrow House running when the entire staff fell apart after Evan was murdered. But you're hu­man. You're a woman who takes care of everyone around you. What you need is someone to take care of you for a change."

"Oh, Mimi, you're always trying to take care of me." No one understood, least of all Cyn, why she'd fallen apart, why the murder of her husband's young killer had affected her so strongly.

"Well, somebody's got to," Mimi said. "What you need is time away from us here in Jacksonville. You need to for­get the problems at Tomorrow House and stay away from the real world for a while."

"I can do that here at Sweet Haven."

"Stay for as long as you need to. I'll try to keep the na­tives from getting too restless."

"Thanks." Cyn knew she could count on Mimi. They were kindred souls, both dependable and nurturing women.

"I'll call you in a few days. Гаке care, honey child."

"Bye, Mimi." She laid the phone on the table, then fo­cused her attention on the beach, the sound of the lapping water soothing to her nerves.

Cyn knew that Mimi was right. What she needed now was to escape from the real world. And she'd done just that for a few hours last night, but the dream world she had entered hadn't given her any comfort. He had been there. Big and strong. But he had been in danger. She had felt his fear, and knew that it was an alien emotion, one he'd long ago for­gotten. He had not been afraid for himself, but for her.

Suddenly, without warning, Cyn saw him running along the beach. Her breath caught in her throat, her chest ach­ing, her heart beating loudly. He was big and powerfully built, yet his tall, muscular body was trim. He ran with the speed and ease of a wild stallion, his shoulder-length black hair flying around his face like a silky mane.

Cyn blinked her eyes several times, uncertain whether or not the man was real. She looked again. He was still there. His powerful body, clad only in cutoff jeans, raced into the wind, moving farther and farther up the beach.

She realized how foolish she'd been, even for one mo­ment, to have thought that the runner on the beach was him, the phantom protector from her dreams.

No matter how hard she tried, Cyn couldn't turn around and walk away. She watched, fascinated by the stranger, by his incredible physical condition, the absolute perfection of his darkly tanned body and by the length of his inky black hair. Even at this distance she could tell he wasn't some long-haired youth. He was obviously a man in his prime. The shoulder-length hair gave him a roguish quality, as if he were a buccaneer. No, she thought, as if he were an ancient warrior.

The conquistador? Cyn couldn't stop the image from flashing through her mind. Since childhood, when she'd first heard the legend, she had visualized the ancient war­rior and his maiden. And now this man, this stranger on her beach, brought to life the haunting story of tragic love and a prophecy that the present would one day heal the wounds of the past.

Cyn gazed out across the horizon, noting that the morn­ing sun was just beginning to ascend into the sky. She glanced back and saw the stranger run into the ocean, the surging tide covering his bronzed body in an aqueous ca­ress as his powerful arms and legs glided through the water.

Who was this man, she wondered? And what was he do­ing on her beach? The nearest neighbor was over a mile away. All the land past her family's cottage and the old building across the road were part of a state park. Perhaps that was it. Maybe this man had ran along the beach for miles and somehow ended up taking a morning swim near her home.

Time seemed to stand still for Cyn as she watched the stranger swimming, coming out of the ocean, walking along the beach. Then time began again when he suddenly turned and looked at her. He stood yards away, the sun bright be­hind him, but she could tell that he was staring at her. She had the oddest feeling that he wanted her to come to him. She stared at him for endless moments, until he turned and ran back up the beach. It took every ounce of her will­power not to follow him, not to run after him, not to call out.

Her whole body trembled, inside and out. When she went back into the cottage, she began to wonder if she'd imag­ined the stranger, if all the mental stress she had endured recently was causing her to have delusions.

Well, whoever he was, real or imaginary, it didn't mat­ter. She'd never see him again. The last thing on earth she needed at this particular time in her life was a man. * * *

Nate sat on the huge tan leather sofa in his den, the only room in his new residence he'd bothered to fix up. Once things were settled with Ryker, he'd get rid of this musty old house and return to his place in St. Augustine. With his feet propped up on an old trunk and a beer in his hand, Nate felt relaxed for the first time that day. A second ran on the beach after lunch and another rigorous swim in the ocean had helped ease the constant tension with which he lived these days.

She hadn't been outside on her patio or on the beach when he'd gone out the second time. He'd noticed that a white minivan was parked around on the north side of the cottage and assumed it was hers. That meant she was still here, still too close for comfort, still in danger if Ryker showed up sooner than expected.

Whoever she was, she was beautiful, Nate thought. He couldn't erase the memory of her standing on the patio, the early morning breeze whipping her blond hair around her face, molding her thin cotton slacks to her rounded hips and legs. Although he'd sensed her presence when he'd been running, he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge her un­til he'd come out of the ocean and faced her. He had stood there staring at her like some lovesick teenager, as if he'd been struck deaf and dumb by the very sight of her. Hell, he'd seen gorgeous women before, he'd even had his share of lovely ladies, but there was something about this partic­ular woman. Something that sent a surge of both fear and longing through him. The longing he understood. The fear puzzled him.

He had wanted to speak to her, to ask who she was and how long she'd be staying at the cottage. But he'd just stood there staring at her while she stared back at him. After what had seemed like an eternity, he'd turned and run away. If he'd stayed another minute, he'd have been on her patio, taking her in his arms. His body had been hard with need.

Nate laughed, a mirthless grant. If he'd gone toward her, she probably would have ran into the house screaming her head off. If he'd gotten near her, he would have frightened her to death. After all, he was a stranger, a big, Hispanic-looking man with hair nearly to his shoulders. Hell, he was surprised she hadn't already called the police.

The insistent ring of the telephone jarred Nate from his thoughts. Before answering, he knew the caller had to be one of two people. John Mason or Nick Romero. They were the only two people on earth who knew where Nathan Ra­fael Hodges was.

"Yeah?" Nate asked when he set his beer down and picked up the phone sitting on the enormous Jacobean ta­ble behind the sofa.

"I need to see you," Nick Romero said.

"Maybe you should come here. See if anyone follows you. Let Ryker know where I am and get this thing over with."

"Meet me in Jacksonville. Tonight," Romero said. "We know where Ryker is, where he's been and who he's work­ing for."

"You boys have been busy."

"The CIA kept track of him before he entered the coun­try. Our man Ryker has made some powerful friends in Colombia."

"You could give me the information over the phone," Nate said as he ran one big hand up and down the moist beer can he'd placed beside the phone.

"Probably, but I think we should talk, face to face."

"When and where?"

"Let's make it an early night," Romero said. "How about nine o'clock at a bar called the Brazen Hussy?"

"I know the place." Nate recalled the sleazy bar where scantily clad ladies of the night and streetwise punk drug pushers mixed and mingled with the clientele. "Wise choice. Nobody's going to notice two more shady characters in a place like that."

Romero laughed. "Yeah, that's us, a couple of shady characters."

"Hey, Romero."

"Huh?"

"Have you done something about protection for John and his family?" Nate knew that Nick Romero would have to call in a few favors to get any type of protection for John and Laurel Mason and their son, Johnny. But there was no way to be sure that once Ryker found out about Nate's business association and friendship with the Masons that they would be safe. Nate had distanced himself from the Masons, hoping to protect them, but there was always the chance that Ryker would harm Nate's friends regardless of the circumstances. Ryker would do anything to see Nate sweat, to prolong the torture.

"I'm working on it. It's just a matter of time."

Nate could hear the hesitation in his old friend's voice, and instinctively knew that there was more. Something Romero didn't want to talk about. "What is it?"

"I've got to ask you something," Romero said. "But I don't want an answer right now. Think about it and tell me tonight."

"What?"

"Do you know a man named Ramon Carranza?"

"Carranza?"

"Think about it, Nate. This Carranza has been showing a definite interest in you."

"Who is he?" Nate asked, certain he'd heard the name before. Where or when, he wasn't sure.

"We'll discuss it tonight. The Brazen Hussy. Nine," Romero said and hung up.

Nate replaced the receiver, picked up his beer and walked across the room. The whole den was filled with knives. Elaborate display cases covered the walls, the desk and the tables. Nate reached down on the wide pine table by the windows, picked up a small wood-and-glass case and opened it. He lifted a sinew-sewn hide sheath into his big hand, then removed the Apache scalping knife with its sinew-wrapped handle.

What does this guy Carranza have to do with Ryker? Nate asked himself. What ungodly secret has Nick Romero un­earthed? * * *

Cyn pushed the bits of lettuce and tomato around in the salad bowl. She had tried to convince herself that she didn't really want any of the chocolate-marshmallow ice cream she'd picked up at the store less than an hour ago. After all, she'd made it through the entire trial without reverting back to her old habit of using food as a crutch. But, with each bite she took, the nutritious veggies with which she'd con­cocted her enormous salad tasted more and more like card­board.

Shoving the bowl aside, Cyn stood up and turned toward the refrigerator. Don't do it, she told herself. Stay away from that ice cream and your hips will thank you for it.

With her hand on the freezer, Cyn closed her eyes, curs­ing under her breath. It's that man, she thought. He's got me acting irrationally.

She had survived Evan's death, four years of loneliness, the year-long trial to convict her husband's killer. She had sought refuge here at the beach so she could come to terms with Darren Kilbrew's senseless murder. Somehow she could make sense of it all. She had to. But what she didn't need was the intrusion of some stranger, a man she identified, foolishly, with her phantom dream lover.

She wished she hadn't been sitting at the desk beside the back windows when he'd taken his swim in the ocean this afternoon. If only she hadn't seen him again, she never would have made that hasty trip into town. There was something about the stranger that unnerved her. Somehow she knew he was no ordinary man. Her instincts told her that he was dangerous.

Cyn let her hand drop from the freezer door. Maybe what she needed was a swim, a vigorous swim in the cool spring­time ocean. Anything was better than this nervous hunger inside her, a hunger she had hoped chocolate-marshmallow ice cream could appease.

Leaving the kitchen, she headed for her bedroom to put on a bathing suit. Just as she walked down the hallway, the telephone rang. Who on earth? she wondered. Even though her father and her brother David knew she was here, she doubted either of them would have reason to call her. And Mimi certainly wouldn't be calling again. That left only one person.

Cyn opened the door and walked across the bedroom to where the portable phone lay at the foot of the twin bed by the window.

"Hello?"

"Cyn, how are you?" the man asked. "Everyone here at Tomorrow House is very concerned about you."

"I'm all right, Bruce," Cyn lied. She wasn't all right. She probably would have been if some savage-looking stranger hadn't appeared on her beach and stirred her imagination into overdrive. But, of course, she couldn't tell Reverend Bruce Tomlinson such a thing. "Is there something wrong? I know you wouldn't have disturbed my vacation other­wise."

"Well... I hated to call, and Mimi practically threatened me, but—"

Cyn thought Bruce sounded whiny. Scratch that. She thought he sounded more whiny than usual. The current director of Tomorrow House had little in common with Reverend Evan Porter, who, although he'd been the gen­tlest of gentlemen, had been quite capable. "What's the problem?"

"It's that Casey kid who came here about a week ago. I told you he would be a problem."

Cyn wanted to scream. For the past four years, Bruce had come to her with every situation too nasty, too dirty, or too much trouble for him to handle. "What has he done?"

"It's not what he's done," Bruce said. "It's what he's going to do tonight. Mary Alice overheard Casey on the pay phone. I thought maybe I should call the police, but Mimi is totally opposed."

"Bruce, you're not making any sense." For the eleven millionth time in four years, Cyn wanted to shake dear Reverend Bruce Tomlinson until his teeth rattled.

"Casey is meeting some guy tonight to buy drugs, and he's... he's taking Bobby with him."

"Bobby!" Cyn had suspected that Casey was a user, but Tomorrow House had made many a runaway addict wel­come for brief periods of time, had even helped a few kick the habit. Evan's death had been the only tragic result of giving safe haven to a junkie.

"I thought I should just confront the boys, but Mimi said confronting them would do no good, that Casey will leave in a few days and Bobby might go with him if I push him too far. She suggested that I speak to Bobby alone."

"Did you?" Cyn asked, praying silently. Bobby was a good kid, only thirteen. He'd been at Tomorrow House for nearly a month, longer than most, and there was a chance he would eventually agree to try another foster home.

"I couldn't. He's gone."

"What?" Cyn cried, gripping the phone tightly.

"And Casey's gone, too. I imagine they left early for their night on the town."

"Did Mary Alice overhear where they were going to meet this dealer?" Cyn asked.

"Some place called the Brazen Hussy at around nine-thirty, tonight. I've never heard of it, but I can guess by its name what sort of establishment it is. What on earth am I to do?" Bruce's voice sounded as distraught as Cyn felt.

"Don't do anything Bruce. It isn't our place to play po­licemen with the kids who come to Tomorrow House." Cyn recited the words she'd been told over and over again. "If we start calling in the police, the word will get out and none of these boys and girls will come to us when they need help so desperately."

"But Bobby—"

"I'll take care of this."

"What are you going to do?" Bruce asked.

"I'm not sure, but I'D think of something." Cyn knew she should take her own advice, but she also knew that she wouldn't.

"I'm sorry I bothered you at a time like this. I realize how badly you needed to get away from all the problems here, but I didn't know who else to call. You're our tower of strength around here, Cyn. We just don't know how to deal with you being... well, out of commission, so to speak."

"Don't tell Mimi that you called me," Cyn advised the minister. "She'd never bake you another pineapple upside-down cake as long as you live."

Bruce chuckled in his good-natured way. "Thanks, Cyn. You take care, and hurry on back to us. We miss you."

"Goodbye, Bruce. And don't worry about Bobby. Just leave him to me."

Cyn punched the off button and lowered the antenna, then tossed the telephone back onto the twin bed. She moved her overnight bag off the wicker settee, put it on the floor and sat down. Dear God, what was she going to do?

Bobby, abandoned at the age of five by his parents, had moved from one foster home to another. His last foster fa­ther had physically abused him and he'd run away. He'd been eleven at the time and had been on the streets ever since. Cyn could only imagine the nightmares the boy had lived through, but she knew one thing for certain. Bobby had never used drugs.

What would Evan have done in this situation? she asked herself, and immediately knew the answer. Evan would have gone after Bobby and Casey. He would have talked to the boys and, in his own loving yet professional way, would have talked Bobby into returning to the shelter. Cyn had become just enough of a realist in the past four years to know that Casey might be a lost cause.

Did she have the nerve to go to a place like the Brazen Hussy? She'd be a fool to go alone at night to one of the most notorious bars in town. But what choice did she have, other than calling the police?

She would just put her can of Mace and her whistle in her purse, dress appropriately and pray that her guardian angel would protect her.

Chapter 2

"Ryker is in Miami," Nick Romero said, then took a lei­surely sip of his Scotch and soda, eyeing Nate Hodges over the rim of his glass.

Instead of replying immediately, Nate let the informa­tion soak in as he glanced around the smoky bar. Tonight the Brazen Hussy was as loud and smelly and crowded as it had been the last time he had stopped by, over a year ago.

Noticing the small group of teens crowded around a ta­ble at the far side of the room, Nate took a deep breath be­fore turning his attention back to Romero. "Some of them aren't dry behind the ears, but the scum that owns this place doesn't give a damn. He's been busted twice for allowing minors in this place, but somehow he manages to stay in business." Nate grunted with disgust. "Just look at them. They're smoking pot and waiting around for their dealer to show up."

"When did you start worrying about kids you don't even know?" Romero asked. "I'll bet if you bothered to check every boy would have an ID to prove he's of age."

"Yeah, fake ID."

"They really think they're tough, don't they? I was just like them once. I thought that growing up in a tough neigh­borhood had prepared me for anything. Until I went to Nam."

"They'd all flip out if they knew a big, badass DEA agent was sitting across the room from them."

"I'm not here tonight as an agent." Romero gave his old SEAL comrade a hard, intent look. "I'm here as your friend."

"Yeah, I know, and I'm grateful even if I don't act like I am."

"I've arranged for some protection for John's family. Unofficially, of course. By the way, how is he now that he's a happily married man?" Romero grinned, then took an­other sip of his drink.

"Happy," Nate said, not looking directly at Romero, but at some point over his shoulder where a tall, buxom bru­nette was giving him the eye. "He says he's in love, and damn if I don't believe him."

"Who would have thought it, huh? The three of us shared some good times together, didn't we?"

"Yeah." Nate gave his head a negative shake when he noticed that the brunette was coming straight toward him. He wanted her to know he wasn't interested. He'd lost his taste for her type years ago. "But you and I shared some bad times, too."

"Mm-mm, starting with when we first got to Nam and our entire platoon got the runs from drinking the Vietnam­ese water."

Nate chuckled, the memory distant and harmless enough to laugh about. "So, Ryker's made it to Miami. No big news. We knew it was just a matter of time." Nate lifted the glass of straight bourbon to his lips, savoring the taste when it hit his tongue.

"He's working for the Marquez family as a bodyguard."

"Big-time drug dealers." Nate wasn't surprised. Ian Ry-ker had been a mercenary, a soldier of fortune and a drug smuggler. He was the type who understood the system and used it to his advantage. No matter what, he always found a loophole, a back door out of trouble. "What else does Ryker do for them?"

"He's an enforcer," Romero said. "He's been with the family for over a year, first in South America, now here."

"Were they the ones who got him out of the prison where we thought he'd died?" Nate asked.

"Our information is sketchy, but it's possible. All we know is that Ryker was reported killed five years ago when he was serving a sentence for smuggling, then miracu­lously, he reappeared a few months ago, alive and well and back to business as usual."

"Who spotted him?" Nate knew that Ryker would have taken no chances of being seen, of making himself visible, and, with his looks—a patch over one eye and his left hand missing—it would have been difficult for him to move around Miami incognito.

"Not one of our guys." Romero looked squarely at Nate. "Remember the man I asked you about earlier today?"

"Ramon Carranza?"

"It seems Señor Carranza's right-hand man made a dis­creet phone call to someone at the agency. He knew the connection between you and Ryker. He used your name. The man knew too much about you, Nate."

"Just what was the message, and why didn't Señor Car­ranza make the call himself?"

"Carranza never gets his own hands dirty. You know the type. But I'd say, for some reason, he wants you to know that he's involved," Romero said, shrugging. "As for the message, well, I'd call it a warning."

Nate grunted as he rubbed the side of his jaw. "A warn­ing from Carranza?"

"Oh, yeah. From the big man himself. You've been ad­vised to go into hiding if you're smart."

"Just who is this Ramon Carranza?" Nate asked.

"He's a retired businessman. A former Miami resident. He moved to St. Augustine a few years ago, about the same time you came back home." Romero picked up his glass, downing the last drops of his Scotch and soda.

"Are you saying there's a connection?" Nate narrowed his eyes, wrinkling his forehead.

"I was hoping you could tell me. Carranza is associated with all the right people and all the wrong people. The man knows everybody, and I mean everybody. He ran a ritzy ca­sino in Havana back in the forties and fifties. When he moved to Miami before Castro took over in Cuba, he al­ready had connections." Romero opened his dark eyes in a wide if-you-know-what-I-mean stare. "He's an old man, late seventies, but he's still powerful."

"Did you get the name of the guy who called the agency for Carranza?"

"Emilio Rivera. They've been together for years."

Nate shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"We've been doing some checking—"

"We?" Nate didn't like the sound of this. Something was damned queer about the whole thing.

"When a man like Ramon Carranza starts giving us in­formation, it's only natural that we'd wonder why."

"What did you find out?"

Romero glanced around the room, motioned for the bar­maid, then ran one dark, lean hand across his face. "This isn't the first time Carranza has shown an interest in you. It seems that, through both legal and illegal sources, he's been keeping track of your activities for years."

Nate felt a hard tightening in the pit of his stomach. Some man, some fonner godfather figure, had been keeping tabs on him. "How long?"

"Best we can figure out, ever since Nam."

"Ever since I first met Ryker. Is that what you're say­ing?" Nate asked.

"Carranza and Ryker have friends and associates in common. Presently the Marquez family. Who's to say that Ryker wasn't working for Carranza back in the seventies? The black market, drugs. Could be Carranza's been keep­ing tabs on you as a favor for an old buddy."

"Then why would Carranza have his man send me a warning?"

"To add a little extra pressure, maybe?"

"Ryker wants to see me sweat," Nate said.

The barmaid appeared, took the men's order, and left.

"The DEA is very interested in Ryker, and even more in­terested in his connection with the Marquez family, so we're in on this with you Nate, whether you want us or not."

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Nate finished off his bourbon just as the barmaid set his second drink down in front of him. "And what interest does the DEA have in Carranza?"

"None, other than his possible connection to Ryker."

Nate gripped the glass in his big hand, sloshing the con­tents around and around as he stared down sightlessly at the liquid. He had enough problems in his life right now with­out having a puzzle to solve. Was Carranza friend or foe? Was he really trying to warn Nate or was he trying to help Ryker?

"Well, well, take a look at that, would you?" Romero said, emitting a low, sensual growl as he stared across the room. "What is something like that doing in a place like this?"

Slowly, with total disinterest, Nate glanced across the room, looking at the woman who'd gained his friend's at­tention. He felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. It was her. The woman from the beach. The woman who was staying at the cottage across the road from his house. And she looked sorely out of place walking into the Brazen Hussy, although she had obviously tried to dress for the occasion. Wearing a red silk jumpsuit, a pair of four-inch red heels and teacup-size gold hoops dangling from her ears, she should have looked like any of the other "work­ing girls" casing the bar for an easy mark, but she didn't. Even with the added touch of red lipstick and red nail pol­ish, she still emitted an aura of innocence. Her beautiful face was too fresh, her eyes too warm and bright, her move­ments too hesitant for her to be a pro.

"Maybe her car broke down," Nate said. "Or maybe she's slumming."

"I don't think so," Romero said, smiling as he watched the woman cross the room. "She looks too classy for a one-night stand. But, if I thought she was interested—"

"You always did have a weakness for blondes." Nate had seen his friend succumb to the charms of more than one blond beauty over the years. But this woman wasn't for Nick Romero.

Laughing, Romero slapped Nate on the back. "And you, my friend, never had a weakness for anything."

Until now, Nate almost said. Hell, what was the matter with him? The woman didn't mean a damn thing to him. He didn't even know her. So what if just looking at her aroused him? Half the guys in the bar were probably readjusting their pants right now.

"Weaknesses can get you killed," Nate said.

"Oh, but what a way to die!" Romero reared back in his chair, bringing the front legs up off the floor. "She's bound to get into trouble, alone in a place like this. Maybe I should offer my assistance."

When Romero lowered his chair back on the floor and started to get up, Nate threw out a restraining hand. "Don't."

Romero sat back down, glaring at Nate. "Hey, old pal, I saw her first. Remember the rules."

"The rules don't apply here." Nate looked past Romero, his gaze riveted to the woman who had approached the ta­ble of noisy, swaggering teens. "But if they did, then she'd be mine. I saw her first."

"You what?"

"Last night. On the beach." Nate watched as she placed her hand on a boy's shoulder. What the hell was she doing in a place like the Brazen Hussy? he wondered.

"Tell me more," Romero said. * * *

The group of teenage boys stared up at her when she ap­proached their table, Casey easing back his chair as if he intended to stand. When she put her hand on Bobby's shoulder, he slumped down in the chair and hung his head so low his chin rested on his chest.

Casey smiled at her, a cocky look on his youthful face. "What are you doing here, Ms. Porter, checking out the action?"

"Shut up," Bobby said in a whispered hiss.

"Hey, you two know this sexy freak?" A husky young blonde asked, turning in his chair, sticking out his muscu­lar chest.

"Yeah, we know her," Casey said, standing up to face Cyn.

The blonde stood up and walked behind Bobby's chair to stand beside Cyn. "Introduce us."

"Lazarus my man, meet Cyn Porter." Casey's laughter chilled Cyn. Obviously, the boy was already high.

The husky youth reached out and ran the tips of his fin­gers across Cyn's cheek, watching her, obviously waiting for a reaction. "Cyn, huh?" He laughed, the sound menac­ingly unnerving. "I like it. Lazarus Jones, at your service, baby doll."

Cyn's earlier uncertainty when she'd made the decision to come to the Brazen Hussy turned into outright apprehen­sion. Jutting out her chin, she tried to appear undisturbed by the boy's crude come-on.

When she slowly pulled back away from his sweaty touch, he snickered and flashed Cyn a lascivious smile that turned her stomach. "Tell me, is Cyn ready to sin tonight?"

She looked down at his hand, noticing the thick coiled snake tattoo that began at his knuckles and ran up past his wrist. "Are you the man Casey and Bobby came here to meet tonight?" Cyn asked, trying to keep the tone of her voice calm and steady.

"Ms. Porter, please..." Bobby knocked Cyn's hand from his shoulder in an effort to stand, but Casey shoved him back down into his chair. "How did you know where to find us?" Bobby began to tremble.

"You don't really want to be here, do you, Bobby?" Cyn asked. "Why don't you and I leave, go get a hamburger and talk?"

"Hey, baby doll, you can't leave yet," Lazarus Jones said, placing his arm around Cyn's waist. "Besides, you can't have any fun with a kid like him. Hell, he's probably still a virgin."

Bobby jumped up, his big blue eyes glaring at Lazarus. "Leave her alone! Come on, Ms. Porter, I'll go with you."

"Sit down, kid. You came here for a little blow, didn't you? The party hasn't even started yet." Lazarus pulled Cyn up against him. "I got enough for you, too, baby doll. Enough of everything."

When Lazarus rubbed himself against Cyn, fissions of panic exploded in her stomach. Her whistle and Mace were inside her purse, which was inconveniently trapped be­tween her and the muscle-bound delinquent.

"I'm not interested in anything you have, Mr. Jones," Cyn said, staring him directly in the eye, hoping her false bravado would pay off.

Lazarus released her momentarily, long enough to shove another teen out of his chair and onto the floor. "Get up and give the lady your seat."

When Lazarus grabbed Cyn by the arm, she tried to pull away. He held fast. She began raising her leg, slowly, in­tending to knee her overly zealous admirer in the groin. Bobby knotted his hands into fists, thrusting one out in front of him.

Suddenly, Lazarus Jones released Cyn, then dropped to his knees. A very big man stood behind Lazarus, his hands on the boy's shoulders, the pressure from his hold keeping him subdued. Letting out a stream of colorful obscenities, Lazarus squirmed, trying to free himself, but to no avail.

Cyn looked up at her rescuer. Her head began to spin. Her knees bolted. She grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. It was him. The man on the beach. He was even bigger, darker and more deadly close up.

He looked different fully clothed and with his long hair pulled back into a short, neat ponytail. Wearing faded jeans, a dark cotton shirt, tan sport coat and snakeskin boots, he looked a little bit like a cowboy, Cyn thought. No, not a cowboy—an Indian dressed in white man's garb.

While Lazarus, still on his knees, continued his tirade, the other boys at the table began to get up, one at a time, and move backward. No one else in the Brazen Hussy paid much attention, except another big, dark man a few tables over who was watching the situation with amusement. Cyn couldn't help but notice him when he nodded at her and smiled.

"What would you like for me to do with him?" Nate asked Cyn, tightening his hold on the boy.

"Hey, man, what's she to you?" Casey asked. "Lazarus didn't mean no harm. He just considers himself a ladies' man."

''Is that right... Lazarus? Are you a ladies' man?" Nate didn't smile, but the tone of his voice was teasing.

"Let me go," Lazarus said, snarling his features into a threatening look. "If you know what's good for you, you'll let me go and get the hell out of here before I kill you."

Nate did smile then. Cyn thought it was the coldest, most dangerous expression she'd ever seen on a man's face. Nate released his hold on the boy.

Lazarus jumped up, pulled a switchblade from his pocket and thrust it toward Nate in a show of manly triumph. Cyn sucked in her breath and stepped backward. Dear God, what was she doing here? Why had she been stupid enough to think that dressing like a hooker and carrying a can of Mace and a whistle in her purse would protect her? Hadn't Evan's senseless murder taught her anything? The very sight of the knife in Lazarus's hand intensified the terror that had been building inside her for the last few minutes. Since Evan's death, the sight of a knife in another person's hands created irrational fear in Cyn.

The other boys at the table backed up further, even the swaggering Casey. Bobby stood beside Cyn, grabbing her hand, trying to pull her away.

"I don't know what kind of hold you had on me, man," Lazarus said, swaying from side to side in a macho strut. "But you came up on me from behind. Things are even now. We're face-to-face, and I'm going to stick you, big man, and watch you fall to your knees."

Nate knew that he could take care of this cocky young hood quickly and efficiently in the way only a trained warrior could. After all, he knew more ways to kill a man than most people even knew existed. But he had no intention of physically harming this streetwise punk. Scaring a little sense into him, however, was a different matter.

"Please, don't do this." Cyn heard a pleading female voice say, then realized she had spoken the words. Dear God, this couldn't be happening. It just couldn't! One of these men was going to get hurt, maybe both of them, and it would be her fault. She had thought she could handle the situation, been so confident in her ability to do what Evan would have done. But Evan died like this, a tiny inner voice reminded her, stabbed to death when he'd tried to help a wayward teenager.

While Cyn and the group of boys watched, while the dark man several tables over simply glanced their way, while a couple of barmaids stopped to view the scene, Lazarus Jones lunged toward the older man. The switchblade in his hand gleamed like shiny sterling silver in the smoky, muted light of the barroom. Cyn cried out. Bobby held her hand so tightly she winced from the pain.

From out of nowhere it seemed to Cyn, her rescuer pulled a knife—longer, wider, larger than his opponent's. Within seconds he had knocked Lazarus's knife to the floor and turned him around to face Cyn, twisting his arm behind his back and holding the deadly blade to the boy's throat.

Cyn could see the fear plainly in Lazarus Jones's eyes. Obviously, he thought he was going to die. Cyn prayed he was wrong.

"I think you owe the lady an apology," Nate said, let­ting the sharp blade of his knife rest against the boy's flesh.

"I... I'm sorry. I—"

"Please, let him go," Cyn said.

"Should I let you go, Lazarus?" Nate asked, leaning down slightly so he was practically whispering in the boy's ear. "Should I set you free so you can keep on selling drugs to other kids? So you can rob again, maybe even kill?"

"Hey, man, how the hell did you know—" Lazarus trembled with the certain fear of a man facing death.

Cyn felt hot, salty bile rise in her throat when she real­ized what kind of human beings she was dealing with. The boy was so brutal and uncaring, and her rescuer was twice as deadly as the boy. Dear Lord in heaven, this wasn't the kind of world she wanted to live in. She had spent the last ten years of her life trying to help change things, trying to make a difference. She hated violence, and yet she seemed unable to escape it.

Nate shoved Lazarus toward his companions. "Get out of here, and pray to whatever God you believe in that our paths never cross again."

Lazarus and his entourage left in a big hurry, Casey fol­lowing quickly. Bobby released Cyn's hand, but continued staring at the big man coming toward them.

"Bobby—" Cyn had no more than said his name when he ran. "No, Bobby. Wait," she cried out, but didn't try to follow him, knowing she would never catch him. Bobby was too adept at running and hiding.

Nate hadn't felt such rage in a long time. It had been years since he'd wanted to kill another man, but the moment that cocky boy had touched her, Nate had wanted to rip him apart. He hated to admit it, but the brutality within him, the way he so often used violence as a means to settle prob­lems, made him, in a strange way, no better than the smart-mouthed young hood he'd just subdued. Violence breeds violence. It was a fact he couldn't deny.

"Are you all right?" he asked, as he folded his lock-blade knife, reached beneath his jacket and slipped it into a leather sheath attached to his belt.

"Yes." She stared up at him, her heart pounding so loud and wild she thought surely he could hear it.

"What the devil are you doing in a place like this? Don't you know you could have gotten yourself raped or killed?" He wanted to grab her and shake the living daylights out of her. Then he wanted to pick her up and carry her out of here to some isolated place where he could make love to her.

"Look, no one asked you to interfere," Cyn said, tilting her chin upward in a defiant manner. "What made you think I couldn't handle the situation?"

"What made me...?" Nate glared at her flushed face, noting the anger in her dark brown eyes. Rich, warm brown eyes. "That young stud had plans for the two of you."

"Do you realize that your interference could well have ruined a boy's life?" Even though she knew she should be thanking this man for coming to her rescue, she was lash­ing out at him, some deep-seated instinct warning her to protect herself from the emotions he had stirred to life within her.

Nate moved closer, but didn't touch her. "What are you talking about? Which boy?"

"Bobby, the boy that was clutching my hand." Cyn took several deep, calming breaths. "Bobby's a runaway who has been staying at Tomorrow House, and we had just about talked him into trying a new foster home."

"Tomorrow House?" Nate's stomach tightened. Hell and damnation, what was she, some sort of social worker? Might know, the first woman he'd truly wanted in years would turn out to be some bright-eyed, sanctimonious do-gooder. "Don't tell me, you're some sort of undercover nun, out to save the world."

Cyn stiffened her spine, gritted her teeth and glared up at Rambo-to-the-Rescue. "I'm Cynthia Porter, and I'm assis­tant director at Tomorrow House, a church home for run­away children. Two of our boys, Bobby and Casey, came here tonight to buy drugs. I came here to try to persuade them not to. To try to get Bobby to return to a place where he feels safe.''

Nate could see the zealous determination in her eyes. Rich, warm brown eyes. "The kid will probably come back on his own."

"After what happened here tonight, I'm not so certain. You scared him half to death." Cyn noticed that the man who'd been watching from several tables over had just got­ten up and was walking toward them. "Your friend?" she asked.

Nate felt Nick Romero's approach, slanted his eyes just enough to pick up the other man's shadow in his peripheral vision, and nodded affirmatively. He wondered if this woman realized that they'd met before. She'd made no ref­erence to having seen him on the beach. "Romero, meet Cynthia Porter, assistant director at some shelter for run­aways."

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. Nate 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 freely 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.

Grace Hodges had been a beautiful woman. Tall, slen­der, elegant. She had been the only person who'd ever loved him, and in the years since her death, he'd often wondered why she hadn't hated him. After all, he'd been a child born to her from a brief affair with a man who had deserted her, and soon afterward had gotten himself killed. Nate's father had been no good. And he was just like his father. His un­cle had told him that—often.

"Your old man was some mixed-breed sonofabitch who ruined my sister's life," Collum Hodges had delighted in telling Nate. "If I'd had my way, she would've had an abortion. Our family had the money—we could have found a doctor. But no, she had to have you, and keep you, a constant reminder of her dead lover. She disgraced herself and the whole family. And now, I'm stuck with you, you dirty little bastard."

Nate told himself that his uncle's taunts no longer hurt him, that he was immune to the racial slurs his dark, His­panic looks had garnered him over the years, especially as a boy growing up in an affluent north Florida Anglo neigh­borhood. The only anguish he endured now was knowing how badly his mother had suffered because she had refused to give away her lover's child.

And what about that lover? Nate had wondered about his father. Who had he been? Had he known, before his death, that Nate existed? And if he had, had he cared?

What difference did any of that make now? Nate asked himself as he stepped out of the shower and reached for a huge white towel. He had enough immediate problems without dredging up any from his childhood.

Drying off quickly, he walked down the hall, his body still damp and totally naked. His bare feet made a slight slap­ping noise as he moved over the slick stone floor. As soon as he entered his bedroom, he reached down, checking un­der his pillow for his K-Bar knife, then fell into bed. The night air felt chilly, but he didn't pull up a blanket or even a sheet. He lay there in the dark room, listening to the quiet, blessing the solitude. He closed his eyes. Restless and frus­trated, Nate tossed and turned, longing for peace, for the pure dark moments of sleep when all his problems van­ished.

If only he could sleep without dreaming—without seeing her lifeless body and Ryker's one gloating blue eye staring at him. * * *

Cyn slipped the cassette into the tape deck sitting on the first shelf of the bookcase near the back door. The living room in the cottage ran from front to back, the entire length of the house, so that both front and back doors exited from the same room.

Listening to songs from the fifties always reminded Cyn of her mother. Her father had often said she had inherited her romantic nature from Marjorie Wellington, who had lived an ideal life with a loving husband and two children— until it all ended tragically when the small airplane on which she'd been traveling crashed. Denton Wellington had been devastated, and had blamed himself because Marjorie had been touring the state on behalf of his congressional elec­tion.

Cyn would never forget how amazed family and friends had been that the plump, shy, fifteen-year-old Cynthia had shown a strength and courage that quite literally held both her father and younger brother together in the weeks and months following Marjorie's death. Cyn suspected that it was then that her fate had been sealed. Soon, everyone who knew her grew to depend upon her strength—in any crisis and under any circumstances.

Perhaps it was because others quickly forgot that Cyn, too, needed occasional support and comfort that the dreams started. For months after Marjorie's death, she dreamed of the strong, protective man with the incredible green eyes.

Cyn heard the small antique clock in her bedroom strike twice. Two o'clock. Pre-dawn hours when the world slept, when most people were lost in comforting renewal. But she couldn't rest.

After taking a long, soothing bubble bath, she'd slipped on her aqua silk gown and crawled into bed. After over an hour of endless tossing, she'd gotten up, put on her robe and rambled around the cottage, finally making her way into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of the coffee she'd prepared earlier. She knew sleep would be impossible. She couldn't stop thinking about what had happened tonight.

She had met the stranger, the handsome and magnetic man she'd seen on the beach. The man with the green eyes that so reminded her of her dream lover. She found it dif­ficult to imagine Nate Hodges as a comforting protector, someone capable of unselfish care and ultimate gentleness. Cyn felt certain that he was as hard and cold and danger­ous as the knife he had put to Lazarus Jones's throat to­night. And yet... she couldn't dismiss the feeling that she knew this man, that she'd known him all her life. Perhaps in another life?

Cyn shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her elbows in a fierce hug. What made her think something so outrageous? She was tired. Exhausted. The stress that had been building in her life for the last year had taken its toll on her emotions. The always-strong, always-reliable and in-control Cynthia Ellen Wellington Porter had finally reached the limits of her control. She had begun imagining things, things like seeing a resemblance between that brute Nate Hodges and the man from her dreams.

Opening the door leading to the patio, Cyn watched the sky, dark and mysterious, filled with countless stars and one big, bright moon. She breathed in the sharp, poignant smell of the ocean, felt the crisp, cool wind coming off the Atlan­tic. Leaning backward, she rested her head against the door­frame.

Sooner or later, she'd have to sleep. But not tonight. What if he came to her to comfort her? What if, after all these years, she would awaken to remember more than his eyes? What if, as he held her within the strength of his arms, she looked at his face and saw Nate Hodges?

The softly rhythmical cadence of the surf as it swept over the shore lulled Cyn's ravaged nerves like the sweetest lul­laby. Looking out at the ocean, she watched as wave after gentle wave covered the beach, then retreated, only to re­peat the process, again and again.

Drawn by the night, the hypnotic lure of the ocean, the smell of the water and beach, the big, yellow moon and the romantic music coming from inside the house, Cyn stepped outside. The wind chilled her for a moment, then her body adjusted as she walked to the edge of the patio and took a step down. Just as she reached the final step, her bare feet encountering the sand, she saw him.

He was at least twenty feet away, standing alone on the beach. Noticing that he'd changed into cutoff jeans and a clean shirt, and the end of his short ponytail appeared damp, Cyn assumed he had returned home to bathe. Where was home for him? Surely, somewhere close by.

Had he, too, tried unsuccessfully to sleep? Somehow she knew why he had come back, why he was on the beach tak­ing a late-night stroll. He was seeking sanctuary from the demons that plagued him, and he was coming to her for the peace that could be found only in love. At the thought, she shuddered, wondering how on earth she knew that Nate Hodges was haunted by the past, that he was lonely and hurting, and in desperate need of her comforting arms. How could she possibly know such things about a total stranger?

He walked toward her, each step slow and deliberately measured, as if he were wary of her. She could feel his un­certainty, so strong was his apprehension. This big, dark and dangerous man was afraid of her. For some reason, he didn't want to be here right now, lured into coming to her as surely as some force beyond her understanding had guided her outside to wait for him.

Mesmerized, Cyn watched him approach. So tall. So big. So overwhelmingly male. Her mind told her to run, to es­cape the predatory look in his eyes, but her heart told her to open her arms to him, to take him into her comforting em­brace and give him sanctuary. Cyn shivered with anxiety and with a need she didn't want to admit was sweeping her away, near the point of no return.

Nate moved closer, his gaze taking in every inch of her with undisguised hunger. So small and soft and alluring, she couldn't be real, he told himself. But she was. She was as real as the star-laden sky, the ancient ocean and the gran­ules of sand beneath his feet. And she was his woman. The woman he'd dreamed about since he'd been eighteen. No matter how badly he wanted to deny it, he couldn't. A man whose life often depended on gut-level instincts, he knew, deep in his soul, that Cynthia Porter was the brown-eyed lover from his dreams, the woman destined to be his, the woman Ian Ryker would seek out and destroy.

And he knew he had no right to be here, on her beach, his soul reaching out for hers. Getting close to this woman would mean trouble for both of them.

Her waist-length blond hair hung in disarrayed waves, the ends slightly moist as if she'd recently bathed. Her femininely round body was encased in aqua silk, the material as blue-green as the ocean and just as fluid where it clung to her curves.

He took a step forward, then waited. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, as if her breathing had be­come labored. He took another step. She stood, unmoving. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak. His next step put his body within inches of hers.

He looked into her eyes. The sight that met his gaze was like a welcome home, so familiar was the rich brown warmth.

Cyn couldn't move. She stood, transfixed, her gaze mat­ing with his, the experience unbelievably erotic, as if they had often exchanged this visual love play many times while their bodies joined in life's most primeval dance.

Finally, he broke eye contact as he glanced downward at her breasts, her waist, her hips and legs. Cyn felt his gaze as it moved over her, making her nipples harden with desire, her knees weaken with longing and her femininity moisten with passion.

She had never known such raw, primitive feelings. This man, this big, savage beast of a man, made her long for things she had never experienced—except in her dreams.

Nate reached out, running the back of his fingers across Cyn's cheek. When she moaned, softly, sweetly, he felt his whole body tighten with arousal. God, he had never wanted anything so badly.

She leaned her face into his caressing hand. Suddenly, he shot his fingers into her hair, grasping a thick handful. She moaned again, tilting her head backward, arching her neck.

"You shouldn't be out here," he told her. "You shouldn't have been waiting for me."

"What... what makes you think I... I was waiting for you?" she asked as she felt him loosen his tenacious grip on her hair, allowing his fingers to cup her scalp. "After what happened tonight, I couldn't sleep. That's why I'm out here."

"You knew I'd be back." His moss-green eyes, eyes so dark a green they appeared black, held her with their mes­merizing power.

"Where...where did you go, after you followed me here?"

"I went home. Like you, I've been trying to sleep and couldn't."

"Home? Where's home?"

"Didn't you know that I'm your neighbor? I bought the old house across the road." Using his gentle hold on her head, he brought her closer to him. Their bodies touched. Nate groaned when her soft breasts grazed his chest. Even through their clothes, he could feel her, his body reacting in a natural masculine fashion.

Cyn sucked in a deep breath, her head feeling light and slightly swimmy. "You bought Miss Carstairs's old place?" Dear God in heaven, Nate Hodges, the living, breathing embodiment of a ruthless warrior, was living in the old co-quina house, built on the grounds where the Spanish mis­sion had stood. Miss Carstairs had sworn that the storage rooms had been part of that original mission. And she had told Cyn the legend, time and again, of the ancient warrior and his Indian maiden whose spirits were doomed to wan­der this earth until a new warrior and his mate fulfilled the prophecy.

"The realtor told me that the owners didn't use this cot­tage in the winter months." Nate let his other hand roam downward, from Cyn's shoulder, over her arm, inward to her waist.

"It's spring," she whispered.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "No one should be here. I need to be left alone."

"You've been alone for far too long." She wasn't sure how she knew that Nate Hodges was the loneliest man she'd ever met, that he'd spent a lifetime without the warmth of sharing. She just knew. Instinctively, she felt his loneliness, his pain. When he grabbed her hip and shoved her body into his, she didn't resist.

"Why now, Brown Eyes? Why now?" He took her mouth with the greed of a man starving, his lips feasting on the sweet surrender he found. It was just as he knew it would be, the feelings erupting from within him somehow famil­iar and yet more devastating than any he'd ever known.

She accepted the hard, relentless thrust of his tongue, the bruising force of his lips. No one had ever kissed her like this, no man had ever aroused such unrestrained longings within her. She couldn't understand why, but the very sav­agery of his lips on hers, his big hands raking her body, brought back memories of their wild matings. Memories from her dreams of him? she wondered, and then ceased to think at all.

She knew he'd opened her robe when the cool night air hit her chest a second before he covered her breast with his hand.

He wanted to lie her down, here in the sand, and take her. More than anything, he wanted to bury himself deep inside her, feel the shudders of her release, hear her cries of satis­faction. He touched her lips with his in a quick, light kiss before moving to her ear and nipping the lobe with his teeth. "I'm a dangerous man."

"I know." He didn't have to tell her how dangerous he was, didn't have to warn her that she should stay away from him. Her mind had already issued its own warnings, but her heart was incapable of heeding them.

He captured her in his arms, burying his face in her neck, groaning so low the sound was barely audible. Cyn threw her arms around him, letting her hands slide down his back, savoring the feel of his corded strength. He was so big, so powerful. Just touching him was ecstasy.

Her hands continued their downward trail until she reached his waist, then she felt it—the leather sheath at­tached to his belt. She ran her fingers over the warm, sup­ple leather.

He's wearing a knife, she thought. The knife he had held at Lazarus Jones's neck? She stiffened, her whole body go­ing rigid against him.

He knew her hand was on his knife sheath and realized she was afraid. He wasn't sure why she was reacting so strongly, but perhaps it was for the best. Neither of them seemed capable of resisting the other. Sexual attraction could be powerful. But no matter how much he wanted this woman or she him, now was the wrong time.

Ryker is coming for you, Nate reminded himself. If she's with you, anywhere near you, he'll use her. Get away from this woman and stay away or your recent dreams are likely to come true.

"I've killed men with that knife." For twenty years, from Nam to every cesspool in the world, he'd used his special skills to subdue the enemy, to achieve the goals of his su­periors. At first, the killing had been difficult, but it had been a release for all the pent-up rage he'd felt as a kid. But eventually, the killing became easier. Until one day it be­came too easy, and Nate knew he had to get out—or lose what was left of his soul.

She dropped her hand from the sheath as if it were a burning coal. Trembling, she closed her eyes and gulped down a tortured sob.

Nate took her by the shoulders and gently shoved her back, an arm's length away from him. Gripping her soft flesh, he met her questioning gaze.

"I know every conceivable way there is to kill a man, and I've used my knowledge to teach others." He could feel her withdrawing. He wanted to beg her not to leave him, to un­derstand, to accept the beast within him, to give his savage heart peace.

"You were a soldier?" She stepped backward.

He let his hands drop from her shoulders. "I'm profi­cient at using everything from a machine gun to a flame­thrower. I've learned how to rig claymores, how to construct homemade booby traps and how to turn rope or piano wire into a deadly weapon."

He waited for her to run. She didn't. She stood there staring at him, tears misting her eyes.

"I was a navy SEAL for over twenty years," he said. "I make no apologies for who I am. Not even to you."

She didn't know what to say, how to respond. How could she ever explain to him that she had been having dreams about him for twenty years, that she had thought her dream lover was a gentle man, comforting and caring? How could she accept the fact that, after all this time, her green-eyed protector was actually a brutal warrior?

He saw the doubt and confusion in her eyes, and wished that she had never stepped out of his dreams into reality. When she had come to him in his dreams, she hadn't judged him, hadn't been appalled by the blood on his hands, hadn't cringed at the sight of the battle scars marring his body.

"I won't bother you again," he said, turning away from her.

She wanted to reach out, to call him back, but she couldn't. She was afraid. She stayed on the beach, watch­ing him until he disappeared from sight. Hesitantly, she raised her fingers to her mouth, running them across her kiss-swollen lips. On a strangled cry of fear and remorse and unfulfilled longing, Cyn ran toward her cottage.

Nate Hodges needs you.

The ocean's gentle roar seemed to moan a premonitory message. She tried not to listen.

Chapter 4

Cyn placed the small wicker basket on the kitchen table as she debated with herself about the decision she'd made. Common sense told her to stay away from Nate Hodges. He was, by his own admission, a dangerous man. She didn't need a man, any man, least of all a troubled one. And she knew that Nate was a very troubled man.

If she'd learned anything from the tragedies she'd en­dured in recent years, it was the senseless waste that vio­lence brought into the lives of both the perpetrators and the innocent alike.

Nate Hodges was no innocent. "I was a navy SEAL for over twenty years," he'd told her. "I make no apologies for who I am. Not even to you."

She kept reminding herself that a man like that didn't need anyone caring about him, worrying about him, want­ing to be his friend. And, even if he did, she was hardly the right woman for him. He was a violent, dangerous man who carried a knife and was quite capable of using it. She ab­horred violence of any kind, and the very thought of a knife brought back all the vivid memories of Evan's brutal mur­der.

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 spoon 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.

Why was he taunting her about running away when that was the very thing he wanted her to do? He wanted her to run back to Jacksonville. And the sooner, the better. He didn't need the complications she could create in his life. If he had to worry about her safety, he wouldn't be as alert to protecting himself, and Ryker would use any advantage he could to win the upcoming battle.

Stopping by the table situated directly behind the sofa, Cyn ran her fingers over the array of cases that held an as­sortment of knives, and made a decision. "Yes, I suppose I was trying to run away. But now, I'm running back to the safety of what I know, of what I want to do with my life. Tomorrow, I'm going back to work. Half days."

"Are you sure it's what you want to do, or what you feel obligated to do for your late husband?" He stood up and moved around the sofa toward her.

She stared at him, puzzlement in her eyes. "What would make you ask such a question?"

"You said you had promised your husband."

"Tomorrow House was our dream, not just Evan's. You can't begin to imagine how many kids there are who need someone to care."

"Yeah, you're probably right. I haven't exactly spent my life helping the needy." He realized that she had no way of knowing that he had once been one of those kids who des­perately needed someone, anyone, to care. He'd spent his whole life trying to escape from the past, not once con­fronting it or ever thinking about helping other kids with problems similar to his own.

"You said you were a navy SEAL, so you were helping others by serving your country." She had heard the self-condemnation in his words, the hidden pain masked be­hind his reply, and she couldn't bear to know he was hurt­ing.

He was surprised to hear her defend him. He couldn't believe it. This woman who abhorred violence, who was scared of his knives, who condemned his brutality, was ac­tually defending him. Damn, did she have any idea how that made him feel?

Nate came up behind her, gripped her by the shoulders and lowered his head so his lips were against her ear. "You're the most beautiful, desirable woman I've ever known." When he felt her trying to pull away, he tightened his hold. "Don't balk, Brown Eyes. I have no intention of ravishing you no matter how much I'd like to."

"I... I really should leave," she gasped, listening to the sound of her heartbeat roaring in her ears. When she tried to pull free, he let her go. She backed up several steps, then turned to face him.

He needs you, she reminded herself. It's obvious he's never been friends with a woman. The thought of exactly What he had been with other women unsettled Cyn. This man wasn't her type. He was nothing like Evan. So why was she so attracted to him? What was there about him that made her want to be with him? "I'll take care of you," he'd said, and in that moment, she had wanted his strength, had felt such relief in being allowed to lean on someone else.

"I don't want to be ravished... but if... if you need a friend..."

He looked at her, his eyes devoid of any emotion, his face a mask. She waited, wondering why he didn't say some­thing, thinking perhaps she hadn't spoken the words aloud.

"We can never be just friends," he said.

"But Nate, I—"

"Go back to your cottage, Cynthia Porter, and stay away from me." He didn't want to send her away. He wanted to pick her up, carry her to his bed and spend the rest of the day and night making love to her. "I'm a dangerous man whose past is finally catching up with him."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand. Just leave." Nate's voice was harsh. He'd meant it to be. He didn't dare let this woman become a part of his life. Not now. Not ever.

Cyn couldn't speak. She merely nodded in acquiescence, turned and ran out of the den. Stopping in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, gasping for air as she struggled to maintain control of her emotions. He didn't want her friendship. He'd made that abundantly clear.

"I...I won't bother you again," she said, not looking back as she moved hurriedly toward the front door.

It took all his willpower not to run after her, to ask her to stay, to demand that she take him into her loving arms and give his heart and soul the sanctuary he so desperately needed.

But he didn't. He let her go. For her sake, he had no other choice. * * *

Nate aimed the Arkansas toothpick, the long, sharp blade gleaming like quicksilver in the afternoon sunlight. With expert ease, he threw the weapon toward its target, know­ing, without looking, that the knife had hit its mark. In the past two months of daily practice, he had regained his once-renowned skill. But how much good would it do him in a fight with Ryker?

Ryker might demand a face-to-face confrontation, but he wouldn't fight fair. It wasn't his style. Nate had to be pre­pared, as battle-ready as he'd ever been in Nam or after­ward on the numerous assignments he'd undertaken during his days as a SEAL. Ryker was as skilled, as ruthless, as prepared to die as Nate. They were equal opponents, ex­cept that Nate had been able to hang on to his sanity. Ryker hadn't.

Retrieving the knife, he returned to his designated spot by the cypress tree in the backyard, took deadly aim and sailed the dagger through the air. Once again it pierced the make­shift wooden dummy's heart.

What would Cynthia Porter think if she knew that many times he had killed victims by covering their mouth with his hand, jerking their head up, exposing their neck and then, with a quick diagonal slice, severing their carotid artery? A bloody, messy kill. But very effective.

She would be appalled, utterly disgusted. Even if the threat of Ryker's imminent arrival didn't stand between them, his Special Forces past would.

The faint, distant ring of the telephone drifted through the open windows. Nate pulled the knife out of the dummy, slipped it back into its sheath and walked quickly inside the house.

"Yeah?" He took several deep breaths.

"Are you busy?" Nick Romero asked.

"Sort of," Nate said.

"Not in the middle of entertaining your blond neighbor, are you?"

In no uncertain terms Nate told his friend what he could do to himself.

"Keep talking like that and I'll hang up without telling you why I called." Romero's chuckle vibrated over the phone lines.

"What's up?" Nate ran his hand through his loose hair.

"Just got off the phone with John."

"What happened?" Nate didn't want John involved, didn't want anyone else getting in the way, maybe getting themselves killed.

"Seems some strange guy approached John's wife Lau­rel at the local supermarket. Said a friend of his wanted to send a message to Nate Hodges."

"Damn! Where was her protection? I thought you said you had her and John covered."

"We do now. Our man was late getting in position," Romero said. "Mrs. Mason wasn't hurt. The guy didn't touch her. She told John that he was very courteous."

"Did she give John a description?" Nate wondered if Ryker had sent a colleague or had come himself.

"It wasn't Ryker."

Nate heard the hesitation in the other man's voice. "But?"

"This guy told Mrs. Mason to tell you that your old buddy Ian Ryker was on his way to St. Augustine and he'd be looking you up soon."

"Make sure nothing happens to Laurel and John," Nate said, then slammed down the phone.

Not all the horrors from his past had prepared him for his present torment. He'd seen buddies die—in Nam and other godforsaken countries around the world. But not once had a friend been in jeopardy because of him. Now anyone who was a friend or acquaintance was in danger. He had to keep Cyn Porter out of his life!

Chapter 5

What the hell is she doing? Nate slammed on the brakes, bringing his Jeep to a screeching halt a few feet away from Cyn Porter, who stood in the middle of the road.

He stuck his head out the open window. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, woman? I nearly ran over you."

Cyn cursed the fates that had thrown her together with Nate Hodges again. After their ill-fated breakfast ended yesterday, she'd sworn she'd never go near him again. By his less-than-friendly attitude, she could tell that he felt the same way.

Walking around to the driver's side of the Jeep, Cyn counted slowly to ten before replying. "I can assure you that I'm not suicidal. If you'd been driving at a normal speed on this dead-end dirt road, you would have had no problem stopping."

"What were you doing in the middle of the road?" he asked, trying not to notice how good Cynthia Porter looked in her jeans and sweater.

"Wasn't it obvious? I was trying to get your attention."

"There are other ways, you know."

"Don't get smart with me," she said, her voice growing steadily louder and more agitated. "The deliveryman left a package at my house for you."

Nate tensed, every nerve in his body going deadly still. He hadn't been expecting a delivery. "Where's the package?"

"I just told you that it was at my house."

"Why didn't you just bring it out here?"

"Look, your swords are lying in the middle of my living room floor where they fell out of the package. I'd appreci­ate it if you'd come and get them." She flashed him a quick, phony smile, then turned on her heels and walked back to­ward her cottage.

Swords! Who the hell had sent him swords? And how had they wound up in the middle of Cynthia Porter's living room floor? Nate turned his Jeep into her drive. By the time he'd parked and gotten out, she was on her doorstep.

"Wait up," he called out, taking giant strides to reach her before she entered the house.

Turning on him just as he stepped up behind her, Cyn­thia blocked the doorway. "Just go in, get them and leave."

"What else did you think I'd do?" he asked.

"I didn't want you to think that I was inviting you to stay or anything after you made it perfectly clear yesterday that you neither want or need my friendship." Stay angry, she told herself. If you stay angry, he can't get to you. And whatever you do, don't look into his eyes. You'll be offer­ing him more than friendship if you see that passionate need he can't disguise.

"Will you move out of the way, please?" he asked.

She moved inside. He followed. "There they are," she said, pointing toward the floor where a long box lay, one end open. Part of a heavy metal sword lay half in and half out of the box, and beside it was a matching sword, only a few inches of the tip still inside the box. Nate recognized the pieces immediately. They were excellent reproductions of Norman swords.

Who the hell had sent them? And why? Everyone who knew Nate knew about his collection. Even Ryker.

"I didn't open them," Cyn said. "When I walked in here with the box, the bottom just came open and the swords fell out. I was so startled, I dropped them."

"Have you touched them?" Maybe Romero could get some prints if the sender had been careless enough to leave any. If it had been Ryker, the swords would be clean.

"Most certainly not. The very sight of those things re­pulses me." What was wrong with him? Cyn wondered. For heaven's sake, the man collected knives, why was he so sur­prised that an order had arrived? "And I didn't touch the card, either."

She nodded toward the floor, then tapped her foot be­side the small envelope that had floated out of the box when it sprung open.

Nate hesitated no more than a second, but long enough for Cyn to notice. He acted almost afraid to touch the card. She shook her head to dislodge such a ridiculous notion. Nate Hodges afraid? Don't be ridiculous.

He glanced around the room. "I need to use your phone."

"Is something wrong?"

"I want you to stay out of this." He made the mistake of grabbing her by the shoulders. The moment he touched her, he wanted to pull her closer, to tell her everything, to con­fess the danger he was in and the danger that would threaten her, too, if she became a part of his life.

"Nate, if something's wrong—"

"Why don't you go for a walk on the beach... or take a ride. Go somewhere until I can get this mess cleared up." Hell, he knew she wasn't about to leave. He hadn't given her an explanation, he'd just issued her an order.

"You forget, this is my house." She had sense enough to realize that Nate Hodges was in trouble whether or not he thought she was clever enough to figure it out. "You may not want me involved in this, whatever it is, but don't you think it's a little too late, now?"

"If you're smart, you'll pack your bags and go back to Jacksonville. Right now."

Cyn walked around him and the weapons lying so deadly in their stillness on her living room floor. Sitting down on the couch, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Do what­ever you need to do. I'm not leaving."

Nate uttered a few choice words under his breath. He wished he could order Cynthia Porter to leave, but he couldn't. For whatever reason, she was determined to stay. Hell, it was as if she honestly thought she could help him, and there was no way he could persuade her otherwise without telling her the truth. And he wasn't about to do that.

"Fine, sit there and behave," he told her. "But stay out of the way and don't ask any questions."

"The portable phone is right there on the coffee table."

Nate picked up the phone, punched out the numbers and waited. The moment he heard Romero's voice, he said, "I'm at Cynthia Porter's cottage. While I was out, a guy delivered a package containing two Norman swords. He left them here. They're lying in the middle of Ms. Porter's floor. There was a card enclosed."

"Has she touched anything?" Romero asked.

"Just the outside of the box."

"You think they're a gift from our friend Ryker?"

"That's my guess." Nate watched Cyn. She sat quietly on the sofa, her hands crossed in her lap, her chin tilted up­ward as she gazed at the ceiling.

"Probably no point in checking for prints, but I'll bring a guy with me. Just stay put."

Nate laid down the phone, then sat beside Cyn. "You re­member my friend, Nick Romero, from the Brazen Hussy?"

She nodded, but didn't look at him.

"Well, he's coming over and bringing someone with him. Romero will probably ask you a few questions about the deliveryman—"

"Just who are you, Nate Hodges? And what sort of trouble are you mixed up in?" She uncrossed her arms, reached out and touched him, her hand covering his where it lay on his leg.

He pulled away from the warmth of her touch. It wouldn't be easy to open up, to tell her the truth, to share his past with her, but God in heaven, he wanted to. By choice, he'd been alone all his adult life. But he was tired of being alone, tired of being afraid to care.

"Nothing that needs to concern you, Cyn."

She felt as if he'd slammed a door in her face, the door to his life that was clearly marked Private. Why was he so afraid to let her help him? Didn't he know she was very good at taking care of others? "It'll be... interesting to see Mr. Romero again," she said, smiling, but still not looking di­rectly at Nate. "He's very charming, isn't he?"

Nate gave her a harsh look. "You aren't interested in Romero, so don't bother pretending you are."

"What makes you think I'm not interested in Nick Ro­mero?"

Reaching out, Nate cupped her chin in his hand, his grasp infinitely tender, his thumb and fingers biting gently into her flesh. "Because you're interested in me."

She looked at him then, unable to stop herself. What she saw in his eyes both frightened and excited her. "You need me," she said, her voice no more than a faint whisper.

More than you'll ever know, he said silently as he re­leased her chin. "Don't try to use Romero to make me jeal­ous. It won't work." * * *

Nate hated to admit that he was jealous of his best friend, but he was. After Romero had sent the swords and note to the lab with another agent, Nate had done everything he could to persuade his old buddy to leave, but Romero had stayed. And, although Cyn hadn't deliberately flirted with Romero, she had been friendly and cooperative, answering his questions without asking him any in return. Nate would have already left, but Cyn had invited them to stay for lunch, and after Romero had accepted, what else could he have done but stay?

Now the three of them were sharing afternoon coffee on Cyn's patio. Romero was his usual charming, flattering Casanova self—as smooth as silk. His friend's way with the ladies had never bothered Nate before. Usually, he watched Romero's magic skills with amusement. But not today. Nate had never felt such gut-wrenching jealousy. Cyn Porter, whether he wanted her to be or not, had become important to him. She was more than just another woman, and she most certainly was not a woman he wanted to share.

When the phone rang, they all jumped. Cyn answered, then handed the phone to Romero. Nate glanced over at her just in time to catch her staring at him.

"Swords were clean. The note, too," Romero said. "Your guess about the gift-giver is probably right."

Nate merely nodded. The note had been typed. For your collection... the words as meaningful or as meaningless as anyone's personal interpretation.

"Fine," Nate said, having been reasonably certain that the gift had been from Ryker. Just his little way of letting Nate know that his whereabouts were no longer a secret. But it didn't mean Ryker was in town. On the contrary, the lit­tle gift was more than likely just another method of mak­ing Nate sweat. Maybe Ryker's business associate, Ramon Carranza, had arranged to have the swords delivered. After all, this guy Carranza lived close by, just a few miles away in St. Augustine.

"Would you care for some more coffee, Nick?" Cyn asked, trying to concentrate all her energies toward playing the perfect hostess while avoiding any eye contact with Nate. She had never deliberately tried to make one man jealous of another, and having done so today made her feel uncom­fortable. But Nate had a way of making her act out of character. She had seldom met anyone, man, woman or child, who didn't respond to her loving and caring attitude. Nate had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't interested in being friends.

"I'd love to take you out for dinner tonight," Romero said. "I know this great seafood place down—"

"She can't go," Nate said.

"Sorry," Romero said, turning toward his friend. "I didn't realize you and Cyn had plans for tonight."

"We don't," Cyn said.

"Well, we do," Nate said at the same time Cyn spoke.

"Which is it?" Romero asked, grinning. "You do or you don't?"

Once again Cyn and Nate answered simultaneously.

"We don't."

"We do."

"Hey, I'm out of here," Romero said, standing. Taking Cyn's hand in his, he bestowed a gentlemanly kiss. "Looks like my friend has staked his claim."

Cyn decided the best course of action was to say and do nothing until Nick Romero left. After all, her problem wasn't with him. It was with Nate Hodges.

The moment she heard Romero's car start, she turned to Nate. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

"There's a guy who's been giving me some trouble. He probably sent the swords as some sort of joke. He's got a sick sense of humor." Nate noted that she didn't seem overly impressed with his explanation. The way she was staring at him made him wonder if she was getting ready to douse him with the contents of her cup. "Romero works for the gov­ernment, and I knew he could get everything checked out."

"I'd ask more questions, but I doubt you'd answer them." Cyn stood, placed her cup on the concrete-and-glass table, then turned to Nate. "I don't know what sort of trouble you're in, and it's obvious you don't want me to know. So be it. But I wasn't referring to the swords or whatever mess you've gotten yourself into. I want to know why you told Nick that we have a date for dinner when we don't."

"I don't want you getting mixed up with Romero."

"Why not? He's a friend of yours, isn't he?"

"Hell, woman, he's got a thing for blondes." Nate jumped to his feet, his eyes dark with warning.

Cyn took several steps backward. "I like Nick."

"And he likes you. Romero likes all pretty blondes, and most of them like him." Didn't she understand that he cared about her, that he didn't want to see her harmed in any way. After all, if her safety wasn't uppermost on his mind, he'd have her in his bed right now, making slow, sweet love to her. "Stay away from Romero if you don't want to wind up just another number in his little black book."

"Are we going out for dinner?" she asked.

"What?"

"Are we going—''

"No."

"Then leave."

"What?" he asked.

"I said leave."

"Fine." He crashed his coffee cup against the top of the glass table, cracking the ceramic mug. "Go back to Jack­sonville and get out of my life." He stalked away.

Maybe he was right, she thought as she watched him dis­appear around the side of the house. She had come to Sweet Haven to rest, to get away from all her problems, from the memories. But being Nate Hodges's neighbor had simply created new problems—problems she had hoped she could handle by offering the man her friendship. She'd been a fool. There was something far stronger than friendship be­tween them. Nate wanted to be her lover, but for reasons only he knew, he was determined to send her away. And for reasons only God knew, she was just as determined not to leave him. * * *

Nate stood at a distance, watching her for a long time be­fore pushing himself away from the tree and heading out onto the beach. He hadn't intended seeing her again, but he knew he had to get her to leave the cottage, return to Jack­sonville, to the safety of her apartment. If Ryker came to Sweet Haven, Nate wanted Cynthia Porter long gone.

Cyn saw him approaching. She had noticed him a good while ago standing by the cypress, staring out at the ocean, occasionally glancing at her as she strolled along the beach. He looked remarkably handsome in his leisure attire. His cutoff jeans, his wrinkled shirt, his leather sandals. He'd combed his hair back and tied it with what looked like a shoe string.

"Hi," he said as he came up beside her, falling into step with her as she continued walking up the beach.

"Hi." She looked away quickly, not even momentarily slowing her stride.

"I'm sorry about the way I acted earlier. I've got a lot of problems in my life right now, and I took some of my frus­tration out on you." He had decided that somehow, some way, he had to get Cynthia out of his life, out of Sweet Ha­ven and back to the safety of her Jacksonville apartment. But how was he ever going to get around to the subject of her leaving? He'd tried the hardball approach and it hadn't worked.

"I don't understand you, Nate. You're such a complex man. You can be so gentle, so understanding... and then you turn into a monster." What was he doing here, following her? She wanted an explanation. His apology just wasn't enough.

"I'm not used to women like you any more than you're accustomed to men like me. It's only natural that we'd have a difficult time understanding each other."

"You send out mixed signals," she said, slowing her pace so that she could look at him. "It's as if you're pulling me toward you with one hand and pushing me away with the other." She didn't miss the slight tightening of his jaw, the strained quiver.

"Like I told you, I've got some major problems in my life right now, problems I don't want to involve anyone else in." Could he make her understand without telling her about Ryker? If only he hadn't met her now when a relationship with her would mean putting her life on the line.

"You have problems. I want to help you." She stopped walking and turned to him, placing her hand on his arm. "I'm a good listener."

Damn, the last thing he needed was a caring woman. The touch of her small hand on his arm sent off alarm bells through his entire system. Cyn was a sweet temptation, one he was finding harder and harder to resist. "Look, Brown Eyes, I'm trouble with a capital T." He pulled away from her tender touch. "I'm a cynical, uncaring bastard with nothing to offer a woman like you except a scarred body, an unfeeling heart and a past that's filled with blood and vio­lence."

"Another man, a lot like you, came to this beach once. Centuries ago. He even stayed in your house." She saw the bewilderment in Nate's eyes, and knew he'd never heard the legend. "I'd love to see inside the old mission again."

"The old mission?" He racked his brain trying to re­member what the realtor had said about a mission. Some­thing about a part of his house being hundreds of years old, dating back to the late sixteenth century. "Who was the man?"

"Obviously, you haven't heard the ancient legend. I can't believe the realtor didn't use it as a selling point," Cyn said, starting to walk again, moving toward the dirt road that separated their homes.

"She said something about part of the house dating back several centuries. The old storerooms, I think." Nate fol­lowed Cyn across the road. "I don't remember her saying anything about a legend." But then, he hadn't heard much of what the realtor had said about the house's history. All that had interested him had been the isolated location.

"I haven't been inside since Miss Carstairs died." Cyn stopped just short of Nate's porch. "Let me show you in­side the storage rooms and I'll tell you the legend."

Nate followed her along the arched porch until they reached the area in question. What was he doing? he won­dered. All he'd intended was to talk to her and try to per­suade her to leave Sweet Haven. Now, here she was at his home, telling him some farfetched tale of an ancient war­rior she said was a lot like him. And he was following along behind her like some doting puppy.

"Do you have a key?" Cyn held out her hand as she stepped up to the outside metal door of the vine-covered room.

"It isn't locked," he said. "Nothing in there but a bunch of old junk. I think the former owner used it as a storage shed."

Cyn took hold of the heavy metal door handle. The hinges creaked loudly when she gave the door a gentle nudge. As she opened the door fully, sunlight poured into the darkness, and minuscule motes of glittering dust danced in the air.

"I haven't been in here since I was a teenager and used to come over and visit Miss Carstairs. She always kept this door locked." Cyn laughed, remembering the old woman who'd filled her head with stories of Florida's past, of nu­merous battles, countries fighting to claim this gloriously beautiful land as their own, of dark-skinned natives, of Spanish invaders—of a Timucuan maiden and a conquis­tador.

"Was she afraid someone would tote off some of this treasure?" Nate asked as he stepped inside the large co-quina room and looked around in the dreary gloom at moldy, cobweb-covered chairs, chests, crates, rotting boxes and a wooden bed.

"I don't think there was this much stuff in here back then, but Miss Carstairs wasn't worried about thieves. She was worried about ghosts. I never could understand how she thought a locked door would prevent spirits from entering if they wanted to."

Nate spied what looked like the remains of a meal, an aluminum drink can, a wrapper from a candy bar and the butt of a cigarette. "Looks like I've had company." Had Ryker sent a scout out ahead? One of Carranza's men? The thought that someone had been this close to him without his knowledge bothered Nate. Were his instincts that rusty? If they were, he was in big trouble.

Cyn spied the objects on the floor. "Probably just some vagrant taking shelter from the night. Or maybe even a runaway. I've found a couple of kids right over there on the beach."

Nate doubted that any of Ian Ryker's associates would have invaded this room and sat around eating candy and drinking a cola. More than likely Cyn's assessment was correct, and the vagrant or runaway was probably long gone by now. But there was always the possibility... "Who knows, maybe Miss Carstairs's ghosts like Hershey bars."

Cyn smiled at him, thinking what a marvelous sense of humor he had. "Did Spanish conquistadors eat Hershey bars?"

At the word conquistador, Nate flinched. Cyn noticed his reaction. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing." It had been years since anyone had called him that, not since he'd left the SEALs. Conquistador had been a nickname given in fun that had eventually become a hated symbol of everything from which Nate wanted to escape. "And no, I doubt the Spanish conquerors brought along any candy. Why did you ask? Was one of Miss Carstairs's ghosts a Spaniard?"

Cyn reached down, pulling a dusty box out from under­neath a dilapidated chair. "Mm-mm. There are two ghosts," Cyn told him. "A man and a woman. He's a Spanish conquistador and she's a Timucuan Indian maiden."

"And how did Miss Carstairs know who her ghosts were?" Nate watched as Cyn rummaged around in the box, pulling out musty, moldy books. Already, he didn't like the sound of this old tale. Although the comparisons between himself and the ancient warrior were minuscule, the word conquistador was an undeniable bond. But he knew better than to tell Cyn about it.

Cyn stacked the books on the floor. "There's a legend about the ghosts who roam Sweet Haven's beach. Miss Carstairs told me she heard the legend when she was a child."

"Exactly what is the legend?" Nate asked, surprised that he was truly interested. It was this damned room, he thought. It piqued his curiosity.

"The maiden's and the conquistador's spirits are doomed to—" Suddenly and without warning, Cyn knew she had to escape. The feelings overwhelmed her. There was danger here in these rooms, danger and passion and death. The legend that had been so much a part of her life since child­hood had now taken on a sinister aspect that frightened her.

She stood up, reached out and took Nate's hand. "Let's go back outside. You're right about this room. Nothing but junk here."

The warmth of her hand where it touched his spread through him like wildfire. He clasped her hand tightly and followed her outside into the daylight, away from the shad­ows, away from the panic that had claimed her. He knew fear when he saw it. It had been a part of his life for too many years for him not to recognize the signs. Cyn was scared, but he couldn't understand why. Was there some­thing about the legend that seemed more real to her when she'd been in the storage rooms?

Pulling on his hand, Cyn began to run. He ran beside her. For some reason, she'd felt oddly chilled when she'd begun to tell him about the legend. It was as if an icy breeze had caressed her body. If those coquina walls could speak, she knew they would tell a story of great love and heartbreak­ing tragedy.

It was as if something or someone had been warning her. The fear she'd felt inside those cold ancient rooms had not been for the two long-dead lovers, but for Nate—and for herself. Nate was in danger, from something or someone who had the power to destroy him. She couldn't explain how she knew. She just did.

She slowed down near the cypress in the yard. Resting her back against the tree, she took a refreshing breath of ocean air, then smiled at him. How could she tell him about her fears without sounding like a complete idiot? Maybe she was. Maybe she'd let her imagination run amok. After all, she had convinced herself that there was a similarity be­tween Nate and the conquistador who had died on this beach, his lover beside him.

Nate gripped her shoulder, his strength gentle yet com­manding. "What's wrong? What happened in there?"

She covered his hand with hers, slowly pulling it away from her body to hold it to her cheek. "I'm not sure. I've always been fascinated by the legend, but I've never...never really believed it. Not the prophecy part, anyway."

"The prophecy?"

"I guess it's the fact that you're a warrior—"

"A former warrior."

"I suppose I associate the violence in the legend with the violence in your life."

"Tell me the legend," he said, taking her face in his hands, framing her cheekbones with his thumbs.

"The legend tells of a beautiful Timucuan maiden, with hair to her knees and a smile that enticed many a man. But she loved only one. A big Spanish conquistador. They came here to the mission to be married. You see, she had de­serted her family's heathen ways and had converted to Ca­tholicism. The priest married them." Cyn stopped talking. She didn't want to start crying. The legend, as beautifully romantic as it was, did not arouse all the feelings of magic and hope and love that it once had. Reality changed things. For the first time, she began to truly wonder what it had been like for those ancient lovers. What fear had they known? By whose violent hand had they died? And why?

"I take it that they didn't live happily ever after." Nate stepped toward her, his body leaning forward, almost touching hers.

"No. They were found dead, murdered, the morning af­ter their marriage. Their bodies lay, naked and entwined, on the beach. The beach in front of my cottage." Tears es­caped her eyes, trickling down her face, moistening the strands of her hair that curled around her ears. She wasn't crying for the lost lovers, but for herself and for Nate. There was a special bond forming between them, a physical at­traction that drew them to each other. But they were such different people, with such opposing views on life. How could she ever love a man who'd made his living killing others? Could she ever reconcile herself to wanting a man to whom violence came as naturally as breathing?

Nate moved his body against hers, lowering his head un­til his lips hovered over her open mouth. "Why do the ghosts haunt the beach?"

"The legend says that until another warrior and his maiden find eternal love on this beach and are united in a way the ancient lovers could never be, then the conquistador and his Timucuan maiden can never enter paradise." Cyn could feel his breath, hot and moist against her lips.

"The legend doesn't make any sense." he nipped at her bottom lip, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. "Surely the Spaniard and his bride had a wedding night. If they made love, then they were united."

"Who knows," Cyn whispered, longing for his kiss.

"And who cares," Nate said. "It's just a legend, isn't it?"

He took her mouth then, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting her sweetness. He ran his hands up and down her back, then crushed her to him, wanting to devour her, seeking out every inch of her flesh, needing to be a part of her.

She whimpered, then flung her arms around his shoul­ders. He moved his lips along her neck, into the hollow of her throat. She cried out his name. She wanted this man, wanted him here and now.

He jerked away from her, stepping backward, looking at her flushed cheeks and swollen lips? God, what was he do­ing? What was he thinking? He'd let some stupid tale of ancient lovers spin crazy dreams in his mind. He'd gone to find Cyn in the hopes of persuading her to leave Sweet Ha­ven, and instead he'd lost his head and tried to make love to her.

"Nate?" She looked at him with those rich brown eyes, her gaze questioning him.

"Dammit, Cyn, I'm sorry." He took a tentative step to­ward her, then stopped. "I want you... I want you badly."

"I...I want you, too," she said, finally admitting the truth to him and to herself.

"Look, I don't have anything to offer you but a brief af­fair—"

"What if I said, all right?" The words escaped her mouth before thoughts of agreement had even reached her brain. She couldn't allow her heart to answer for her. If she did, she would be lost.

"No, it's not all right. If we'd met a year ago, then maybe. But not now."

"Why not now?"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Anyone close to me is in danger. I can't explain. The less you know, the better."

"But, Nate—"

"I can't risk it."

She reached out, touching his cheek with the pahn of her hand. "Some things are worth the risk." Dropping her hand, she turned and walked away.

Nate let her go.

Chapter 6

Cyn stood outside Tomorrow House inspecting the faded metal sign, thinking how the weathered condition of the sign epitomized the shelter's money problems. Oh, the sign could be easily redone, probably the cheapest repair job needed. The building was another matter. The church paid the rent on the one-story brick structure and provided the services of Bruce Tomlinson, but everything else was paid for by do­nations, and all the workers were strictly volunteers. Ex­cept Mimi. The sixty-year old woman, widowed eight years ago, had no other source of income.

No one, not even Mimi, knew that Cyn paid her salary, but all the volunteers did know that Cynthia Wellington Porter lived quite comfortably off a sizable trust fund set up by her paternal grandfather the day she'd been born.

Opening the front door, Cyn walked inside and was im­mediately bathed in bright sunlight. A few feet away, a small crowd of teens stood staring up at the ceiling. Cyn's eyes followed their line of vision. She gasped when she saw the large ragged hole in the plaster ceiling, the rafters exposed like the weathered gray skeletons of a decayed carcass. Circular water stains dotted the ceiling in several places all around the open gap.

"What happened?" Cyn asked as she neared the group of gawking kids.

"I think a bomb exploded in the attic," one freckle-faced boy said.

"Naw," a black girl said, laughing, "I think Reverend Tomlinson cut that hole so his prayers could get past the ceiling."

Cyn clamped her teeth together in an effort not to laugh. Bruce Tomlinson was a very nice man, and quite dedicated to his work, but his overly pious attitude did little to endear him to the kids he encountered at Tomorrow House.

A tall, robust woman with graying red hair stepped out of a room at the end of the hall. Wiping her hands on her large purple apron, she grinned when she saw Cyn.

"Welcome back," Mimi Burnside said, giving Cyn a bear hug. "I see you've noticed our skylight. Lets in the sun­shine, the moonlight, the cool breeze, and if it rains, it'll let that in, too. Of course a real bonus is that it's created an extra entrance for insects."

"When did this happen?" Cyn asked as she started to­ward her office, Mimi following.

"Yesterday. Luckily, nobody was standing directly in the line of fire, but we had one heck of a mess to clean up." Mimi closed Cyn's office door behind them.

Cyn picked up a stack of mail from the edge of her green metal desk, an army surplus purchase. "That roof has needed repairs for the past three years, but we simply hav­en't had the money. Has Bruce called someone to come out and give us an estimate?"

"What do you think?" Mimi settled her hefty frame onto one of the three metal folding chairs lined up across the back wall in the office.

"Let me guess." Cyn grabbed the back of her swivel chair, pulling it away from the desk. "He expects me to take care of it this morning. And he also expects me to come up with the money."

"Right on both counts." Mimi cocked her head to one side and gave Cyn a long speculative look. "You seem to be back to your normal self, but I sense something's wrong, Cynthia Ellen Porter. Are you sure you're ready to come back to work?"

"I'm fine."

Mimi puckered her lips, squinted her hazel eyes and shook her head. "No, you're not."

"I haven't been sleeping much."

"If you've been worrying about Bobby, then I can set your mind to rest. He came back last night."

"Thank goodness."

"He told me about what happened at the Brazen Hussy. He was worried about you." Mimi crossed her arms over her ample bosom. "I assured him that you were fine."

Cyn felt her cheeks sting with the beginnings of a blush. No doubt Bobby had told Mimi about Nate Hodges. "I never should have gone to the Brazen Hussy."

"Who was he, this one-man army that rescued you?"

"Nathan Hodges, a former navy SEAL, and... and my new neighbor." Cyn knew she might as well be honest with Mimi, because sooner or later the woman would worm every detail out of her.

"New neighbor?"

"He bought Miss Carstairs's old house."

"Well, well." Mimi got up, rubbed her chin and walked to the door. "So a warrior has finally come to the old mis­sion, to the haunted beach."

Cyn snapped her head around, her brown eyes focusing directly on Mimi's Cheshire cat grin. "I should never have told you about that legend."

"What's the matter? Something change your mind about how romantic that old legend is?"

"It was a beautiful story, tragically romantic... as long as it remained just an ancient legend. But now..."

"Now what?" Mimi asked, laughing. "Are you afraid you and your warrior are destined to fulfill the prophecy?"

"Sounds crazy, doesn't it?" Cyn had tried not to think about the parallel between the ancient lovers and Nate and herself. "Who's to say that Nate's the first warrior to come to the Sweet Haven beach? And I'm certainly no maiden."

"Nate, huh? Already on a first-name basis?" Mimi opened the door, hesitated momentarily, then turned around.

"We're so completely wrong for each other. His whole life is the total opposite of mine. For heaven's sake, Mimi, the man collects knives."

"If it's meant to be, there's nothing you or this Nate can do to stop it."

"We're never going to see each other again." Cyn raised her voice, wanting to make sure Mimi heard her, hoping her adamant tone would convince the other woman of her sin­cerity.

Mimi didn't turn around or acknowledge Cyn's remark in any way. Dammit, Cyn thought. That's all I need, Mimi Burnside trying to pair me off with a man determined to keep me out of his life, a man who, by his own admission, isn't even interested in a brief affair. * * *

Nate heard the noise again. There was something in the storeroom, something making a whimpering sound. Could it be an injured animal that had taken shelter? Even though the door was closed, it was possible that a stray cat or dog could have crawled in through one of the partially boarded windows.

Nate opened the door and stepped inside, moving cau­tiously, just in case the animal might attack. It took a few minutes for his eyes to focus in the semidarkness. Glancing around, he noticed nothing changed from the day before, but then he heard the sound again. God, whatever it was, it sounded almost human.

Suddenly, a small dark shadow in the far corner moved. Nate took several tentative steps toward the movement. Without warning, a skinny kid hurled herself from behind a tall chest and, running past Nate, made a mad dash for the door.

"What the—" Turning quickly, Nate reached out, grab­bing the little hooligan by the neck.

The child let out a frightened scream and began strug­gling. Thrashing arms and legs pelted Nate as he dragged the scrappy kid outside.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Stop your squirming!"

"Please..." Gradually, the child ceased struggling.

Nate took a good look at the intruder. Damn, it was a brown-eyed little girl with dirty, stringy black hair. Had this child been hiding in his storage rooms, eating candy and drinking cola? Probably. But that would hardly explain the cigarette butt.

"Hey, honey, it's all right." The child broke into tears. Nate released her, but kept a restraining hand on her back.

"I...I didn't do nothing wrong." She gulped and looked up at him, fear in her eyes.

That's when Nate noticed the fresh purple bruises on the side of her pretty face. His gaze traveled the length of the child's scrawny body, noting that her shorts and blouse were faded and dirty and that a line of fading bruises covered her left arm and the backs of both legs. Nausea rose in Nate's throat. If he could get his hands on the person who'd beaten this child, he would make sure that animal never touched her again.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She looked at him, her eyes wide and wild with fright. "Just let me go, okay? I didn't know somebody lived here."

"Did your mother or father do this to you?" Nate asked, pointing to her battered face.

"I won't go back. You can't make me," she screamed and started to balk.

Nate placed a restraining hand at her waist, then cursed himself when she cried out in pain. Dear God, he needed to get this child to the hospital. "Look, honey, I think we need to get you to a doctor."

"No!"

"You're hurt."

"It ain't so bad. I don't want no doctor, no police. They'll make me go back, and I'd rather die than go back." She curled up, dropping to her knees, her whole body trem­bling.

"No doctor. No police," Nate assured her. "I know a lady who helps kids like you. She works at a place called Tomorrow House in Jacksonville."

"She'll call the police."

"No. She'll help you. Give you a place to stay, some food and a doctor who won't report you to the police." Nate picked the child up in his arms. She trembled as if she were in the throes of a seizure.

This abused little girl needed help, and he intended to see that she got it. He also intended to make sure he got her away from Sweet Haven, away from him, as quickly as possible. She couldn't come back. If she did, she, too, would be in danger from Ryker. If the cigarette butt had been left by one of Ryker's cronies, then it was a miracle the child hadn't already been faced with the unspeakable. Dear God, what if she had? What if the bruises... ? No, Ryker's type didn't just abuse, they killed. The Marquez family and Ra­mon Carranza were people who left behind no witnesses.

Nate headed toward Cyn's cottage, got halfway across the road, then remembered that she'd told him she was return­ing to work today. Making a hasty turn, he carried the little girl into his house. He eased her fragile body down on the sofa in his den.

"I promise that no one will hurt you. My friend is a nice lady. She'll take care of you."

Damn, this was one more complication he didn't need in his life. He was fast reaching the breaking point. And that's exactly what Ryker wanted. No doubt his old enemy was delaying the inevitable because he was enjoying the game, savoring each new torment, loving the idea of making Nate wait and watch and agonize.

Nate dug a ragged phone book from the desk drawer and searched through the tattered pages until he found the list­ing for Tomorrow House. Dialing the number, he watched the child, who had curled into a fetal position, her arms crossed over her chest.

"I need to speak to Cynthia Porter," he said. "And hurry, it's an emergency." * * *

Nate had tried talking to the child on the drive from Sweet Haven to Jacksonville, but he'd finally given up when he realized she wasn't going to reply. She sat, huddled on the front seat of his Jeep, her eyes red and puffy, the bruises on her face vividly apparent in the bright Florida sun.

She couldn't possibly know how well he related to her, how completely he understood her withdrawal. How many times had he run from his abusive Uncle Collum? How many times had the police returned him to that vicious man's clutches?

God, how he wished there had been a Tomorrow House in his past, and a caring, giving woman like Cyn Porter. But there had been neither. No one had given a damn about a wild and rebellious boy. No one had wanted him, least of all his mother's older half brother. No one, except Uncle Sam. The U.S. Navy had wanted him, and they'd had him, body and soul, for twenty years. He'd given the SEALs the ded­ication and loyalty many men gave their families. The navy had been his salvation as surely as it had been his damna­tion.

The only decent thing Collum Hodges ever did for his nephew was sign the enlistment papers allowing him to join the navy at seventeen. He'd never forget his uncle's parting words.

"Maybe they'll ship your worthless butt off to Nam and let those gooks use you for target practice. God knows, you're no good for anything else."

Nate had never fully understood his uncle or the man's unrelenting hatred. Collum Hodges had been a bigoted, embittered man, and an ambitious one. His sister's illegiti­mate child had been a social embarrassment to him, and the fact that the boy quite obviously had Hispanic blood in him outraged Collum, whose conservative Anglo friends were less than accepting of Grace's mix-breed child.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, Nate pulled his Jeep into the only empty parking space available, a half block down from Tomorrow House. He got out, walked around the car, opened the door and lifted his passenger up and into his arms.

Cyn stood in the open doorway, watching Nate walk up the sidewalk. He carried a small, unmoving child. When he'd told her that the little girl needed to see a doctor, Cyn had placed a call to her friend, Callie Reynolds, who did a great deal of volunteer work for the shelter. Callie, a suc­cessful St. Augustine pediatrician, promised to drive up on her lunch break.

Nate took the steps up to Tomorrow House's entrance two at a time. "Have you gotten in touch with a doctor?" he asked.

"One will be here around twelve-thirty." Cyn winced when she noticed the purple bruises on the child's face. Even though she'd seen this sort of thing more times than she cared to remember, she hadn't hardened herself to the re­ality that there were people in this world capable of brutal­izing children. "Bring her on inside. Mimi has fixed her something to eat.''

Nate followed Cyn down the hallway and into the kitchen. A big redheaded woman, busy stirring some delicious-smelling concoction in an enormous kettle atop an old stove, turned and smiled at him. He nodded an acknowledgment, then set the little girl down at the table.

The child stared at the bowl of cereal and the glasses of milk and orange juice, then looked up at Cyn with ques­tioning eyes. "He said you wouldn't make me go back. You won't, will you?"

Cyn clutched the top of the chair opposite the one in which the child sat. "No one is going to make you do any­thing. All we want to do here at Tomorrow House is help you. Would you tell me your name?"

The little girl shook her head. "Can I still have the food, even if I don't tell you my name?"

With tears trapped in her throat, Cyn couldn't respond immediately. She glanced over at Mimi.

"You eat up, honey child," Mimi said. "And if you're still hungry, it won't be long until lunch. I'm working on some good old chicken stew."

The child picked up her spoon, dug into the cereal and ate as if she were starving. After finishing the last bite, she gulped down the orange juice.

"Mimi, would you let our young visitor keep you com­pany here in the kitchen while I give Nate a tour of Tomor­row House?" Cyn asked.

"You ain't calling the police, are you?" The little girl jumped up, her eyes wide with fear.

"No," Nate told her. "Stay here and help Miss Mimi with lunch and I'll come say goodbye before I leave."

"I'll see if Bobby wants to come give me a hand, too," Mimi said. "That boy's good at helping."

"Who's Bobby?" the little girl asked.

Cyn and Nate left the kitchen. He followed her into the hallway. Children of various ages, sexes and races moved freely around the building, some passing Cyn and Nate in the hall, others busy watching television, playing Nintendo and shooting pool, as well as sweeping, mopping and dust­ing.

"You said on the phone that you found her in the old mission." Cyn nodded to several smiling youngsters.

"The storage room," Nate said. "And yeah, she's prob­ably the one who left the cola can and candy bar that we found yesterday."

"How about the cigarette butt?"

"Possibly. But I doubt it." He knew the chances were good that the cigarette butt had been left by one of Ryker's friends, but there was no point in trying to explain that to Cyn. "What can you do for the kid? She doesn't look a day over eight or nine." Nate glanced around at the boy who stood in an open doorway across the hall. Recognizing him, Nate nodded. Bobby slipped back into the game room, si­lently disappearing.

"He came back last night." Cyn nodded toward where the boy had been standing. "More than likely, he's afraid of you after seeing your macho demonstration at the Brazen Hussy." She reached out, placing her hand on Nate's arm. "Why don't we go into my office and I'll tell you what our options are as far as your little waif is concerned."

The moment she touched him, he wanted to drag her out of this place and back to the beach. He wanted to be alone with her, to explore where that one simple touch could lead.

He followed her the few yards to her office, but just as they started in, a short, stocky man, wearing a suit and tie, approached them.

"Hello, Cyn. I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you on your return this morning, but I had a breakfast appointment with the Reverend Lockwood," Bruce Tomlinson said, placing his hand on Cyn's shoulder.

The moment the other man touched her, Nate wanted to knock his pale, immaculately clean hand off her. He wanted to issue a warning. But he didn't. Instead, he glared at the man.

"Bruce, I'd like you to meet Nate Hodges. He found a badly beaten little girl this morning and brought her to us." Cyn squeezed Nate's arm, smiling at him.

"Unfortunate. Unfortunate." Bruce made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue against his teeth and shook his head.

"Nate, this is Tomorrow House's director, Reverend Bruce Tomlinson." Cyn wasn't surprised at the tension she felt as she introduced the two men. It was only natural that two such opposite extremes of the male species would be wary of each other. The gentle, weak, condescending Bruce and the fierce, strong, proud Nate.

Bruce, ever the gentleman, held out his hand. Nate merely nodded, completely ignoring the other man's cordial ges­ture. "Mr. Hodges, I wonder if you'd mind giving me a few minutes alone with Mrs. Porter. I have an urgent business matter to discuss with her."

Beneath her hand, she felt Nate's arm tense. She couldn't take a chance on what response he might make. "Bruce, if you want to ask me if I've done anything about the ceiling, then I can tell you that a roofer will be here tomorrow." Cyn pointed toward the hole in the ceiling near the front en­trance.

Nate's gaze wandered over the gaping hollow. "What happened?"

"An old roof, rotting wood and too much rain this past winter," Cyn said. "We've needed a new roof for years, but just couldn't afford one."

"Then how are we going to pay a roofer now?" Bruce asked. "We don't even have enough money to pay this month's bills. Reverend Lockwood is very concerned. He says that it's a real possibility that the church will have to close us down."

"They've been saying that for the last six months," Cyn reminded him. "Look, Bruce, I'll find a way to cover the cost of roof repair, even if I have to pay for it myself."

"Oh, my dear girl, we couldn't allow it. You do too much already. Working here without a salary, donating every­thing for the game room—"

"Hush, Bruce! Go...go do some paperwork, and quit worrying so much. Everything will work out. Remember, the Lord helps those who help themselves. And I have every intention of finding a way to help us."

"Very well." Bruce gave Nate a cold, silent look. "Goodbye, Mr. Hodges." Then he walked away.

"Prissy little guy," Nate said, laughing. "I don't think he likes me."

"Probably not. Did you like him?" Cyn pulled on Nate's arm. "Let's go in my office so none of the kids will over­hear more than they already have."

Nate followed her into the surprisingly pleasant room. All the furniture was old, the metal desk, file cabinets and chairs were an army green. The walls had been painted a lighter shade of green, a very soothing hue. Open blinds covered the long narrow windows facing the street.

"Have a seat." Cyn pointed to one of the metal chairs.

Nate sat down, never once taking his eyes off Cyn. "How can you afford to work here without pay and to donate equipment for a game room?"

Cyn seated herself behind her desk. Not knowing how he'd take the news that she was independently wealthy, she hesitated. "Well, I—"

"Your husband leave you a bundle?" Nate asked. "What were you two doing with this place, playing social work­ers?"

Cyn straightened in her chair, took a calming breath and placed her clasped hands on top of her desk. "My husband wasn't wealthy. He was a dedicated man of God, a man who gave all his time and love to Tomorrow House."

"That must have been difficult for you, being the wife of a man who put you second in his life." Nate watched as her face paled, and knew he had struck a nerve.

Damn him! Cyn thought. But as much as she wanted to lash out at him and deny his accusations, she couldn't deny the truth. She decided it was best to make no comment on her marriage to Evan. "I was born into a wealthy family. My father is Senator Denton Wellington of Georgia. My mother was a St. Augustine Phillips. My grandfather pro­vided me with a substantial trust fund."

"La-di-da." He should have known. A woman didn't have the poise and strength and self-assurance Cyn Porter possessed without having had it bred into her. She had the kind of classy looks and dominating personality that only comes from having been raised with money. "Did your rich parents give you your nickname?"

"I beg your pardon?" Cyn glared at him.

"Oh, it's a cute nickname, but I just wondered if your family thought it suitable for someone so...so pure and sweet and virtuous. I mean, how many ministers' wives do you think are called Cyn? And how many work at a church shelter?"

"For your information, my younger brother gave me the nickname when he was only three and couldn't pronounce Cynthia. My rich parents thought the name was adorable. And my minister husband found it a constant source of amusement. Evan had a wonderful sense of humor."

"I imagine Evan was just about perfect in every way."

"I think we should confine our discussion to the little girl you brought here. Otherwise we're liable to exchange blows... verbal blows." Cyn leaned back in her chair, praying that her voice sounded more composed than she felt. She had no intention of discussing Evan with this man. She would not allow him to force her to admit that her marriage had been less than perfect, that often she had longed for a husband as dedicated to her as he'd been to his work—that she had needed a man with whom she could share life's burdens and not try to shoulder them all by her­self.

"I'm listening." Nate decided right then and there that the sooner he could get the hell away from Cyn and her blasted shelter full of emotionally starved kids, the better off he'd be. He didn't need to care about this woman or her damned bunch of hooligans. So what if his body craved her the way an alcoholic craves liquor. So what if he felt the deepest empathy for these kids because he'd once been one of them.

"A friend of mine, Dr. Reynolds, will check the child and see if she needs medical treatment. I can offer her a place to stay, get our volunteer psychologist to talk to her, try to persuade her to let us locate her parents."

"No police, remember," Nate said. "She'll run like hell if you push her too hard."

"I know. Believe me, we'll do all that we can to help her, but in the end, we can only do so much."

"Yeah." He stood up, walked to the door, then turned and faced her. "How much longer are you going to be stay­ing at your family's cottage?"

"Eager to get rid of your only neighbor?" she asked.

"Look, Cyn, this thing between us can't go any fur­ther." He grasped the doorknob in his big hand.

"Exactly what is between us?" She stood up, meeting his stare head-on.

"Cut the act, lady. We want each other. Badly." He noted that her cheeks were turning pink. "Now isn't the right time for me. I've never had anyone special, never wanted or needed anyone, and I sure as hell don't want to get in­volved with you, especially not now."

"Why not now?" she asked, then averted her gaze from his perusal, glancing down at the wooden floor.

"Like I've told you, I'm a dangerous man," he said, wishing that he didn't have to frighten her away. "And I have dangerous friends."

"You're not a criminal, are you?" she blurted out before thinking how the question would sound.

"No, Brown Eyes, believe it or not, I've always consid­ered myself one of the good guys."

Cyn walked around the desk, moving quickly toward Nate. Just as he opened the door, she placed her hand on his arm. His muscles hardened under her touch. "Nate?"

"Look, honey, if you're so hungry to get laid, why don't you ask Bruce? I'm sure he'd be delighted. Me, I don't have time to play house." He saw the startled expression on her face change to one of hurt, and he hated himself for having to say something so totally demeaning to her. But he had to make her stay away from him.

She dropped her hand from his arm and stood staring at him, willing herself not to cry as he turned and walked away. Suddenly tears gathered in her eyes. With the tips of her fingers, she swatted at them as if they were pesky flies.

While Cyn was trying to curb her tears and make some sense out of Nate's brutally insulting statement, she heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Nate's little ragamuffin coming toward her.

"Did he hurt you?" the child asked.

"Who, honey? What are you talking about?"

"That man. Nate. Did he hurt you? You're crying." The child walked over to Cyn, looking up at her with sympathy in her eyes.

"Oh, no, honey, he didn't hurt me." Cyn dropped to her knees, longing to reach out, take the child in her arms and offer her comfort.

"But you're crying." She reached out and wiped away a tear from Cyn's eye.

"We had a little disagreement, and he said something that hurt my feelings. That's all." That wasn't all, Cyn thought. Nate Hodges had been deliberately cruel. He'd wanted to make sure she left him alone. His ploy had been so obvi­ous, she'd have to be an utter fool to think he'd meant what he'd said. Something bad was going on in Nate's life, something so horrible that he didn't want Cyn involved. Didn't he realize that she was akeady involved, whether she wanted to be or not? Didn't he have sense enough to know that neither of them had any control over the way they felt?

The little girl stroked Cyn's cheek. "My name is Aleta."

Cyn smiled, reached out and gave Aleta a gentle hug. The child hugged her back. "Well, Aleta, how about lunch? I think I smell Mimi's apple cobbler."

She took Aleta's hand, led her toward the dining hall, then sat down beside her. Within a few minutes the room filled with children from the smallest eight-year-old to the biggest eighteen-year-old. Bruce joined them, said a prayer, then retreated to his office to eat lunch alone. Cyn knew that if Nate had stayed, he would have shared lunch with the kids.

Oh, Nathan Hodges, if you think you've seen the last of me, then you 'd better think again. On some instinctive level, Cyn realized that no matter how hard she and Nate might fight the attraction they felt for each other, neither of them could control it.

Chapter 7

Cyn sat at her desk, absentmindedly rubbing a pencil back and forth between her hands. Three days after returning to work half days, here she was still at Tomorrow House at three-thirty in the afternoon. Although there was more work to do than time to accomplish it all, she should have been out of here by noon, but she hadn't been able to concen­trate all morning. Indeed, she'd had difficulty keeping her mind on her job since her last unpleasant confrontation with Nate.

Mimi had offered a motherly shoulder to cry on, but even talking to Mimi hadn't solved her problem. She'd gone and fallen in love with a man totally unsuitable for her, a man who epitomized the one element she despised most in this world—violence. If she knew what was good for her, she would listen to Nate's warnings to stay away from him.

How had she allowed something like this to happen? She wasn't the type to do stupid, irresponsible things like fall­ing in love with a man she barely knew. Of course, she had to admit that she had always been susceptible to romantic fantasies—a real sucker for legends and myths and fairy tales. But, dear Lord in heaven, Nate Hodges was hardly a romantic hero. Far from it. He was no Sir Lancelot. No Romeo. And certainly no Cary Grant, Robert Redford or Kevin Costner. He was more the Genghis Khan-Jesse James type. A man like the bad-guy heroes so often portrayed by Humphrey Bogart, Clint Eastwood and Charles Branson.

Damn! Stop thinking about him. Cyn threw the pencil down on her desk, scooted back her chair and stood up. Gazing outside, she watched as people scurried along the sidewalks and the beginnings of afternoon work traffic clogged the street. Momentarily closing her eyes, she lis­tened to the soft, constant drizzle that dampened the cool April day.

Soon the view outside blurred as Cyn's mind focused on her memories of Nate Hodges, of the sight of him running along the beach. Every day for the past three days, she'd stood on her patio and watched him, waiting and hoping he would stop and talk to her. Once, on the first day, she had run out to him, calling his name. He'd stopped briefly, given her a hard look, and left her standing on the beach, feeling like an utter fool.

If he didn't want her, then why was she so certain that he did? She knew that Nate needed her, more than anyone had ever needed her. Why wouldn't he let her love him?

Don't do this to yourself. Concentrate on Tomorrow House, on the kids who so desperately need you. Think about Bobby and Aleta and the dozens of others who de­pend on you.

She wasn't sure what would become of Bobby. Since his return to Tomorrow House, he'd spent only one night, the other two he'd spent on the streets, doing God only knew what with boys like Casey. She'd tried everything she knew. Nothing worked. He was a good kid in a bad situation.

Aleta. Poor little Aleta. She was twelve years old, but didn't look it. She was a small, frail child, a little girl afraid of everything and everyone. After Callie had examined Aleta and assured Cyn that there was no permanent dam­age and her outward wounds would heal in a few days, Cyn's relief was short-lived. What on earth was she going to do with Aleta? If she called the police, Aleta would only run away again, so great was her fear of being returned to her abusive mother, a woman, Aleta had confided in Cyn, who stayed drunk almost all the time.

Tomorrow House was only a temporary solution to the ever-growing problem of runaway children. The institution had been founded to provide temporary food, shelter and assistance to the boys and girls who had no other place to go, no other safe haven, no other sanctuary from the hor­rid existence found on the streets.

A slight knock sounded on her door seconds before Bruce Tomlinson entered, a forlorn expression on his round face.

"I need to speak to you," he said. "I'm afraid the news isn't good."

"Then sit down, Bruce, and tell me what's wrong." Cyn motioned toward one of the folding chairs.

"No, no. Sit down if you'd like, but I'd rather stand." He moved nervously around the room, wringing his hands to­gether as his round head bobbed up and down. "Cyn, I just got off the phone with Reverend Lockwood. The council met this morning and... and, well, things don't look good for Tomorrow House."

She knew what he was going to say, had known it was in­evitable and had been dreading this day. "How bad is it?"

"Church funds are limited. They can't give us an in­crease of any kind this year. If.. .if we can't raise enough to cover the deficit, then the church will close Tomorrow House." Beads of perspiration dotted his pink forehead.

"How long?"

"If we can't raise enough to cover expenses for the next six months, the church will officially close Tomorrow House at the end of May." Bruce shook his head. "It's a terrible shame, Cyn. I know how much this place means to you, how much work and love you and Evan put into it."

Cyn leaned back against her desk, resting her hip on the edge. "Evan and I came here as newlyweds. Tomorrow House had just opened. Evan was the very first director."

Bruce came over and put a comforting arm around Cyn's shoulders. "Do you want to tell Mimi and the volunteers, or do you want me to? And what about the kids?"

She straightened her shoulders, tilted up her chin and gave Bruce a defiant look. "I'll explain the situation to Mimi and the others, but I don't want one word of this getting back to the kids. I'm not going to let the church close us down. I've invested ten years of my life in this shelter."

"But how on earth do you think you can raise that kind of money in a little over a month?" Bruce gave her a quick hug, then released her.

Cyn moved around her desk, sat down and began rum­maging through the bottom drawer. "More donations. We've got some millionaires who've contributed big money to this place. I'll just make a few phone calls and see if they don't want to be even more generous."

"Cyn, I think you're kidding yourself."

"Why don't you go on and do whatever it is you do this time of day," Cyn said. "And leave this problem to me. I promise you that Tomorrow House is not going to close its doors at the end of May or the end of this year or any other year."

"Very well." Bruce walked to the door. "If there's any­thing I can do to help, you'll let me know?"

"Of course." Wimp! Cyn thought, then chastised her­self for expecting more from Bruce than he was capable of giving. How often in the past four years had she wished that Bruce Tomlinson was half the man Evan Porter had been? If Evan was here, he'd be fighting the church's callous de­cision. Evan would have found a way to keep Tomorrow House open. But Evan wasn't here, so it was up to her to keep his dream alive.

"What's the matter with Brucie?" Mimi Burnside asked as she walked into the office carrying a tray, which she placed on Cyn's desk. "Expecting you to come up with the solutions to all our problems here at Tomorrow House?"

Cyn retrieved a thin manila folder from the bottom drawer, slammed the drawer shut and sat up in her chair, clutching the folder in her right hand. "Close the door, will you, Mimi?"

The big redhead walked over, closed the door, then pulled a folding chair up to the desk. "This is serious, isn't it? Mary Alice told me Bruce had been on the phone with Rev­erend Lockwood. Money problems again, huh?"

"Unless we can come up with enough money to cover the next six months' expenses, the church plans to close To-morrowHouse at the end of May." Cyn laid the folder down on her desk. "I've got to come up with some pretty hefty donations. And soon."

"I've seen this coming." Mimi handed Cyn a cup from the tray. "Here, drink some tea and we'll talk. And eat that sandwich. You didn't even take time out to have lunch to­day, and that's not like you. You usually have a healthy ap­petite."

"Too healthy." Cyn accepted the cup of tea. "I've had a lot on my mind today. Besides, I've been raiding the refrig­erator too much at night lately.''

"Well, it must be bad, whatever it is, to make you turn to food. Dare I tell you what I think you should do?"

"What are you babbling about?" Cyn sipped the tea, enjoying the warm sweet taste.

"That man, that Nate Hodges, he's got you running around in circles, honey child. And I say, if you want him, then go get him."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Mimi, that man is a total bar­barian. He's... he's in some kind of terrible trouble. All he wants is for me to stay away from him, and, believe me, that's just what I intend to do." Cyn knew she had lied to Mimi, but she couldn't lie to herself. If Nate Hodges called her this very minute, she would go to him.

"Easier said than done. 'Cause I think this thing is big­ger than the both of you. I think it's completely out of your hands." Mimi picked up her cup of tea and took a healthy swallow.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I? Look, honey child, I've lived a lot of years and known my share of men. Lust and love are two things folks just don't have no control over."

Cyn crinkled up her nose as if she'd suddenly smelled something unpleasant. "He isn't the sort of man I could build a future with. He's too... too—"

"Too much of a man?" Mimi asked. "Not the sweet, gentle, turn-the-other-cheek type you're so used to. But my guess is that when a man like Nate Hodges loves a woman, she's the most important thing in his life."

Groaning, Cyn cast her gaze heavenward. "Why did I ever trust you with so many of my deepest, darkest secrets? I should have known you'd use them against me when I was at my weakest. You're the only person I ever told about my jealousy of Evan's dedication to Tomorrow House."

Mimi took another hearty sip of tea, then set her cup down on the tray. "Because, like you, I'm the mother-to-the-world type. Even strangers tell us their problems. Be­sides, we're friends who can trust each other. There's noth­ing wrong with a woman wanting to come first in her man's life. We all need to be loved."

"Even Nate?" Cyn asked, clutching her cup in both hands.

"That man definitely needs you, honey child."

"He thinks he doesn't need anyone. He's so strong, so capable of taking care of himself. Maybe he doesn't need me. Besides, it doesn't matter. We're all wrong for each other. He's nothing like Evan."

"I like him," Mimi said. "He's more man than Evan ever was. Just the kind of man a strong, caring woman like you needs. I'd say you two are perfect for each other."

"Mimi—"

"He's gone wanting for a long time. It shows in his eyes. He's like the kids that come here. Ain't nobody ever loved him the way he needs to be loved. And you, Cynthia Ellen Porter, have got the kind of heart that could heal that man's soul."

Cyn didn't like the thoughts that Mimi's words created in her mind. The legend said that someday a warrior in need of peace would come to the beach, to the old mission, and would find solace in the arms of a woman, the only woman on earth capable of giving his heart and soul sanctuary.

"I want to change the subject. I don't have time to try to figure out why Nate and I met now, when he's involved in something he won't talk about and I've got Evan's dream to save."

Puckering her lips into a frown, Mimi grunted. "What can I do to help?"

"Just keep being my friend. Keep putting up with me." Cyn tapped her slender fingers on the manila folder.

"What have you got there?" Mimi asked.

"A list of all our contributors." Cyn opened the file folder. "I plan to see each one of our major contributors and ask for...no...beg them for another donation."

"I suppose you plan to hit your father up first thing?"

"I know I can count on Daddy." Cyn lifted the list from the folder and scanned the pages quickly, reading out the names of the people who'd donated over a thousand dol­lars.

Cyn's eyes focused on one name. She didn't remember ever meeting the man, but she knew that for the past five years he had been Tomorrow House's largest contributor. "This is who I'll contact first. He's donated ten thousand dollars every year for the past five years."

"Who in the world has that kind of money to give away?"

"Ramon Carranza. I'm going to call and try to set up an appointment with him."

"I've heard of that guy," Mimi said, thumping her cheek with her index finger. "My friend Georgia, who lives in my apartment building, has a nephew who works for this Car­ranza. Waylon is the gardener, and he told Georgia that his boss was a very wealthy man. Got money invested in just about everything, and he's involved in a casino out in Ve­gas and another in Atlantic City. And the dog tracks."

"He's probably a millionaire and needs the tax write-off large donations can provide for him."

"Rumors are that he was once a very big man in Miami, back when the Cubans ran things, before the Colombians took over."

"My goodness, Mimi, you sound like an expert on Flor­ida crime," Cyn said.

"Naw, I'm just an old woman who likes to gossip. Peo­ple like this Carranza guy make for interesting conversa­tion."

"Well, at this point I'm willing to give Ramon Carranza the benefit of the doubt. No one knows for sure how he made his money. We don't really know that he's a crime boss, do we? And in a way it's only fitting that bad money should do some good."

"My guess is the old man is trying to soothe his con­science before he dies. Probably thinks he can buy his way into heaven."

"He's an old man?" Cyn asked. "How old?"

"Nearly eighty. Waylon told Georgia that he ain't got nobody. No children, and his wife died years ago."

"He lives alone?"

"Except for the servants and his bodyguard," Mimi said.

"Bodyguard?"

"Well, he is very rich."

"I suppose you're right. I just hope I can persuade him to share those riches with us." * * *

When she exited Interstate 1 directly behind the big black limousine, Cyn wondered who would be visiting Sweet Ha­ven in such opulent style. Her curiosity peaked when she noted that the limo turned off onto the beachfront road. As she followed the huge, slow-moving Caddy, Cyn's puzzle­ment increased when the vehicle passed her cottage and pulled up in front of Nate's house.

Cyn parked in her drive and got out, balancing the paper grocery bag on one hip and her briefcase and purse on the other. She couldn't help but stare across the road at the enormous man getting out of the driver's side of the limo. She didn't think she'd seen such a mountain of a man ex­cept on TV wrestling. The stranger wasn't wearing a chauf­feur uniform however, but a tailored, dove-gray, three-piece suit. Even at this distance, she could make out the man's strong Hispanic features.

Stepping up on the front porch, she readjusted the gro­cery bag, then inserted her door key in the lock. As soon as she heard the opening click, she glanced again across the road. The gargantuan man stood at Nate's front door. Who on earth was he? And why had he come to see Nate? Could this man possibly be the dangerous enemy of whom Nate had spoken?

Giving the door a push with her hip, Cyn stepped inside, dropping her purse, key ring and briefcase on the nearest chair. Clutching the paper bag in her hand, she started to­ward the kitchen, stopped dead still, turned around and walked back to the open door. Peering outside, she took one more look across the street.

Nate stood on his porch talking to the big stranger. She was too far away to hear even the sound of their voices, and she couldn't make out the expression on either man's face. Suddenly, Nate shoved his front door open and waited un­til his guest entered before returning inside.

Cyn slammed the door and made her way to the kitchen. She placed the paper bag on the table and rummaged through it, removing the perishable items first. All the while she put away her groceries, Cyn kept thinking about Nate's visitor.

Enough already! she told herself. You've got better things to do than worry about your unfriendly neighbor. And un­friendly was exactly what Nate had been the last three days.

After a light supper of tuna salad, Cyn poured herself another glass of iced tea, put on a Patti Page tape and set­tled down on the over-stuffed chintz sofa in the living room. Picking up the manila folder, she pulled out the contribu­tors list, her gaze immediately focusing on the name she'd circled in red. Memorizing the number, Cyn dialed her portable phone.