This Side of Heaven

A female voice answered. "Ramon Carranza's residence. May I help you?"

"Yes, this is Cynthia Porter. I'd like to speak to Mr. Carranza about Tomorrow House in Jacksonville."

"Very well, Ms. Porter. Please hold."

Cyn gave a silent prayer of thanks that she'd had no trouble getting through to Ramon Carranza. She waited and waited and waited. Finally she began tapping her fingers on the sofa's armrest, patting her foot to the gentle rhythm of the music and even humming along with the tune.

"Hello, Señora Porter. This is Ramon Carranza. How may I help you?" The voice was strong and deep and only slightly accented.

"Mr. Carranza," Cyn said, her own voice breathless. "I'm the assistant director at Tomorrow House in Jackson­ville."

"I'm very familiar with Tomorrow House. I wholly sup­port your efforts to help young runaways."

"That's wonderful, Mr. Carranza, and we're extremely grateful for your generous yearly donations." Take it slow and easy, she cautioned herself. Just use your feminine charm and don't push so hard.

"But surely you are calling for more than to thank me." The tone of his voice had grown lighter, less formal.

"As a matter of fact, I am. You see, if we can't raise a substantial amount of money before the end of May, the church plans to close us down, and I simply can't let that happen. I know it's presumptuous of me to be pleading with someone who's already been more than generous—"

"Señora Porter, I would like to invite you to have brunch with me tomorrow, here at my home. I would be delighted if you can find the time to accept my offer."

"Delighted...lunch...tomorrow...at your home?" God, she knew she was babbling, but his invitation had been so unexpected, so totally out of the blue.

"May I take that as a yes?" he asked, amusement clearly in his voice.

"You most certainly may," Cyn said. "What time?"

"Shall we say around ten-thirty?"

"Ten-thirty would be fine."

"Will you need the services of my chauffeur?"

"No, thank you." For a split second her mind wandered to the limo parked across the road. Did Ramon Carranza's chauffeur drive a big, black Caddy, too? "I'll drive myself. And... thank you for agreeing to see me."

"It would be no problem for my chauffeur to come for you. Just give me your address."

"I'm staying at my family's beach house in Sweet Haven right now, Señor Carranza. It's on the other side of no­where. The only two cottages out here are mine and Nate Hodges's across the road."

"Living in such isolation, I hope your neighbor...this Señor Hodges... is a man you can count on for assis­tance?"

Clearly his comment was a question, and Cyn found his fatherly concern endearing. "Oh, believe me, Nate is defi­nitely a man I could turn to if I were in trouble."

"Nate? Then he is a friend of long acquaintance, yes?"

"Actually, no. We only met recently. He just moved into the house across the road a few months ago."

"It is always good to make new friends."

"Yes," Cyn said with a sigh, thinking how she would hardly describe her relationship with Nate as friendship. "It was kind of you to offer to send your chauffeur for me, but it will be easier all around for me to just drive myself."

"Very well, then. I'll be looking forward to meeting you, Señora Porter."

"Yes. Thank you, thank you so much." Cyn punched the off button on the telephone, held it up against her cheek and smiled. She had a lunch date with a man who could solve all of the shelter's problems. Somehow, some way, she was go­ing to make a good impression on Ramon Carranza and sweet-talk him into becoming Tomorrow House's savior.

Now, if she could only figure out a way to solve her other problem, she thought as the tossed the phone onto the sofa and got up to walk over to the front windows. The limo was still parked at Nate's house. Dammit, why had that infuri­ating man come into her life? Even if he were willing for them to explore their feelings for each other, he'd made it perfectly clear that he wasn't interested in a permanent re­lationship with a woman. Well, if she could charm thousands of dollars from a man rumored to be a former Miami crime boss, then who was to say she couldn't teach a hardened warrior how to love? * * *

Nate stood in the middle of his den eyeing the man standing directly across from him. Hell, he hadn't seen a man that big since Sonny Rorie, a survival instructor from his days at Coronado, that do-or-die time when he'd been a SEAL recruit.

"You said you had news of Ryker?" Nate asked, won­dering just who the hell this guy was, one of Ryker's front men or some agent he didn't know. From the looks of him, Nate's first guess would have been a sumo wrestler.

"I do," the man said, his voice laced with a slight Span­ish accent.

"Who are you?"

"Emilio Rivera."

Nate widened his almond-shaped eyes, a questioning frown wrinkling his smooth forehead. So, he thought, this is Ramon Carranza's bodyguard. "Where did you get your information?"

"My employer has his sources," Emilio said.

"And just who is your boss?" Nate asked.

"I am sure that your friend, Señor Romero, has already informed you of my employer's identity."

"Maybe you should inform me."

"Very well. Ramon Carranza has sent me to tell you that your enemy, Ian Ryker, has left Miami and is en route to St. Augustine."

"I've been expecting him, so this really isn't such urgent news." Nate noticed the big man flinch, his jaw tighten.

"Ryker already knows your exact location. We estimate that in approximately three days, he will make his move on you."

"Just what is Carranza's stake in all this? And why the hell should I believe anything you tell me?" Nate didn't like puzzles, especially not ones that involved his life.

"Señor Carranza is a very wealthy and powerful man. He has instructed me to tell you that everything he has is at your disposal if you wish to simply disappear. Ryker has signed your death warrant, Nathan Hodges. If you stay here, one of you will die."

Why would Ramon Carranza offer him the means by which to escape Ryker? Nate wondered. The man obvi­ously had something to gain. Or perhaps it was all some elaborate trap. Maybe Carranza liked to play games as much as Ryker did. "What is your boss's interest in me and Ry­ker? What possible reason would he have to want to help me?"

"If you wish to start a new life in another country, with a new identity, of course, we can arrange for the woman to join you," Emilio said.

"What did you say?" The tension in Nate's stomach wound tighter and tighter until it spread through his whole body.

"Señora Porter. If you wish for her to join you—"

Moving with the speed of an attacking leopard, Nate pulled his knife to the other man's throat.

Emilio, seemingly undisturbed by Nate's aggressive re­sponse, stood perfectly still. "You can put your knife away, Señor Hodges, I mean you no harm. But you must know that if we found out about Señora Porter, Ryker will find out about her, too."

"There is nothing to find out about. She's my neighbor. I hardly know her." Hell, how had this happened? Nate asked himself. The one thing he hadn't wanted was to in­volve Cyn in his sordid battle with Ryker. "Tell your boss that I don't run from a fight, that I'm ready for Ryker."

"And Ryker is ready for you," Rivera said. "A smart man would accept my employer's offer."

"Tell Señor Carranza, thanks, but no thanks. I'll take care of my problems, my way." Nate had no idea what Carranza's stake in all this was, but there was no way he would trust any acquaintance of the Marquez family. Car­ranza was his enemy as surely as Ryker was. Nate had no doubts about that.

"Very well. We thought as much." Emilio stared down at the knife Nate still held at his throat. "Would you mind?"

Slowly, cautiously, Nate lowered the knife. "You still haven't told me why your boss is so interested in me."

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

"Can't or won't?" Nate asked.

"There is no need for either you or Ryker to die," Rivera said.

"Is that what this is all about?" Nate asked. "Carranza is so afraid that I'll kill Ryker, he's willing to send me on a little all-expenses-paid vacation? Ryker must be very im­portant to your boss, or perhaps to some of your boss's friends."

"If you change your mind, feel free to contact me." Em­ilio Rivera smiled, the expression softening his tough, lived-in face. He handed Nate a business card. "I'll tell Señor Carranza of your decision."

"You do that." Nate watched his uninvited guest leave, not bothering to follow him to the front door.

Just what the hell was that all about? Nate wondered. Something was damned screwy here. Something just didn't add up. What connection did a retired Cuban businessman have with the new Colombian regime? Birds of a feather? Or did Carranza's connection to Ryker supercede his old enemy's association with the Marquez family? And why had Emilio's powerful employer kept tabs on Nate since his days in Nam? As a favor to Ryker?

Nate walked over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed. While he listened to the ringing, Nate looked at the card in his hand. The name and address of a local restau­rant was printed on the front. He flipped the card over. Scrawled in heavy black ink was a St. Augustine phone number.

"Yeah?" Nick Romero answered, his voice loud and clearly agitated.

"I've got a news bulletin for you," Nate said.

"What?"

"Guess who just paid me a visit."

Chapter 8

Nate sat in the cool stillness of his den, with only the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. He caressed the smooth blade of the straight razor he held. It was old, he knew, but exactly how old, he wasn't sure. Old enough to have belonged to his grandfather.

Closing the blade, he cradled the razor in his palm, then clutched it tightly. Had his knife collection started the day his mother had given this to him? he wondered. She'd placed it in his hand the last time he'd seen her, pale and weak in her hospital bed.

"This was my father's," she'd told him. "It belonged to his father, and he would have wanted you, his only grand­son, to have it."

Nate tossed the razor down on the metal trunk in front of the sofa as he stood up. He didn't think about his mother often, nor did he let his mind dwell on his tortured child­hood, his abusive uncle. But when he did, the hatred fes­tered inside him, feeding the loneliness and bitterness from which he couldn't escape.

In the thirty-six years since his mother died, Nate had been alone and unloved. A boy always on the outside looking in. A man whose untamed life had taught him brutal lessons about the dark side of humanity. But there was light in this world, something pure and good shining through all the dark horror. He had seen a glimpse of that light in his mother, and he saw it in Cynthia Porter. She was truly light to his darkness, joy to his pain, sweetness to his bitterness. She held the key that could unchain the heavy bonds hold­ing him prisoner in a cold, bleak and lonely existence.

After a lifetime of waiting for her, and not even realizing he was waiting, she had finally materialized. From out of his dreams, Cyn had entered his world, igniting the fires of a passion he had known only in the shadows of his fantasies. She was real, not some imaginary lover who had haunted him for so long. She was flesh and blood, and he wanted her as he had never wanted anything in his life.

But she could never be his. He didn't dare risk letting her into his heart. As long as Ryker lived, anyone close to Nate would be in danger.

Restless, anxiety and longing frazzling his nerves, Nate paced the floor, finally throwing open the door and walk­ing around the yard. In the distance, the ocean's steady heartbeat and the cries of an occasional gull echoed in his ears, creating a tune that blended perfectly with the vivid portrait of an isolated Florida beach, warm and damp after spring rain.

He knew he had to find a way to get Cyn to move out of her cottage, to leave Sweet Haven and return to Jackson­ville. After what Emilio Rivera had told him, he knew that Cyn's life was already in danger if she stayed here. If Car-ranza knew about Cyn, then no doubt Ryker would soon learn of her existence. He had to make sure that Ryker un­derstood the woman meant nothing to him. He couldn't al­low Cyn to be caught in the terror from his past.

He had to talk to Cyn, maybe even tell her just enough to persuade her to cooperate. She was proving to be a very stubborn woman. It had taken every ounce of his will­power the last three days to stay away from her. And the day she'd run to him on the beach, he had wanted nothing more than to lie her down in the sand and take her. Instead, he had given her a stern, disapproving look, then run away.

God, what it took for a man to reject a woman like Cyn! Maybe she didn't want to want him, but she did. He saw it in her eyes, those warm, rich brown eyes. Every time she looked at him, she told him she wanted him.

Would it be so wrong, he asked himself, to spend one day with her? It might be all they ever had, the only chance for him to find, even momentarily, an escape from the pain that ruled his heart. He could go to her now, ask her to be with him, and later, when he had absorbed some of her light into his dark soul, he would make her understand that, for her own sake, she would have to leave Sweet Haven. * * *

Cyn tapped her bottom teeth with the tip of her long fin­gernail as she scanned the pages of the paperback novel. Although she was having difficulty concentrating on the story, she was determined to finish the book. Reading was great escapism, and it had usually worked in the past to take her mind off her problems, but it wasn't working this eve­ning.

She couldn't stop thinking about Nate Hodges, about the black limousine and the mysterious danger surrounding the man she longed to help. Slapping the book closed and toss­ing it down beside her on the couch, Cyn clinched her teeth, released a loud huffing breath and balled her hands into fists.

"Damn. Stop doing this to yourself." Jumping up from the couch, she headed toward the kitchen. If a good book didn't work, then maybe food would.

"Why won't he let me help him?" Cyn asked herself aloud. "He's so alone and in so much pain, and yet he keeps shutting me out."

She placed her hand on the refrigerator handle, but be­fore she could open it, she heard several loud knocks com­ing from her front door. With her heart racing and her stomach swirling, Cyn rushed to the door, knowing before she saw him that Nate Hodges had come to her.

She swung open the door. His gaze met hers, his moss-green eyes pleading silently. She smiled. He looked so good, so very, very good. His jeans were old and faded but clean, and they fit his lean, muscular hips and legs like a snug, well-worn glove. His khaki-green cotton shirt encased his broad shoulders and chest tightly, then billowed out around his flat stomach and narrow waist. He had tied his hair back into the familiar ponytail. He looked big, rugged and dan­gerous. But in his eyes, she saw his soul, a dark, hungry soul in desperate need of light and nourishment.

"Nate."

He thought he'd never heard anything as beautiful as his name on her lips, and he knew he'd never seen anything as lovely as Cynthia Porter. Wearing a sheer yellow cotton blouse and skirt, with her golden-blond hair spilling freely to her waist and her flesh tanned to a tawny cream, she looked like a sunbeam—strong and bright and life-giving.

He wanted to bask in the warmth of her brown eyes, to reach out and draw her shimmering sweetness into his bit­ter heart.

"I need to talk to you," he said, thankful that she hadn't slammed the door in his face. Of course, he'd known she wouldn't. His heart had assured him that she would wel­come him.

"Come in." She stepped aside to allow him the space to enter her living room.

He hesitated. "Look, we both know that there's some­thing pretty strong going on between us, and... and I real­ize we can't just keep ignoring it."

"You're the one who's been trying to ignore it."

"Brown Eyes, I'd like nothing more than to make love to you, to explore the way I feel about you." He leaned to­ward her, placing one big hand on the doorframe. "But my life is complicated, too complicated to involve a woman like you."

"Then why are you here?" she asked, trying to disguise the catch in her voice, the disappointment in her heart.

"We can have this evening. That's all I can give you." He reached out and ran the back of his hand across her cheek, down her neck and chest to where her blouse covered her breasts. He wanted to say let me love you, let me drink my fill from your cup of life, let me find sanctuary in your arms.

"I don't understand." Her breath caught in her throat when his hand moved lower, down the front of her blouse, his knuckles raking across the small pearl buttons. "You keep...keep contradicting yourself. You say one thing, then do the opposite. You keep changing your mind."

He stopped his hand just below her left breast, spread open his palm and clutched her waist, pulling her toward him very slowly. "Come home with me. Give us this eve­ning, and I'll try to explain."

She would never understand it in any logical fashion af­terward, but her reaction to his request had nothing to do with rational thought. She swayed toward him, allowing him to enfold her in his embrace. She slipped her arms up and around his neck, standing on tiptoe to reach the band around his hair. With trembling fingers, she snapped the band, allowing his hair to fall freely down his neck and around his face.

He saw the hunger he felt reflected in her warm brown eyes, and he longed to take her mouth, to ravish her lips. But he didn't. He had to muster all his self-control. If he kissed her now, he'd be lost.

Rubbing her cheek with his, he held her to him, savoring the feel of her soft, womanly body. "Do you like steak?" he asked.

She cocked her head to one side, looked up at him and smiled. "See what I mean about saying and doing totally opposite things?"

"No contradictions," he said, loosening his hold on her. "My actions have been telling you that I want you, and what I'm trying to do with words is ask you for a date."

Cyn laughed, the sound deep and real and sweet. Her laughter filled his heart, warming the coldness, softening the hardness. "Are you inviting me to your house for a steak dinner?"

"Sort of." He released her completely, except for one slender hand that he held tightly. "I'm not much of a cook, but I can grill a steak, if you'll help with the potatoes and salad—"

"Do you like ice cream?" she asked, her whole body swimming with giddiness. She felt like shouting and sing­ing and dancing around and around. She was going to spend the evening with Nate Hodges. They were going to have a date—a real, honest-to-goodness date. Maybe there was hope for them, after all.

"Love it," he said. "Why?"

Tugging on his hand, she pulled him inside her house and led him to the kitchen. "I'll pack a basket of goodies to take over to your house. We'll fix ourselves a banquet."

He wanted to tell her that she was the banquet, a true feast for his lonely heart and tortured soul. And he would tell her—tonight. * * *

Nate sat on one end of the tan leather sofa, and Cyn sat on the other end. She had curled her feet up underneath her skirt; he had stretched his long legs out on top of the metal trunk. One of her Patti Page cassettes played on his stereo, the music and lyrics of "What'll I Do?" filled the ultra-masculine room.

They had shared a delicious meal, after-dinner drinks and discussions on subjects ranging from the weather to poli­tics. They'd even broached the subject of his boating busi­ness in St. Augustine, from which he'd said he was taking a leave of absence.

More than once she'd tried to steer the conversation around to his past, and every time he'd artfully dodged her questions. Finally she gave up and began entertaining him with stories of how her father had disapproved of practi­cally every boy she'd ever dated.

"Once I realized that no matter how perfect a boy was, my father was going to find something wrong with him, I figured out a way to make him appreciate the fine young man I'd been bringing home."

"And just how did you do that?"

"I started dating the absolutely worst boys in school."

"Who were the worst boys in school?"

"Oh, you know, the ones who rode motorcycles, wore an earring and had hair down to their shoulders." Playfully she reached out and flipped the end of his ponytail.

"Did your strategy work?"

"Of course. And it only took two perfectly awful dates before Daddy was asking about 'that nice young man' I'd dated a few weeks earlier."

"Such a manipulative female." He laughed, a genuine chuckle from deep inside. She made him feel good. Damned good!

"Not manipulative, just smart."

"And did you enjoy being a bad girl?"

"I've never been bad. I've always been a good girl. Ask anyone who's ever known me." She sat up straight, easing her legs out from beneath her skirt, inching them slowly to­ward Nate's where they lay stretched out on the trunk. "Cynthia Ellen Wellington Porter has always been a strong, sensible, levelheaded girl who could shoulder any burden, overcome any tragedy, and take care of anyone and every­one who needs her."

"And who takes care of Cynthia Ellen?" The moment he felt her leg touch his, he wanted to pull her close, entwining their legs in a sensual braid while their bodies joined in a passion neither could hide.

Cyn rested one of her legs atop his, the other cuddling beside it. "I take care of myself and everyone else. I have ever since my mother was killed in a plane crash when I was fifteen. I'm a take-charge person. I've been that way for so long, I can't be any other way."

"Didn't your husband take care of you?" Nate asked, wondering how a man could possess such a woman and not protect her as fiercely as he would the world's greatest treasure.

"Evan was a good man, but he was too busy taking care of all the kids at Tomorrow House to take care of me.'' Her eyes glazed over momentarily with a faraway pain, then brightened to their normal rich warmth. She felt as if she were betraying Evan's memory to criticize him in any way. It hadn't been his fault that he had never been able to give her the kind of possessive passion she had so desperately wanted.

Noticing Nate staring at her with a mixture of suspicion and understanding in his eyes, she tried to smile at him. "Besides, I didn't need taking care of. Haven't you guessed by now that I'm a mother-to-the-world type of person?"

"Mothers, even mothers-to-the-world, need husbands to take care of them." His own mother had desperately needed his father. She had been strong, strong enough to have and keep an illegitimate child in the morally judgmental fifties. But Grace Hodges had been so alone, so in need of—

"Nate, what's wrong?" Cyn asked, reaching out to take his hand, squeezing it tenderly.

"What?" He looked at her, his moss-green eyes slightly dazed.

"You looked so sad."

"I was thinking about my mother." He brought Cyn's hand to his lips, kissing it softly once, twice, three times. "She was a strong woman like you, but she needed some­one to take care of her sometimes and there was no one there for her."

"Your father?" Cyn felt his pain. It filled his eyes.

It marred his handsome face. He made a sound some­where between a groan and a snort. "I never had a father. I don't even know who he was. Anyway, it doesn't much matter. He's dead. He died before I was born."

"Oh, Nate, I'm so sorry." She held his hand even tighter, longing to take him in her arms and give him comfort. But she wasn't sure he would accept it, not right now when the pain was so great.

"All he ever gave her was me." Nate pulled away from Cyn's hold and stood up, his back to her. "A bastard child of uncertain heritage who never fit into her blue-blooded Anglo family."

Nate began to walk around the room as if movement alone would ease the tension from his big body. "His name was Rafael. She told me that much. I guess she had to, since she named me after him."

"Nathan Rafael." Cyn thought how well the name suited him, how perfectly it blended his mixed heritage.

"She said I looked like him, and I guess I must. I sure don't resemble anyone in her family, except for my green Anglo eyes."

"Your eyes?" Cyn asked as she stood up and went to him. "You have green eyes like your mother?" She touched his face with tenderness.

"Don't feel sorry for me." He stepped back, away from her touch. "I don't want your pity."

"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice qui­etly pleading.

"Nothing. Everything. Too much. More than any woman could ever give." He couldn't stand seeing the look in her eyes, the pure, undisguised love. He turned away, moving toward the windows. Didn't she know that if he took what she was offering, he would destroy her? Even if Ryker didn't pose an immediate threat, Nate knew he would still be the wrong man for Cyn. She was so gentle and caring, so filled with love for the whole world. And he was a man filled with bitterness, a man who had spent a lifetime fighting the re­alities of a brutal world far removed from Cynthia Porter's awareness.

Following him, she placed her hand on his shoulder. She wanted to tell him that she was willing to give him every­thing, all that was her, every beat of her heart, every fiber of her being, the very essence of her soul. Didn't he know she already belonged to him?

"Take a walk with me," she said. "Show me the old mis­sion again before it gets too dark to see inside." She wasn't quite sure why she'd made the suggestion, but somehow she knew it was the right thing to do.

Without turning around, he nodded. "No one knows for sure those old storage rooms were once part of a mission." Then he turned around, his face a mask of calm, hiding the emotions he was fighting to conquer. "Inside the sensible, levelheaded Cyn Porter is the soul of a romantic."

"Who, me?" She breathed a sigh of relief, knowing she could handle a cordial Nate much easier than a brooding man in pain. "Just because I love fairy tales and myths and want to believe in legends, you call me a romantic."

"Come on, Persephone. Go with me into the darkness." He held out his hand.

Cyn felt the instant chill, the shuddering anxiety that claimed her. His words held a meaning he had not in­tended. She reached out and took his hand, knowing that she would follow this man anywhere, even into the jaws of death—and beyond, to the depths of Hades or through the gates of heaven.

Twilight shadows fell across the earth while the fading colors of dusk painted the sky with muted tones of pink and lavender. A gentle evening breeze murmured through the trees and bushes, its cool breath caressing Cyn and Nate the moment they stepped outside.

"Is there no entrance to the mission inside the house?" Cyn asked when they stood in front of the arched doorway.

"I think there used to be, but someone plastered over it years ago. Probably long before your Miss Carstairs lived here."

Nate shoved the heavy door open, standing aside to al­low Cyn to enter first. Even though he didn't believe in an­cient legends and certainly not in ghosts, Nate felt the same curiosity here that he'd felt the first time he'd come to these rooms with Cyn. He couldn't quite pinpoint the source of his uncertainty, but he knew there was something here waiting for him, something he wasn't yet ready to accept.

Cyn stepped inside and stopped abruptly, hesitating until her eyesight adjusted to the darkness. Faint evening light seeped through the boarded windows and crept in from the open doorway. Slowly, cautious in her movements, Cyn walked inside, glancing around, searching for something, for anything, that could explain why this place drew her like a magnet. She'd felt it the time before when she'd come here with Nate.

She wasn't sure how she knew, she simply knew that once, long ago, something wonderful had happened here and something horrible. She trembled.

"Are you cold?" Nate asked.

"Don't you feel it?" she asked. "The joy. The pain."

Damn this place to hell and damn his crazy imagination. She'd asked if he felt it. Yes, hell, yes, he could feel it, but he didn't want to. "This is a damp, dark, musty old build­ing. You're letting that stupid legend make you imagine things."

She moved around the room, quickly, almost frantically, her breath coming in quick, ragged spurts. "They were married here, you know. The priest married them."

What was wrong with her? Nate wondered. She was star­ing at the back wall as if she saw more than moss-coated shell rock partially obscured by a stack of battered furni­ture and decaying cardboard boxes. He reached out, grab­bing her by the wrist. "Come on, Cyn, let's get out of here. Let's go for a walk along the beach."

"They died here," she cried. "He killed them both in this very room and dragged their bodies out onto the beach." Cyn fell against the wall, her hot, flushed face seeking comfort on the cool stone surface.

Just as her knees buckled and she began to sway, Nate caught her up in his arms and rushed outside. Deeply in­haling the clean evening air, he felt his chest rising and fall­ing with the heaviness of his breathing. The moment she'd said they died here, he'd known the ancient lovers had been killed in the mission—the Timucuan maiden and her Span­ish conquistador. But the images that had flashed through his mind had not been of long-dead lovers, but of Cyn and himself. And Ryker.

"Oh, Nate, you felt it, too, didn't you?" She clung to him, her slender arms draped around his neck, her fingers threaded through his hair.

"Cyn, don't do this to yourself." He carried her across the road and onto the beach.

"Are you saying you didn't feel them, feel their joy, share their pain?" she asked as he lowered her to her feet, allow­ing her body to slide down his slowly, sensuously.

"I'm saying that we both can't let our imaginations run wild." He wanted her. Now. His body was hard, pulsating, throbbing with desire. How could he answer her, how could he admit that even now, the passion flowing through his veins like an untamed river was more than one man's pas­sion? How could he tell her, without sounding insane, that he wanted to make love to her again, to find the fulfillment he had feund only in her body, to come home to her arms and find the sanctuary his soul had sought for so long?

"It's as if we've been together before," she whispered, clinging to him, her lips pressed against his chest where she was unbuttoning his shirt. "Oh, Nate, I'm scared."

"It's all right, Cyn. I'll never let anything or anyone hurt you." Tonight is all you'll have with her, he told himself. Take her, only if you're sure you can let her go afterward.

"It's not just the legend. There's more." She breathed in the deeply masculine smell of the big man holding her so protectively in his arms. "I'm not afraid for them. They died hundreds of years ago."

"Don't think about it, Brown Eyes." He lowered his mouth, brushing the top of her head with tender kisses.

"It's us. You and me and the mission. And this beach. Oh, Nate, tell me what kind of trouble you're in. You need me. I can help you."

He took her mouth with the savagery of a man pushed beyond the limits of his control. Holding her close, Nate conquered her lips with unrelenting pressure, impaling her soft moistness with his tongue. Without really knowing anything, she already knew too much. She had sensed the truth as surely as he had. If he couldn't find a way to pre­vent it, Ryker would kill them both inside the old mission and drag their bodies onto the beach... the way the ancient conquistador's enemy had done.

Was that how the ancient legend's prophecy would be fulfilled? he wondered, his heart aching with some un­known emotion, his body suffering the tortures of the damned. His need for this woman went beyond any normal desire he'd ever felt, and he seemed powerless to stop him­self from devouring her whole.

She moaned as her body quivered with response, push­ing, clawing, straining for closer contact. How could she endure much more? she asked herself. Never had such overwhelming desire consumed her. If she didn't mate with this man soon, she would die from the insatiable hunger.

They drank the sweetness of each other's lips, their tongues dipping, licking, thrusting in a parody of a more intimate act. He moved his hands over her in a frenzied ex­ploration, savoring each new curve, and yet remembering the feel of her as if he'd touched her a hundred times. She clung to him, her fingers in his hair, her nails scratching at his neck, his back, his shoulders.

Together they sank to the ground, their knees cradled in the gritty sand. He yanked open her blouse, popping the buttons in his haste. Lowering his head, he took one tight nipple into his mouth, sucking her through the sheer yellow lace of her bra. She arched her back and moaned from the sweet ecstasy that was building between her thighs.

Still kissing her, Nate shoved her onto the ground, strad­dling her, looking down at her, dying with the need to be inside her.

Cyn felt lost in a world of dreams, so often had she seen those moss-green eyes staring down at her, felt the throb­bing pressure of this special man needing to mate with her and her alone. But this was no dream, this was reality and he had promised her tonight, only tonight. No matter how precious this one night could be, would it be enough? Could she give herself to him and walk away as if nothing had happened? Could he?

"Nate," she whispered, her hands braced against his chest. She could feel the strong, powerful thud of his heart under her fingers.

"I want you," he said, his voice ragged with desire.

"Only for tonight?" she asked, unsure where she'd gained the strength to question their future.

Stunned by her inquiry in the midst of their lovemaking, Nate hesitated. Still straddling her, he gazed down into her warm brown eyes. "I'll want you forever," he told her truthfully. "But all we'll ever have is tonight. There's no future for us."

How could he tell her that soon, very soon, he would fight the last battle of his life with an opponent as skilled and deadly as he himself was? If he allowed her to stay with him, to become a part of him, then she would die as surely as she had in his dreams.

"I want you, Nate. I... I love you." She saw the fires ig­nite and burn in his eyes when she told him that she loved him. "But I want more. I want you to trust me enough to share your problems with me. I want you to let me help you."

Nate jumped up, grabbed her hands and jerked her up beside him. He reached out, taking her by the back of the neck, bringing her close. Bending over, he kissed her fore­head. "Go away, Brown Eyes. You want more than I can give you."

She stared at him, not knowing what to say or do. More than anything she wanted to tell him to make love with her, that tomorrow didn't matter, that nothing but the two of them and this moment mattered. But she couldn't.

He released her. "You'll find someone else, someone like your Evan. A man who owns his own soul.'' He turned and walked away.

"Nate..."

He didn't slow his stride, even though she kept calling his name over and over again. * * *

Cyn stood in her open front door looking across the road at the coquina-and-wooden house. The late-night rain had washed the earth, leaving the world outside coated with fresh moisture. Overhead, streaks of gold-kissed pink hinted at the dawn sunlight still hidden on the other side of the universe.

She hadn't slept even though she'd gone to bed. After hours of thinking and crying and praying, she'd gotten up. For the past thirty minutes she'd been staring across the road at Nate's house, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he sleeping? She doubted it. If he was hurt­ing as badly as she, he was probably wide-awake and curs­ing the day he'd met her.

Her fearless warrior had reached out to her last night, and she, in her weak need for permanence and fear of the un­known, had turned him away. She'd been a fool. She should have accepted what he offered, no questions asked, and had one perfect night to remember for the rest of her life.

Was it too late? she asked herself. If she went to him now, would he reject her?

Cyn tied the belt around her aqua silk robe, walked out­side and closed the door behind her. With her heart in her throat, the rapid beat roaring in her ears, she crossed the road.

Lifting the heavy metal door knocker, she announced her presence. No answer. Again and again she beat the knocker against the wooden door. Finally, she turned away, but couldn't bring herself to leave. With slow, purposeful strides, she moved along the arched portico to the back of the house. The first tentative rays of dawn light fell across the earth, kissing awake the lush, unkempt vegetation in Nate's garden.

She saw him, and sucked in her breath. He stood on the rock walkway in the garden, only a few feet from the house. The early morning breeze caressed his hair like a lover's hand, the long black threads whipping his cheeks. He was naked, only the wind and the morning sun touching his flesh as she longed to touch it.

His body held the scars of a warrior many times wounded in battle, but she knew that the deepest, most painful scars lay buried in his heart, and that unhealed wounds marred his soul.

Shivers of fear and longing swirled inside her, growing, moving, increasing in strength, as she stood silently in the dawn of a new day and brought the sight of Nathan Hodges, standing boldly, arrogantly naked, into her heart and into her soul. His body was big and bronzed, corded with thick, tight muscles, and it gleamed like polished metal, damp from the rain, slick and sleek. The only hair on his body was nestled around his powerful maleness, and its color matched the midnight black of the long tresses that touched his shoulders.

Never had she seen anything as beautiful as the man who stood before her, his very maleness beckoning to her, his masculinity calling to her to come to him, to give herself as a sacrifice to his desires, to match him thrust for thrust, hard strength to soft strength, man to woman, in a mating ritual that would join their souls forever.

Moving almost as if in a trance, Cyn went to him. Nate knew she was there moments before he actually saw her. He had felt her. Already, she had become a part of him. He waited while she moved forward, stopping an arm's length away. Never letting her gaze falter, she stared up at him.

After hours of restless tossing, he had gotten out of bed and come outside. He'd been waiting for her, knowing in his soul that she would come to him. The sensible, levelheaded Cynthia Porter wouldn't want to come, but romantic Cyn, who believed in fairy tales and myths, would be unable to resist the unearthly magnetism that had claimed them. They were doomed. Whether caught in the spell of some ancient legend or simply overwhelmed by their own sexual needs, Nate didn't know. But he did know that Cyn was his, she had always been his and she would be his forever. As surely as he needed air to breathe, he needed her.

He watched, transfixed by her beauty, while she untied her belt and slipped out of her robe, letting it fall to the rock walkway beneath her feet. The breeze tousled her hair around her face and shoulders and molded her thin, aqua gown to her round curves. Without saying a word, she reached up and lowered the straps of her gown, one at a time. They dropped down onto her shoulders. Her breasts swelled above the silky material, her nipples pressing against the softness.

When she reached up to tug on the bodice of her fitted gown, Nate stepped forward, pushing her hand away, re­placing it with his own. With a slow, gentle tug, he pulled the gown down to her waist, baring her full, rounded breasts. He ran the tips of his fingers down the length of her body, from neck to waist, letting his hand still momentarily when he touched her breast.

She moaned when he flicked her tight nipple with his fin­gernail. He jerked her to him, crushing her swollen, throb­bing breasts against his chest. She felt him, all of him, hard and hot and pulsating.

He was so big, so primitively male, that she shuddered with a maiden's fear of conquest, knowing that soon her body would accept the wild thrusts of his huge body.

He ran one hand down her hip, over her buttocks, kneading softly, clutching her soft flesh in his callused hand, bunching the silky fabric of her gown. With his other hand, he grasped her head, spearing his fingers through her golden hair, letting it ripple over his hand, his bare shoulder and arm.

Easing his hand lower and lower, he edged her gown higher and higher, until he was able to slip his hand be­neath and touch her naked skin.

She ached with emptiness, her femininity pulsing pain­fully with a need only this man could appease. "Please," she whispered, her lips parting on a sigh as his hand moved between her legs to caress her inner thigh.

"Tell me what you want." He maneuvered his fingers between her closed thighs, dipping inside her damp, sweet body. Her thighs parted, her knees melting.

"Make love to me." She struggled for breath, then lost it completely when he circled her throbbing need with his thumb and forefinger.

With one agile move, he jerked her gown down her hips, letting it puddle around her feet like a pale aqua pool. He could smell her heat, thick, heavy, female moistness wait­ing for him to lay claim to it. It was all he could do not to take her where they stood, not to plunge into her with all the violent need commanding his male body.

He kissed her then, his lips tenderly loving at first as he tried to control the desire raging inside him. She was ev­erything he'd ever longed for—and more. Deepening the kiss, his tongue boldly lunged and was met by the equally powerful drive of her tongue. Challenged by her forceful response, the seeds of a long dormant passion blossoming with an untamed fury, he lowered her down, down, down onto the soft, wet grass. With his knees straddling her hips, he gazed at her naked beauty, devouring her, drinking in the sight of her womanliness. Then he looked into her eyes-warm, rich, brown eyes that had haunted his dreams for twenty-five years.

He shook with desire, wanting her, needing her as he had never needed anything. He wanted to take her with all the savage wildness he barely controlled, but knew he mustn't allow himself that pleasure. No matter how strong a woman Cyn Porter was, she was also small and fragile and hadn't known a man's possession in a long time.

Nate prayed for the strength to take her gently, but the moment she touched him and called out his name, he knew he was lost.

She let her hand rest on his stomach, longing to lower it and take him within her grasp. ''Nate... Nate..."

In one swift, perfectly coordinated move, he entered her, his thrust hard and demanding, calling forth all the un­leashed passion in her soul. She cried out, so great was the pleasure of their joining, such pure, unforgettable rapture. She arched her body, lifting her hips to meet each vigorous lunge, a shattering crescendo of sensation taking over her body, spiraling out from her core, spreading into every nerve ending, every cell.

He lowered his head, his black hair caressing one breast while his mouth suckled the other. Tiny fissions of undi­luted ecstasy exploded within her. She writhed beneath him, arching higher and higher, seeking a closer joining.

Taking her hips into his hands, he lifted her against him and increased the tempo of their lovemaking. "You want more?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

"Yes... more." She clung to his back, her nails scoring his bronzed flesh with love trails.

"Deeper. Faster." His thrusts grew wilder, hotter, more intense.

"Yes!" she screamed. "Harder... harder..."

And he obeyed her command, giving her the depth of his hardness. Suddenly she cried out, tears of joy cascading down her cheeks. He listened to her moans of fulfillment, taking them into his mouth, savoring their sweet, undis­guised surrender. She was his once again, as she had been in his dreams, only the reality far excelled the dreams. He felt her shuddering release, her body tightening, clenching him like a tight fist. With one final, brutal stab, he fell headlong into climatic fulfillment. His groans echoed in the stillness of the early morning, their guttural eruption the sounds of a healthy male animal who had claimed his mate.

Cyn had never known such total wonder, such complete and utter satisfaction. Nothing in her life had prepared her for Nate Hodges's possession.

His big body lay over her, damp and hot and heavy. He raised himself onto his elbows, looking down into her dazed brown eyes. "Did I hurt you?" He knew he'd taken her with savage force, seeking his own pleasure while trying to give the same to her.

"No," she said, reaching up to touch his face, a face so dear to her. "But I am lying here in the wet grass and I'm getting cold."

He smiled. Standing, he pulled her to her feet and picked her up. She shivered, partly from the cool morning breeze on her damp flesh and partly as an aftershock from such unequaled fulfillment.

"Stay with me a few more hours." Holding her naked body against his, he stepped inside the house.

"Will you send me away then?" she asked, knowing the answer before he replied.

"I'll have to," he said.

"Let me help you. Let me stand by you through what­ever trouble you're in." She kissed his neck as her fingers laced themselves through his long hair.

"I don't want to talk about it. Not now. I want to make love to you again while I still can." He carried her down the long, dark corridor, kicked open his bedroom door and placed her on his rumpled sheets.

She opened her arms, taking him into her body, giving her lover, her fierce and lonely warrior, the safety he could find only within her embrace.

Nate took all she had to give, knowing he would never get enough. But for now, he was satisfied. For now he had found a sanctuary for his heart and soul.

Later, he would have to send her away. Even if these pre­cious moments were all they would ever have, he could sur­vive as long as he knew she was alive and safe. But if anything ever happened to her, if Ryker harmed her, then Nate knew he would be eternally lost. Cynthia Ellen Porter was his very soul.

Chapter 9

Cyn sat on the edge of the bed in Nate's sparsely deco­rated bedroom. She pulled the lapels of her aqua robe across her breasts, then tightened the belt. When she had awak­ened, she'd found her gown and robe on the wooden chair beside the bed. Nate, dressed in nothing but his cutoff jeans, had been standing by the window looking outside.

They hadn't spoken as their gazes met, and the hot pas­sion that had existed between them in the previous hours ignited once again. She'd been shocked by her own primi­tive need to have him touch her.

When he had approached her, she'd held up the sheet that barely covered her naked body.

"We need to talk before you leave," he had said. "I brought in your gown and robe from the garden. Put them on while I fix coffee."

He'd left her alone then, giving her time to think about what she had done and what she was going to do now. She loved Nate Hodges. That and that alone was the only clear fact in her mind. She had come to him last night, throwing caution to the wind, forgetting everything except the pas­sionate need to become his woman.

And now, he was going to send her away.

Common sense told her that she should go, leave him and find a way to overcome the overwhelming desire she felt for him. After all, he was hardly the kind of man she would have chosen for herself. He had spent almost all of his adult life as a navy SEAL, a professional warrior, a trained and highly skillful killer. By his very nature, Nate was a violent man. How could she ever reconcile herself to loving a man capable of destroying another human being with his bare hands?

And yet, how could she keep from loving him when every feminine instinct she possessed told her that Nate Hodges needed her, more than he had ever needed anyone or any­thing in his life?

Nate entered the bedroom. He handed her a mug filled with freshly brewed coffee. "Sugar and milk," he said.

Accepting the mug, she smiled. "Thanks."

He sat down in the wooden chair beside the bed. Their knees almost touched. Cyn readjusted her sitting position, moving her legs away from Nate's.

"Should I apologize for what happened?" he asked, looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction.

She stared down into the creamy brown coffee. "What happened between us was a mutual decision. I... I came to you because I couldn't stay away. And... and you—"

"Took you because I couldn't stop myself."

Jerking her head up, she glared at him, wondering if he regretted making love to her. "You make me feel vulnera­ble, Nate, and I don't like feeling that way. For as long as I can remember, I've always been the one in charge, the strong one, the one others came to for help, depended on to solve their problems."

"You can't help me, Cyn."

"So you keep telling me." She took a sip of her coffee, then circled the warm mug with both hands. "But knowing you don't want my help doesn't stop me from wanting to give it to you."

"For once in your life, let someone else take care of you. Let me make sure you're safe." He bent over slightly in the chair, dropping his hands between his spread knees. "I can't allow you to become important to me. It would put you in danger."

"I don't understand."

"The less you know, the safer you'll be."

Cyn jumped up, the contents of her mug splashing onto her silk robe, staining the aqua material with wet tan splotches. She flung the mug, coffee and all, across the room. With a splintering crash, the ceramic cup broke into pieces and the muddy liquid splattered the wall, then spread down onto the floor.

"It's too late to shut me out of your life. Haven't you got sense enough to realize that?" She stood in front of him, her intent gaze fixed on his startled face. "I'm in love with you. Whether I want to be or not. Do you think I go around sleeping with men I don't love?"

Nate stood up. When he tried to touch her, she shoved against his chest. "Of course I don't think you—"

"Maybe what we shared didn't mean anything to you. Maybe you can just send me away and go on with your life." Cyn sucked in the soft inner flesh of her mouth, closing her teeth downward in an effort to keep herself from crying. "I hate your damned knife collection." She jabbed her index finger into his chest. "I despise the fact that you spent twenty years in the SEALs, doing God only knows what." She jabbed him again. "You're a man who uses violence to settle his disputes. I've seen you in action. You're a deadly weapon."

Her words wounded Nate more surely than any knife in his extensive collection could have. Her every accusation was right on target. How could he defend himself to a woman as loving as Cyn? Why should he even try?

He grabbed her by the shoulders so quickly that she didn't have time to evade his capture. She struggled momentarily, then stopped trying to pull away from him.

She met his fierce stare head-on. "Loving a man like you goes against everything I've ever believed in, and yet I can't change the way I feel. Something inside me tells me that you need me, and yet you keep trying to send me away. I think I have a right to know why."

Tightening his hold on her shoulders, he pulled her closer, so close her breasts brushed his naked chest. She trembled with desire from the intimate contact. Heat spread through his body. "I don't need you, Brown Eyes. Not the way you think.'' Hell, he knew he was lying to her, but he couldn't lie to himself. He needed Cyn Porter as surely as he needed air to breathe, but the last thing she needed was him—a man who could bring danger and death into her life.

Cyn took in quick, ragged breaths as she stared at Nate, love and longing in her eyes. "Am I making a fool of my­self?" she asked, her voice trembly with tears.

"We're both fools," he told her, his own voice deliber­ately hard and controlled. He dropped his hands from her shoulders. "We've allowed our hormones to get us into a dangerous situation."

"There's more between us than overactive hormones." Stepping away from him, she tilted her head slightly, then stuck out her chin, a defiant, determined look on her face. "What we shared went beyond good sex."

Nate fought the urge to take her in his arms, the over­whelming desire to admit to Cyn that what he felt for her went beyond anything he'd ever experienced, even in his dreams. "The sex was good, wasn't it?"

"Don't do this, Nate. Don't try to alienate me by playing the chauvinist male.''

"But that's exactly what I am. I'm no Prince Charming, no answer to a maiden's prayers. You said yourself that loving me goes against everything you've ever believed in."

"What kind of trouble are you in?" she asked, taking a tentative step toward him, knowing that he was deliberately trying to be insulting enough to make her run.

He held out a restraining hand, a visible reminder that he didn't want her to touch him. "There's a man I knew years ago. In Nam." Nate walked across the room, wanting to put physical space between him and the woman who was so de­termined to help him. Dear God, how much he wanted to accept what she was offering. But he couldn't.

"A part of your violent past?" Somehow she knew that whatever danger he faced, he intended to confront it by calling upon his skills as a warrior. Live by the sword, die by the sword flashed through Cyn's mind.

"Yeah," Nate said, hating the look of condemnation he saw in her eyes. "Something happened between me and this man, something you don't need to know about." How could he ever tell Cyn the whole story and expect her to under­stand? Without knowing any specific details of his past, she was already repulsed. If she knew the bloody facts, she would hate herself for loving him.

"You can tell me anything. I'll understand." She went up behind him, wanting to put her arms around him, longing to ease the pain she heard in his voice, saw in his slumped shoulders. If only she could help him put his violent past behind him, and teach him how to live in peace. Surely he could change. All he needed was for her to show him how. Violence didn't solve anything; it only destroyed life.

"The less you know, the better," he said.

"Then tell me what I need to know." She reached out, allowing her hand to hover in mid-air, almost touching his tense back.

"This man, Ryker, swore he'd kill me someday, swore revenge. For the past five years, I've thought he was dead, that I didn't have to be constantly looking over my shoul­der, waiting for the day of reckoning." Nate turned, facing her. "He's alive. He's, on his way to St. Augustine, and when he finds me, he's going to try to kill me."

She touched him then, unable to stop herself. He grabbed her hand where it caressed his cheek, and buried his mouth in her open palm.

"Oh, Nate. Nate..." Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks.

Suddenly he pulled her into his arms, nuzzling her neck, whispering her name. "If you were my woman, you'd be in danger. I can't let that happen." He wouldn't allow any­thing to happen to Cyn. He knew as surely as he knew the sun rose in the east that this woman was his soul. If she died because of him, he would be eternally lost.

"I think it's too late, Nathan Hodges. I'm already your woman, and we both know it." She held on to him with the fierce protectiveness of a mother lion safeguarding her cubs, of a strong female willing to go the limit to take care of her mate.

"But Ryker doesn't know it. He must never know. You have to get out of my life and stay out. For both our sakes." Nate remembered that Ramon Carranza had found out. How could he hope to keep her safe from Ryker when he had such powerful and ruthless friends? Nate released her, and when she refused to let him go, he pulled away.

"Can't the police help you? Surely they won't allow a man to just hunt another man down like an animal."

"Brown Eyes, you don't understand, you couldn't even begin to imagine. We're talking about jungle warfare here. We're talking about two trained killers who are evenly matched. This has nothing to do with any kind of civilized law you know."

The blood ran cold in her veins. No, she had never known anything about that kind of world, those kind of men, and yet, somewhere deep inside of her, she understood. "Two warriors who will fight to the death."

The look in her eyes ripped into his gut. He wanted to take her back into his arms, to reassure her that if he came out of this alive, he'd come for her. But he knew better than to promise anything. "What do I have to say or do to make you understand that if Ryker finds out about you, he'll use you to get to me?" A kaleidoscope of images flashed quickly through Nate's mind. Ryker's icy blue eye. His tri­umphant grin. Cyn's lifeless body in Ryker's arms.

"Nate..." She reached out for him.

"I'm sorry, Brown Eyes, sorrier than you'll ever know."

Although she longed to touch him, to reassure him with her embrace, she realized he wanted her to stay at arm's length, that he was fighting the desire to keep her with him.

"You're approaching this problem the wrong way," she said. "Violence can't be the only solution. This man, this Ryker, can't fight you if you're not willing. If what he's seeking is a confrontation, then don't give it to him."

"Dammit, woman, do you think all I've got to do is tell him I don't want to fight? When a man is intent on killing you, you have only one choice, and that's to defend your­self."

"Let the police take care of Ryker. That's their job. Pro­tecting law-abiding citizens from criminals." She clenched her fists at her sides in an effort to keep from touching him.

"The way they protected your husband?" Nate asked, knowing full well that his words would hurt her, but deter­mined to make her realize the naivete of her thinking. "And what about the boy who killed Evan? There are times when a man has to take care of himself."

A knot of unshed tears lodged in her throat. Her hands jerked. She balled her fingers tightly against her palms, her nails cutting into the soft flesh. "Damn you, Nate Hodges. You know Evan was nothing like you. His situation and yours have nothing in common. He didn't seek out vio­lence, it was thrust upon him."

Didn't she realize, Nate wondered, that despite his brutal past, he wasn't seeking danger; it was seeking him. "Your husband chose to try to help a boy addicted to drugs. He put himself and you in danger by doing that."

"No." She placed her hands over her ears and turned from Nate as tears escaped her eyes, falling in thin, warm streams down her cheeks. As quickly as she had shunned the sight of him, Cyn spun around, her damp eyes glaring. "Evan was the most gentle man I've ever known, the most caring. He always put the needs of others before his own. He... he was as opposed to violence as I am. He didn't re­alize he was in danger, that he was putting me... Darren Kilbrew brought violence into our lives. His whole life had been filled with it, just like yours has been."

"I didn't spend twenty years as a criminal, killing inno­cent people. I was one of the good guys, dammit. I worked for the government, defending this country. Just like the police, my job was protecting others, the people of this country." He saw the look of disbelief in her eyes, the lack of understanding. Could he ever make her realize that countries, as well as individuals, often had little choice in choosing violence over peace. "When danger threatens, when violence is thrust upon you, then you have to fight in order to survive. Ian Ryker will give me no choice."

"I don't think you want one," Cyn told him.

"That's not true."

"Then let me help you." She watched him carefully, praying for some sign of agreement. "Together we can find a way. You don't have to meet him on a field of battle. You don't have to fight a duel to the death."

"You don't understand," Nate said. Cyn, in her inno­cence, had no knowledge of a man like Ryker. Despite the fact that her husband had been brutally murdered, she didn't know anything about professional killers. "Darren Kilbrew was a kid half out of his mind on drugs. The drug was as much Evan's murderer as that boy was. Ian Ryker is different. He kills for the sheer pleasure of it, and the longer he can make his victim suffer, the better he likes it."

"What about Nick Romero?" Cyn asked. "He's some sort of government agent, isn't he? Let him or whatever agency he works for take care of Ryker."

"Romero is already involved, but that's not going to solve my problem. Ryker wants me. I can't let someone else fight my battle."

"You don't want to."

"All right," he admitted, "I don't want someone to fight for me, to die for me. This is between Ryker and me. I don't want any innocent bystanders getting in the way."

"Is that what I am, an innocent bystander?"

Hell, how did he answer that question? he wondered. Of course she was more than a bystander. She was his woman, and more than anyone else, she was in danger. "Yeah, Brown Eyes, that's exactly what you are."

She tried to see beyond the words, past the cool, unemo­tional statement, but his expression gave away nothing. He seemed totally unmoved by her tears, her offer of help and her profession of love.

"I have a ten-thirty appointment this morning," she said as she walked past him, not giving in to the impulse to take one final look at him in the hopes that some emotion would show on his face.

By the time she reached the front door, she realized he wasn't following her. And she was glad, she told herself. She had fallen in love with a man incapable of loving her in re­turn. Not once, not even when they had shared the most passionate intimacies, had Nate told her he loved her. She had allowed her own sexual desire and the fantasy spell of an ancient legend to overrule her common sense.

Nate was right. She should get out of his life and stay out. For both their sakes.

Cyn opened the front door. Just as she stepped outside, she heard him coming up behind her. Hesitating momen­tarily, she waited for him to touch her or to say something to her. He did neither. Turning her head, she caught a glimpse of him in the doorway. Their gazes met for one brief instant before he closed the door. * * *

Cyn jumped out of her van, glanced down at her watch and groaned. She was fifteen minutes late for her brunch date with Ramon Carranza. She hoped the wealthy Cuban was lenient with tardy guests.

Standing on the stone walkway, she scrutinized the Span­ish-style mansion. It was exactly what she had expected. A two-story cream stucco house with a red tile roof, arched windows and doors, and a lawn filled with palm trees.

Stepping up, she hesitated briefly as she studied the beautifully carved wooden door. She had to make a good impression. She had to convince this man to help Tomor­row House. Of course, he wasn't her last hope, but he was her best chance. A man with enough money to donate ten thousand dollars a year to a small shelter for runaway teens had enough money to solve her problems, at least tempo­rarily.

Cyn rang the doorbell. Instantly, a young woman opened the door and smiled a friendly greeting.

"Señora Porter?"

"Yes." Cyn walked inside the enormous foyer. If she hadn't been raised in her father's ancestral home in Savannah, she would have been awestruck by the grandeur of Ramon Carranza's home. But Cyn was quite accustomed to fine antiques, impeccable decorating, homes with mu­seum-style quality.

"Please follow me," the maid said in slightly accented English as she led Cyn down the hallway and out onto a back patio.

Spring flowers, in large concrete pots, surrounded the wide expanse of open courtyard just beyond the patio. A glass table had been set with pristine white linen, sparkling china and heavy crystal.

"Please be seated," the maid said. "Señor Carranza re­ceived an important telephone call only moments ago. He will join you shortly."

"Thank you." Cyn sat down when the maid went back into the house.

She was grateful to the person who had called Ramon Carranza. Perhaps he wouldn't even be aware that she had arrived late.

The day was beautiful, she decided, looking up at the clear blue sky. Everything was fresh and crisp and caressed with Florida sunshine. The day should be perfect, but it wasn't. Not for her. She was in love with a man who didn't love her, a man totally unsuitable for her.

She remembered the first time she had awakened this morning. Nate had been awake and lying beside her, propped on his elbow while he watched her. He had kissed her, held her, and made slow, sweet love to her. How could a man give of himself to a woman the way Nate had given to her and not love her?

"Señora Porter," a deep, throaty voice said. "I hope you don't mind eating outside. I know it is only the first day of May, but after last night's rain, the world is so clean and fresh and bathed in the sun's warmth."

Cyn glanced up at the tall, elegantly dressed man who had just stepped out onto the patio.

He took her hand, kissing it with Continental flair. "You are even more beautiful than I had imagined."

"Why, thank you, Señor Carranza. I'm flattered." Cyn felt awed at the sight of the elderly gentleman. She wasn't quite sure what she had expected, but it certainly hadn't been this handsome man, so tall, so broad-shouldered, so incredibly suave with his mane of white hair and his thick white mustache. His black eyes sparkled with intelligence and curiosity.

"You must call me Ramon, as all my friends do." He sat, taking the chair opposite her. "And you and I are going to be good friends, si?"

"Yes, I hope so." Cyn thought there was something fa­miliar about this man. Perhaps she had seen his picture in the paper.

"I hope you like seafood, Señora Porter." Ramon waved his hand, and as if on cue, a plump, dark-haired woman appeared carrying a huge serving tray.

"I love seafood." Cyn's mouth watered at the sight of the scrumptious shrimp cocktail the woman set before her. "And please call me Cyn."

When he widened his eyes in surprise, an amused look on his face, Cyn laughed, then said, "My name is Cynthia, but all my friends call me Cyn."

"What a perfectly delightful nickname."

All through brunch, they discussed a variety of things. Everything from music to wine, but somehow the discus­sion kept coming back around to the fact that Cyn was liv­ing alone in Sweet Haven with only one close neighbor. It seemed of great interest to Ramon Carranza that Nate Hodges was a man Cyn could count on for protection. She simply didn't understand Señor Carranza's interest in her personal life.

"I came here to ask you for money, and yet we seem to have discussed everything except Tomorrow House." Cyn had enjoyed her meal and the charming old man's com­pany, but there was something in his persistent questions about Nate that bothered her. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"Ah, but it is a foregone conclusion that I will give you the money you need. I will give you a check to cover the expenses of your shelter for the next six months." Ramon sipped his wine, eyeing Cyn over the rim of his crystal glass.

"You will?" Cyn gasped. "But...but how did you know that I needed enough money for six months' expenses?"

With a toss of his hand, indicating that it was nothing for him to know the closest, most-guarded secrets of others, he smiled at Cyn. "I am sure you are aware of the fact that not only am I a very rich man, I am a powerful man with many powerful friends. My friends know many things, and what I want to know, they find out for me."

A cold chill raced along Cyn's spine, reminding her that no matter how charming Ramon Carranza was now at nearly eighty, it was reputed that he had once been a part of the Cuban mafia.

"Why does my shelter interest you so much, Señor Car...Ramon?"

He took another sip of his wine. "May I be perfectly honest with you, Cyn?" His wide smile displayed his spar­kling teeth against the background of his white mustache and leathery brown skin.

Uncertain how to reply, she simply nodded as she re­turned his smile. A tight knot formed in the pit of Cyn's stomach, as niggling little doubts wafted through her mind.

"I could say that it is because I consider myself a philan­thropist, but I am not. I could say that I was once a boy without a home who needed a place like Tomorrow House, but it would be a lie." His smile widened. "You have heard rumors about me, have you not?"

How was she supposed to answer a question like that? she wondered. "People always like to gossip about the wealthy."

Ramon laughed hardily, the sound deep and husky. "Such a diplomatic reply. But I would expect no less from a politician's daughter."

"You know who my father is?"

"Senator Denton Wellington of Georgia."

"But how—"

"I give to charity, my dear little Cyn, for two reasons. As a tax write-off, first and foremost. And, I am an old man, reared in the Catholic faith. In case there is a hereafter, it would not hurt for me to make some small recompense be­fore I die." He looked down into his almost empty wine­glass as if it were a pool reflecting his past.

"Do you know my father?" She couldn't shake the no­tion that perhaps Ramon Carranza was generous to To­morrow House in particular because he was one of her father's acquaintances. But surely her father wasn't foolish enough to accept campaign contributions from a reputed crime boss.

"Do not worry yourself." He tilted the glass to his lips and swallowed the last drops of wine, then set the goblet on the table. "Your father and I have never met. He is not in­debted to me in any way."

Cyn hoped the relief she felt wasn't visible on her face. As debonairly charming as Ramon Carranza was, there was something about the man that disturbed her. There had to be a reason why he'd gathered so much information about her personal life, why he seemed so interested in the fact that she was living alone in Sweet Haven. "I enjoyed brunch very much, Señor Carranza—" When he widened his eyes as a reminder, she quickly corrected herself, "Ramon. I'm very grateful for your offer to help us. I simply can't let the church close down Tomorrow House. You are aware of how much money it will take?"

"The check is already written." He reached inside the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a long white enve­lope, then handed it to Cyn. "Please make sure it is the correct amount."

With trembling fingers, Cyn opened the envelope and peeped inside. She sucked in her breath. The amount was thousands of dollars over the desperately needed amount. "Señor Car... Ramon, how can I ever thank you?"

When she looked across the table at the elderly Cuban gentleman, she saw that he was watching her intently, the fierceness of his scrutiny frightening. Then suddenly his ex­pression softened, and he smiled again. "There is no need for thanks. My motives are selfish."

Cyn scooted back her chair, dropped her napkin on the table and stood. "Thank you again...for everything. I should be going. There's never enough hours in the day at Tomorrow House."

Ramon stood, regally commanding with the wide breadth of his shoulders and his towering height. He took her hand, kissed it, but did not immediately release it. "I ask a favor, my dear little Cyn. One that should be no problem for you."

Her heart accelerated. She knew she had nothing to fear from this man, and yet he frightened her. She tried to smile. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. She tried again, opening her mouth for a more friendly appearance. "Cer­tainly, Ramon."

"Your only neighbor... a Señor Hodges I believe you said. Please give him a message from me."

When she tried to pull her hand away, he tightened his hold briefly, then released her. "You want me to give... a message to Nate?" Cyn could feel the heat rising from her chest, covering her throat, suffusing her face.

"Tell this Señor Nate Hodges that he should keep close watch on such a beautiful neighbor. Anything could hap­pen to a lovely woman living all alone. Perhaps I am just an old-fashioned man, but I believe a woman should have a protector."

Cyn laughed, the sound halfway between a cry and gig­gle. Why was he so interested in her safety? "It's so kind of you to be concerned about me, Ramon, but I can assure you that women today are quite capable of taking care of them­selves."

"Ah, yes. The modern woman." Ramon made a circular motion with his hand, a gesture of acceptance. "But you will pass along my message to your neighbor all the same, will you not?"

"The next time I see him," Cyn said, knowing that she had no intention of seeing Nate Hodges anytime in the near future.

Chapter 10

Mimi met her at the door the minute Cyn entered Tomor­row House. The place was a riot of confusion, with kids lining up in the hallway for lunch, a crew of workmen banging away on the roof, while two dirty, bearded men worked inside to repair the ceiling. From the game room, the noise of a loud advertisement for a foreign car competed with the screeching of a hot new hard-rock group blaring from the radio.

Rushing out of his office, Reverend Bruce Tomlinson, his eyes wide, his forehead dotted with perspiration, came bar­reling toward Cyn.

"Things are pretty wild around here," Mimi said, plac­ing a motherly arm around Cyn's shoulder, guiding her to­ward her office and away from Bruce's inevitable approach.

"Noisy, too, huh?" Cyn laughed, allowing Mimi to herd her into her office.

"I gotta talk fast because Brucie's going to be in here any minute. Look, you got a tall, dark, good-looking visitor and Brucie ain't liking it a bit."

"Nate's here?" What was he doing here at Tomorrow House? After the way they had parted this morning, she'd been certain that he wouldn't seek her out again. After all, he'd made it perfectly clear that he didn't want her in his life.

"Did you know he was coming?" Mimi asked, leaning against the door when she heard Bruce take hold of the doorknob. "Bobby has told Bruce all about the Brazen Hussy, and Bruce thinks our Nate is a bad influence on the kids. You know what a jerk Brucie can be. Besides, I think he's a mite jealous. He's been sweet on you for a long time.''

"I set him straight about that over a year ago, Mimi."

"Well, I know you did, but the fact is he's being down­right unfriendly to Nate. You won't let Bruce run our man off, will you?"

Cyn dropped her purse and briefcase on top of her desk, then straightened the pleats in her navy skirt. "Move out of the way and let Bruce in before he wears himself out shov­ing on the door."

Mimi stepped aside and Reverend Tomlinson came bounding into the room, practically falling over his own feet. "You need to see about that door, Cyn," he said. "It's sticking again. I thought I'd never get it open."

"Oh, I think Mimi can take care of the problem," Cyn said, trying not to smile. "Come on in, Bruce. Did you want to see me about something important?"

"That man is here." Bruce puffed out his basset hound jaws, took a monogrammed handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip.

"If you're referring to Mr. Hodges, then I think you should know that he's here as my guest. We have some business to discuss." Cyn removed her white cashmere sweater and hung it on the back of her chair. She had no idea why Nate had come to Tomorrow House, but what­ever the reason, it was certainly none of Bruce's business.

"Bobby told me all about the Brazen Hussy, how Mr. Hodges carries a knife, how he single-handedly subdued that boy," Bruce said. "What sort of business could you possibly have to discuss with a man like that?"

"Personal business, you ninny." Mimi stood in the door­way. "I'll be in the lunchroom if you need me," she said to Cyn before leaving.

"That woman's behavior is outrageous!" Bruce stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket.

"Mimi is the heart of Tomorrow House. The kids love her." It was on the tip of Cyn's tongue to tell him that Mimi's contributions to the shelter far outweighed his. "And my business with Mr. Hodges is none of your con­cern. Like Mimi said, it's personal."

"I see."

"Look, Bruce, we have something more important to discuss than your misgivings about Mimi and Na—Mr. Hodges." Picking up her purse, Cyn unsnapped the catch, pulled out a white envelope and waved it around in the air. "I have here a check that will more than cover the expense of running Tomorrow House for the next six months. Call Reverend Lockwood and tell him that we have a patron saint."

"My word, Cyn, is this true?" Bruce shuffled nervously like a child trying to postpone a trip to the bathroom.

"Quite true."

"Who?" he asked, then gave Cyn a puzzled look.

"Ramon Carranza." Cyn smiled as she remembered her unusual brunch with the elderly Cuban gentleman.

"The name sounds familiar."

"He's a retired businessman. No family. A charming and generous man." Cyn asked God to forgive her for the little-white lie she'd just told Bruce. After all, it was for a good reason and for a good cause. Although she had some mis­givings about taking money from a man with Ramon Car­ranza's reputation, she knew Bruce would absolutely refuse. Where she was able to see life in various shades of gray, Bruce saw it only in black and white. Considering the fact that Tomorrow House would close without Señor Carran-za's generosity, Cyn figured that what Bruce didn't know wouldn't hurt any of them.

"I'll call Reverend Lockwood immediately." Bruce turned to go, then stopped short. "Cyn, I don't think Mr. Hodges is the kind of role model the boys need. Bobby seems in awe of the man."

"I thought Bobby might be a little bit afraid of—"

"Well, if he was, he no longer is," Bruce said. "The two of them have been playing pool for the last hour. I still don't wholly approve of you putting that pool table in the game room."

Cyn slumped down on the edge of her desk, crossing her arm over her waist and resting her chin on the knuckles of her other hand. Watching Bruce walk out of her office, she sighed and shook her head. How could two men as differ­ent as Evan Porter and Bruce Tomlinson both have been ordained by the same church and placed in the same posi­tion as director of Tomorrow House?

After locking Ramon Carranza's check in the small safety box in her desk, Cyn went in search of Nate Hodges. As much as she wanted to see him, she dreaded facing him. Somehow, she knew he hadn't come to profess his undying love for her.

She found him in the game room, standing back and watching Bobby as the boy studied the pool table, contem­plating his next shot.

Nate saw her the minute she walked in. Sunshine. That's what he thought of every time he saw her. Pure, clean, bright light. No dark places, no hidden shadows. A woman as honest and good and loving as this old world could cre­ate.

He had talked to Romero after Cyn had left this morn­ing, asking if there was any way to get protection for her. Romero had said it was doubtful, but he'd see what he could do. Nate knew that Cynthia Porter's best protection was staying away from him. But just in case it was already too late, just in case Carranza was Ryker's comrade, then Nate had to make sure she was kept safe. He'd placed a call to Sam Dundee right after his conversation with Romero. Dundee was the best bodyguard in the business, and as long as Romero couldn't come up with federal protection, then a hired gun would have to suffice. Of course, he wasn't sure how Cyn would feel about having a bodyguard. That's why he'd come to Tomorrow House—to tell her about his deci­sion to hire Sam Dundee. He just hoped he could persuade her to agree.

"Lunchtime, guys," Cyn said as she walked into the game room.

Bobby laid his pool cue on the table. Smiling, he pointed to Nate. "He's winning, anyway. Man, Cyn, he's good at everything. You should see him playing Nintendo."

"Won't you join us for lunch?" she asked, her eyes filled with questions as she looked at Nate. "Bobby, you go ahead and save us a couple of seats."

"Thanks, I'd like to join you." Nate hung the cue sticks on the wall holder and restacked the fifteen balls.

The lunchroom was crowded and noisy, but the food was hot and delicious. Nate sat beside Cyn, aware that she was doing her level best to avoid any eye contact with him. She had every reason to be angry about this morning. After all, he'd spent hours making love to her and then had sent her packing. He had tried to explain, but she hadn't bought his explanation.

"Did you make your ten-thirty appointment?" Nate asked.

"Yes." Cyn picked up her glass of iced tea and sipped slowly.

"Mimi said you had a brunch date with some millionaire you were hoping would make a large donation to Tomor­row House." Nate cut into the slice of chocolate cake with his fork.

"That's right."

"Did you get the money?"

"As a matter of fact, Señor Carranza gave me a check to cover all the expenses for the next six months." Hearing Nate choke, then cough, she turned quickly to him. He glared at her. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Nate's stomach knotted tightly. He could hear the roar of his heartbeat in his ears. She had lunch with Ramon Car­ranza? Damnation! How the hell had Carranza gotten to Cyn so quickly?

"How did you meet Ramon Carranza?" Nate asked.

"Do you know Ramon?"

"I've heard of him." Just who the hell was this Car­ranza? Nate had been turning the question over in his mind for days now and had asked Romero to dig a little deeper into the mysterious Cuban's background. Regardless of what Romero found out, Nate knew one thing for certain. Ramon Carranza meant trouble for him.

"I suppose everyone in Florida knows about his reputa­tion," Cyn admitted, trying not to allow her conscience to bother her about taking money from such a man. Possibly dirty money—even blood money.

"Then if you know about his criminal past, why did you agree to meet with him?"

"He's been contributing ten thousand dollars a year to Tomorrow House for the past several years. He was the logical person to contact when I needed more money." She didn't like the tone of Nate's voice or the accusation she heard in his words. How dare he, of all people, condemn her. "Besides, I found him to be a very charming man."

"Did you indeed?"

"Will you kindly lower your voice. Everyone is staring at us."

"Then let's finish this conversation in private." Drop­ping the paper napkin he held in his hand, Nate stood up abruptly, grabbing Cyn by the arm and jerking her up be­side him.

"Good idea," she said. "I happen to have a few ques­tions I want to ask you."

It took them fifteen minutes to finally get away from the kids, from Bruce's reappearance to tell her that he'd spo­ken to Reverend Lockwood, and to settle a squabble be­tween the inside and outside repairmen.

The minute the door of Cyn's office closed behind them, Cyn placed her hands on her hips and swirled around to face Nate. "Why are you here?"

"Your questions will have to wait a few minutes. We're not through discussing Ramon Carranza and why the hell you took money from a damned crime boss."

"Reputed crime boss. Señor Carranza has never been convicted of a crime," Cyn said, her breath huffy. "I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt, don't you?"

"No, I don't. Reputed crime boss, my rear end. He was a top dog in Cuba back in the forties and fifties and moved his operations to Miami when Castro took over."

"You seem to know an awful lot about Señor Carranza. Why is that?"

Hell! He'd opened his big mouth and said more than he should have. "Word gets around." Nate reached out, grab­bing her shoulders. When she tried to pull away, he tight­ened his hold. "The point is this—stay away from Carranza. He's bad news."

"I won't have you dictating whom I should and should not see. I don't need a protector despite what you and Ra­mon Carranza might think." Cyn struggled to free herself from Nate's tenacious grip.

"Be still." His words were low and deep and command­ing. "What did you mean when you said that Carranza thinks you need a protector?"

"Will you let go of me?"

"What did Carranza say to you?"

"It was no big deal." Nate was frightening her, more than Ramon had. Was there some connection between the two men? No, please, Lord. No.

"Tell me, anyway."

"I just happened to mention to Señor Carranza that I was staying in Sweet Haven and you were my nearest neigh­bor."

Nate's curse word stung Cyn's ears.

"What's the matter with you?" Cyn tried to push some bothersome, half-formed doubts out of her mind. Now was not the time to let her imagination run wild. "It was no big deal. Señor Carranza simply asked if you were someone I could count on if I needed help."

Nate squeezed her shoulders so forcefully that she let out a yelp of pain. He released her immediately. "Is that all?"

"Well, he said I should give you a message."

Hot coals filled Nate's stomach, burning through his in-sides. Carranza had sent him a message—a warning? And he had used Cyn as his messenger. "What was the mes­sage?"

"Aren't you taking this a little too seriously?" Cyn asked, puzzled by Nate's attitude, and yet bothered by the shad­owy suspicions she couldn't escape.

"He said to tell you to keep a close eye on me, because anything could happen to a woman living all alone."

Nate turned from her, afraid she would see the fear in his eyes and discern for herself the danger their relationship had put her in. Under his breath, he let out a string of rather crude curses. Carranza was sending him a warning, all right. There was no doubt in Nate's mind that the old Cuban knew Ryker and was working with him.

"You've got to move back to Jacksonville, to your apartment." He wasn't going to tell her that Nick Romero was working on getting her some government protection. It would be hard enough to explain why he wanted to hire a private bodyguard for her. That news alone would proba­bly scare her to death. But what choice did he have, espe­cially since Carranza had issued his warning?

"I don't want to leave Sweet Haven, not yet. Don't you think you're overreacting?"

"You're going back to Jacksonville," Nate said. "And I'm hiring someone to protect you."

"You're what?"

"Ryker could show up in a few days. Maybe even tomor­row. I don't want you anywhere around me when he does show."

"I...I'll go back to Jacksonville tomorrow if that's what you want, but I will not have some...some guy watching my every move."

"Not just some guy. A private bodyguard. Romero rec­ommended him. He used to be a DEA agent."

"No."

"Yes. I've already put a call in. He can be in Sweet Ha­ven today, and he'll help you move your things back to Jacksonville and keep you—"

"I can't leave yet," Cyn said.

"Yes, you can and you will."

"We're having a picnic at the beach this evening. Mimi is already making preparations for the food. Bruce has bor­rowed a bus from the church. The kids are expecting to spend May Day at my beach house."

Nate slammed his big fist into his open palm. Cyn jumped at the unexpected noise. "If you can't cancel the picnic, then you'll have to leave when it's over and not come back until you hear from me... or Romero."

"I'll go, but I refuse to have a bodyguard."

"We'll see."

"No bodyguard!"

"What do I have to say or do to make you understand that if Ryker finds out about you, he'll use you to get to me."

"Nate..." She reached out for him.

He turned and walked out of her office, not once look­ing back.

Sitting down in her swivel chair, Cyn huddled over her desk and buried her face in her hands. She cried then, for Nate, for herself and for two ancient lovers. Someone had murdered the Timucuan maiden and her conquistador. A man named Ryker wanted to kill Nate, and if he knew she was Nate's woman, he would kill her, too. * * *

Nate spotted the black Cadillac limousine the minute he stepped out of Tomorrow House and onto the sidewalk. Emilio had parked across the street, almost a block away, but in this neighborhood, a limousine stuck out like a sore thumb. Undoubtedly, the man wasn't trying to hide.

Jaywalking, Nate crossed the street. When he reached the black Caddy, he leaned over and pecked on the side win­dow. Emilio Rivera opened the door and stepped out, his six-foot-eight, three-hundred-pound body towering over a six-foot-two, two-hundred-pound Nate.

"Has your boss got you following me?" Nate asked, slipping on his aviator sunglasses.

"I'm keeping an eye on Señora Porter." Emilio glanced across the street, nodding toward the one-story building that housed Cyn's shelter.

"Tell your boss that I got his message."

"Ryker is in St. Augustine. Señora Porter will soon be in danger."

Nate felt the blood run hot in his veins, fear and anger heating it to the boiling point. "Tell Carranza that I will hold him personally responsible if anything happens to Cyn Porter."

"Such a fierce protector," Emilio said. "Señor Carranza said you would be."

"Carranza can go straight to hell for all I care."

Nate thought he saw the corners of Emilio's mouth turn up slightly as if he were about to smile and caught himself. "Si, I will tell him how you feel."

Nate stood on the street watching the black Cadillac un­til it was out of sight. As soon as he could get to a tele­phone, he was calling Sam Dundee. Like it or not, Cyn was going to have a bodyguard. * * *

Cyn handed Bruce the plastic bag filled with damp bath­ing suits, then turned to pick up a basket of leftovers from the late-afternoon picnic.

"I think that's got it," Bruce said. "We'd better be on our way, it's past six now."

"You go on," Mimi Burnside told him. "I'll be there in a minute." The big redhead grabbed Cyn by the arm and pulled her away from the open bus door. "Why are you moving back to your apartment tonight? I didn't think you were a quitter."

Cyn looked away from Mimi, waving at some of the kids who were hanging out open bus windows. Deliberately avoiding direct eye contact, Cyn tried to explain her rea­sons without revealing too much. "Nate has some personal problems that he has to work out before we can even think about a future together."

"And just why can't you stay here and help him work out those problems?" Mimi scowled at Bruce, who stood on the first step of the bus entrance, motioning for her to hurry.

"Nate doesn't want me here," Cyn said.

"Hogwash."

"Thanks for caring so much." Cyn hugged Mimi, as a child might seek comfort from her mother. "I love you, but don't push me on this. Please take my word that I'm not giving up on Nate, I'm just doing what's best for both of us for the time being."

"Well, if you ask me—"

"Mimi." Cyn gave her friend a pleading look.

"You know where to find me, day and night, if you need to talk." Mimi gave Cyn a bear hug, turned around and walked toward the bus. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she said to Bruce, whose round face was lobster-red from the heat and his agitated state of mind.

Cyn stood at the edge of the road, watching the bus until the red taillights disappeared. She let her gaze stray across the road, knowing that Nate was home, waiting—waiting to send her away.

She couldn't bring herself to turn around and go inside. The desire to run to Nate overwhelmed her. Her legs ached with the pressure she exerted to keep them from moving to­ward his house.

Reminding herself that she still had to pack before her long drive back to her Jacksonville apartment tonight, Cyn began to turn, the effort taking all her willpower. And then she saw him. He stepped out onto his front walkway, stop­ping abruptly when he glanced in her direction. He threw up his hand and waved. Stunned, she simply gazed back at him, watching while he moved toward her, down the walkway, across the yard and then the road.

She thought he looked as breathtakingly male as a man could look, all six-foot-two inches of hard, lean muscles and bronze flesh. He moved quickly, with the swift, sure stride of a jungle animal. Quiet. Deadly.

When he was within a few feet of her, she could see him plainly in the bright outdoor lighting she'd turned on for the picnickers. His expensive clothes gave him an air of ele­gance, but the unbuttoned shirt, worn without a tie, and the short black ponytail proclaimed him a rebel, a man who lived by his own rules.

"Cyn, we need to talk." He took several slow, tentative steps, stopping within arm's reach of her. She seemed wary, almost afraid. The last thing on earth he wanted was for her to be afraid of him.

"You didn't have to come over to remind me to leave. I was just going in to pack. I'm returning to Jacksonville to­night, and I won't come back to the cottage until you tell me it's all right." She turned around, hoping he wouldn't see the tears forming in her eyes.

He reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulling her back up against his chest. Feeling the tremors that racked her body made him curse the fates that had decreed the two of them should meet now when all he could offer her was danger.

"Before you leave, we have to talk." God, she felt so good. Soft, warm and all woman. He wanted nothing more than to lift her into his arms, lower her to the ground and take her quickly, spilling himself into her while listening to her feminine cries.

"I thought we'd already said all there was to say this af­ternoon." Belligerently, Cyn tried to pull away, but he held fast, tightening his big hands on her shoulders.

"Let's go inside." How was he going to be alone with her long enough to explain everything she needed to know and not succumb to the desire raging within him? The last thing he wanted was to send this woman away.

"This afternoon you said it was dangerous for me to be with you. Has that changed?" Cyn gave in to the longing to lean back against him, to absorb the power and strength of his big, hard body.

Lowering his head, he nuzzled the side of her neck, his lips savoring the taste of her sunshine-fresh hair as he kissed the golden strands. Loosening his tenacious hold, he ran his hands up and down her arms. "No, that hasn't changed." He felt her stiffen, knew she was already withdrawing from him. "I've arranged for a bodyguard, and I don't want any arguments."

She whirled around, her brown eyes wide, her soft lips parted on her indrawn breath. "I don't want... Oh, Nate, is it really necessary?"

"Sam Dundee is waiting for you in Sweet Haven. He's going to follow you home tonight. He'll keep an eye on you until Nick Romero can arrange protection."

"Protection? More than a bodyguard?"

Taking her hands into his large ones, he pulled her to­ward him. "Government protection. Ryker works for the Marquez family, the leading drug dealers in Florida. Rom­ero and the DEA are involved, at least, unofficially."

"Why must I... why...?"

"Because I can't protect you and keep you away from me at the same time."

"I could stay with you," she said hopefully, gazing up at him with such love in her eyes that he thought he'd die from the pleasure-pain that her fearless devotion gave him.

"No, Brown Eyes. I want you far away when I meet Ry­ker." He turned her hands palm up, and lavished hungry kisses across her tender flesh. "I want you to promise me to be careful. Allow Sam Dundee to do his job. I'll call when Nick has a man in place so you'll know the change has been made."

"When will I see you again?" she asked, breathless from his nearness. She ached to hold him, to take him into her arms and into her body and find again that hot, sweet, se­cret place where they had gone together in the moments of total fulfillment.

"Not until it's all over. One way or the other."

"Nate, I don't understand any of this, especially Ramon Carranza's involvement." Before Nate could reply, Cyn gave him a warning look. "Don't try to deny that there's some­thing going on between you and Señor Carranza."

"I'm not sure about Carranza. That's something else I'll have to deal with once I've eliminated Ryker." When he felt her cringe at his choice of words, he regretted his blunt-ness.

When she tugged on her hands, he released her. "Do I have to leave you tonight?" she asked.

No, his heart screamed. Stay. Stay with me forever, his soul cried. "Yes," he said.

She slipped her arms beneath his jacket and around his waist, hugging him tightly. She ran her fingers over the smooth leather sheath that held his knife. She willed her­self not to tremble, not to be repulsed by the deadly weapon strapped to his body. "I don't want to leave you."

He grabbed her, lifting her off her feet. "Do you think I want you to go?" He took her mouth with all the savage hunger within him, longing to devour her sweetness, des­perate to know again the pure pleasure that her loving heart and body could provide.

She accepted his marauding lips, the conquering pillage of his thrusting tongue as she returned, full force, the power and passion with which he took her. The world around her seemed to fade into a haze of swirling darkness, a sea of brown, edged with pale light. This man, his virile energy, his intense masculinity, surrounded her. She could feel him drawing her into his body, consuming her femininity, tak­ing strength from her womanly power.

Nate trembled. Dear God, he had to let her go! No mat­ter how much he wanted her or how badly he needed her, he had to send her away. To keep her safe.

Slowly, reluctantly, he eased her down the hard, muscu­lar length of his body, allowing her softness to slide over every inch of his pulsating manhood. She clung to him, her slender arms draping his neck, her lips parted on a sigh of pure pleasure as their bodies caressed each other's.

"You have to leave," he told her, but his big hands still lingered around her waist.

She didn't say a word, only looked at him, her eyes speaking for her heart, pleading with him. It might be the wrong time and the wrong place, but the feelings were right. Nate had never been so sure of anything in his life. He had never truly needed anyone. He'd made sure of that. He had spent a lifetime protecting himself from the weaknesses that dominated other men's lives. No one had ever broken through the protective shell Nathan Rafael Hodges had constructed around his heart, a barrier of solitude and in­difference that kept him safely apart from the emotional attachments to which most men succumbed.

But Cynthia Porter had done what no other woman had ever done. She had put a crack in Nate's defensive armor. She meant more to him than she should. If he allowed his selfish need to overcome his common sense, he would be putting her life in danger. But her life was already in dan­ger, he reminded himself.

He swooped her up into his arms, leaving her breathless and clinging to him with all her might as he carried her in­side her cottage. Kicking open the slightly ajar front door, Nate entered the living room. Without hesitation, he low­ered her onto the chintz sofa and covered her body with his own.

"I need you," he breathed into her ear, his mouth moist and hot against the side of her neck. "I need this." He ground his hips against hers, crushing her trembling body deeper into the sofa.

"Yes." She would have refused him nothing, so power­ful was her desire, so overwhelming her love. Even know­ing that he would send her away afterward, she still wanted to give herself to him.

He kissed her, his lips masterful in their seduction. Mov­ing his fingers to the hem of her cotton pullover sweater, he jerked it up and under her arms, revealing her lace-covered breasts. Lowering his head, he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking greedily through the lacy barrier.

"I want you naked," he told her, lifting her up to re­move her sweater. Quickly, he unsnapped her bra, removed it and tossed it to the floor.

He buried his face between her breasts, allowing his tongue to paint an erotic trail from one erect nipple to the other. She arched against him, thrusting upward against his throbbing arousal.

"Oh, Nate, I want you so much." Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, distant and haunting.

He grasped the elastic waistband of her slacks, tugging downward until he encountered her bikini briefs. Slipping his fingers inside the top of her panties, he lowered both underwear and slacks down and off.

When she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, Nate lifted himself off her and removed his jacket, tossing it to­ward a nearby chair. In his haste to rid himself of his shirt, he popped several buttons.

"I want to feel you against me." Lowering his body back down onto her, he rubbed his broad, smooth chest over her breasts, the action tightening her nipples to diamond-hard points. "Woman... woman... you make me crazy.''

"I want you so much, I'm hurting." She reached out, trying to undo his belt and was startled when he pushed her hands away. "Nate?"

"I want you aching even more." He ran his hand be­tween her thighs, delving his fingers through the tight blond curls and between her moist folds. "I want you so wet and hot and throbbing that you'd do anything to have me in­side you."

She moaned, squirming beneath the knowledgeable strokes of his fingers as he fondled and petted her sensitive flesh. Beginning at her breasts, Nate aroused her to a fever pitch with the repeated licking and sucking motions of his mouth and tongue as they created a fiery path downward. He eased her legs further apart, his kisses coating the inside of her thighs.

She writhed beneath him, her body responding to his every touch as if it had never known a man. And indeed, Cyn thought, her mind dazzled by torrid sensations, every time with Nate was like the first time. Powerful. Hungry. Lustful.

His mouth covered her intimately. She groaned.

He tortured her, bringing her close to the edge, then re­treating, returning to bring her to the edge again.

She grabbed handfuls of his shiny black hair, trying to pull his marauding mouth away. "Please... please..."

Raising his head, he looked at her, satisfied by the wild look in her eyes, the passion-drugged expression on her face. Inch by inch, he edged his body upward until he covered her, then he raised himself on his elbows, lowered his head and took one peaked nipple between his teeth.

Cyn cried out from the pleasure. Her body was so sensi­tized that a mere touch shot through her with aching inten­sity. "Now!" she cried out, gripping his buttocks in her hands, clutching the soft fabric of hirtrousers.

Nate jerked his zipper open, shoved his slacks and briefs down below his hips and rammed into her with shocking force. He felt her buck beneath him, heard her loud moans, and smelled the strong, heady aroma of her womanly scent. He wanted to ask if he was being too rough, but he was too far gone to be capable of speech. The world condensed to include nothing except the two of them—her body, his body, the fast hard thrusts of his manhood, the answering undu­lating rhythm of her femininity.

Sweat-slick and passion-hot, they mated, with the hard, heavy needs within them ruling their every move until one final lunge propelled them through the timeless ecstasy of fulfillment. She shook with a release so strong she thought she might never recover from the forceful shudders that continued claiming her when his life force emptied into her. His groaning cries of fulfillment echoed in the stillness of the cottage as his body trembled.

Her man, stronger and more powerful than most, lay weak and drained in the arms of the woman who loved him. Loved him enough to die for him. Even enough to kill for him. The thought of loving someone so deeply and com­pletely frightened her. She had known Nate Hodges for such a short period of time, and yet it seemed that she had known him always, that he had been a part of her from the day she'd been born.

With their bodies still joined, Cyn snuggled against him, caressing his back, whispering love words to him. He claimed her mouth for a leisurely kiss. She felt his sex hard­ening within her as his tongue slipped inside her mouth.

"One more time, Brown Eyes," he said, and began again the ancient dance that bound them together eternally.

Chapter 11

Nate lifted her suitcases into the van, slammed the door and stepped away. He couldn't touch her again. If he did, he'd be lost—he'd never be able to let her go.

"I'll follow you to the gas station," he said. "Sam Dun­dee is waiting there. He'll be as inconspicuous as possible so you can go on about your life as usual. No one should no­tice his presence if he's as good as Romero says he is."

The moonlight cast honeyed shadows across her face, and the night breeze stirred the loose tendrils of her long hair. He knew she was close to tears, and if he prolonged their goodbye, she would be crying soon.

"I'll let you know when Romero gets someone to replace Dundee." He took one last long look at Cyn before getting behind the wheel of his Jeep Cherokee, which he'd parked beside her van.

Feeling numb, Cyn started the engine and maneuvered the minivan out of the driveway, and onto the deserted road. Within five minutes, she slowed down in front of the closed gas station. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out of a compact car. Cyn pulled the van to a stop, but remember­ing Nate's instructions, didn't get out. She watched as Nate drove in beside her, jumped out of his Jeep and went over to speak to the man he'd hired to protect her.

She could hardly believe her life had come to this—that she had to live in fear that some madman would use her to get even with Nate. Never once had she sought out vio­lence, but it had come to her, ripping her life apart. Why, dear God, why? Was Nate right? Did you have to face vio­lence when it was thrust upon you and fight for your own salvation? And for the safety of those you loved?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In the kitchen. Come on."

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

"So, what's up?" Nate asked.

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

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

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

"How is he?"

"Emergency room's already released him."

"I need to see John," Nate said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hello," Nate said.

"Oh, thank God, Nate."

"Cyn, what's wrong?"

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

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

"He... he called."

"Who called?"

"Ryker."

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

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

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

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

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

"But Nate—"

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

"Nate, why did he call me?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Nate. Open the damned door!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ryker knows where you live."

"But how—"

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

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

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

"Are you safer without me?" she asked.

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

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

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

"Why—"

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

"I see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you saying that... that..."

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

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

"I don't!"

The pain was unbearable and yet she bore it. The tears that had only moments ago run so freely from her eyes lodged inside her, building the ache that threatened to choke the life from her. Nate had never told her that he loved her, but he had never said that he didn't. Until now. Did he honestly think that there was nothing more between them than the physical desire neither of them could deny?

"Call Mimi. I'll explain things once we get there." He could feel her pain, and it was almost his undoing. But he would not allow himself to comfort her. More than love and comfort, Cyn needed his strength. Only his strength could protect her.

"Should we... involve Mimi?" Cyn asked. "Won't my going there put her in danger?" An icy numbness had taken control of Cyn's emotions. She felt nothing, absolutely nothing. The pain of Nate's harsh rejection had spread through her so quickly that it had anesthetized her feelings.

"Dundee will make sure we aren't being followed. He'll stay with you and Mimi until an agent arrives." Hesitating for a brief moment, Nate looked at her. He hated himself for hurting her, but he hated himself even more for putting her life in danger. "Call Mimi. Change clothes. Pack a bag."

"Where will you go after you take me to Mimi's? Back to Sweet Haven?"

"No. I've already called Romero. I'll be meeting him."

Cyn walked on unsteady legs toward her bedroom. Paus­ing momentarily in the doorway, she turned slightly. "You're going after Ryker, aren't you? You're not going to wait for him to come to you."

"He's already come to me," Nate said, his voice deadly soft. "He knew exactly what he was doing when he called. you. By threatening my woman, he issued me an invitation, one he knows I won't refuse."

The blessed numbness inside her began to dissolve, leav­ing her with the tiniest emotional sensation. He had called her his woman. "Is that what I am?" she asked. "Your woman?"

"The Conquistador's woman. That's what Ryker thinks you are," Nate said, and saw the spark of hope die in her eyes.

Chapter 12

Nate decided that Mimi Burnside was not only a sensible woman, but a human being with a heart of pure gold. He had liked the older woman the minute they met, but seeing her motherly concern for Cyn made him like her all the more.

"Don't worry about a thing," Mimi said as Nate laid Cyn's suitcase at the foot of her bed. "I'll call Brucie in the morning and tell him that I've come down with the flu or something and that Cyn is going to be playing nursemaid so neither one of us will be in to work."

Nate couldn't help but smile as he watched the big red­head, her graying hair rolled on soft pink curlers and her five-foot-ten-inch body wrapped in a blue chenille robe. Large-boned and buxom, Mimi Burnside looked more like an aging burlesque queen than a former factory worker turned housekeeper.

"You go ahead and put on your gown, honey child," Mimi told Cyn, then turned to Nate. "You come out in the living room with me while she changes."

Nate obeyed, following Mimi. Once outside the closed bedroom door, she leaned over and whispered, "I've got a gun. A .25 automatic. I don't usually keep it loaded, but I've got the bullets for it."

"Do you know how to use it?" he asked, not in the least surprised that she had a gun.

"Yeah. My first husband taught me how. Good thing, too, since I had to run off that no-good bum I married the second time. He tried to use me for a punching bag one time too many." Mimi pointed to the sofa covered with a bright flowered slipcover. "Sit."

"Are you sure you were never in the service? You sound a lot like my old boot camp drill instructor." Nate sat down, relaxing just a bit, certain that he had brought Cyn to the right place.

Mimi laughed, the sound hearty and unrestrained. "That Dundee fellow a friend of yours?" She nodded toward the front door.

"He works for me."

"A hired gun?"

"Something like that."

"When should I expect that government man?" Mimi asked.

"Possibly by morning. When I leave here, I'm meeting Nick Romero."

"You two going a-huntin'?" Mimi widened her slanted cat eyes.

"You just take care of Cyn and don't worry about me."

"We'll both worry about you," Cyn said as she opened the bedroom door.

Nate looked up. His heartbeat accelerated. She looked so small and fragile standing there in her aqua satin robe, her hair hanging loosely to her waist.

When she neared the sofa, he stood. He wanted to reas­sure her that everything would be all right. But he couldn't lie to her, and if he took her in his arms, he might never be able to let her go.

"This will all be over soon," he said. "Whatever hap­pens—"

Her tormented cry ripped at his heart like the talons of a mighty bird. "Don't say that."

"Cynthia Porter has always been a strong woman, some­one people could depend on. Be strong now." Silently he added, "Be strong for me, Brown Eyes. I need your strength."

"Go and do what you have to do." Silently she added, "I'll be waiting for you...forever."

Hastily, before his courage deserted him, Nate left. Mimi came up beside Cyn and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. As Nate walked out into the hallway, Cyn no­ticed Dundee step out of the shadows. He came inside and closed the door.

"You ladies go on to bed whenever you like. I'll just sack out here on the couch."

Mimi squeezed Cyn's shoulder. "Come on, honey child."

"I don't think I can sleep," Cyn said, leaning her head against her friend's arm. "How can I rest not knowing what's happening with Nate, wondering if he's killing or being killed?"

Mimi led Cyn into her small bedroom. The light from an imitation Tiffany lamp spread a colorful glow over the un­made bed. "If you can't sleep, then we'll just have us a slumber party. We'll sit up the rest of the night and talk."

"It's not fair to involve you in this." Cyn turned to Mimi and was reassured by the smile on her face. "Nate seems to think we'll be safe with Dundee keeping guard over us."

Mimi gave Cyn a persuasive nudge, suggesting she sit. Cyn slumped down on the side of the bed. Mimi went around to the other side, got in, and propped several pil­lows behind her as she sat up against the headboard. "Nate knew what he was doing bringing you here. The only way that Ryker fellow could get to you would be through me."

Burying her hands in her face, Cyn cried silent, painful sobs. Mimi reached out and touched Cyn's back. "Go ahead and cry it all out. Better do it here with me than to let Nate see you like this. He's already worried enough about you."

After cleansing her heart with a torrent of uncontrolled crying, Cyn wiped her eyes with her hands, scooted up in the bed to sit beside Mimi, and pulled a blanket up over her legs. "I thought that losing Evan was the worst thing that could ever happen to me, but I was wrong."

"You're not going to lose Nathan Hodges," Mimi said.

Cyn tried to smile at the firm conviction she heard in her friend's voice. She wanted to believe. "I never knew you could love someone the way I love Nate. It's...it's as if I've always loved him."

"Since you were fifteen and dreamed about him for the first time?" Mimi asked.

"It was Nate in my dreams. The same eyes. The same body. The same strength." Cyn fumbled with the frayed edge of the blanket with which she'd covered herself. "But the man in my dreams was more than just Nate. He was... oh, Mimi, you'll think I'm crazy if I tell you."

"So, tell me anyway. I'm probably crazy enough to be­lieve you."

"Do you know what Nate's nickname in the service was?"

"Does this have something to do with your dreams?"

"Yes." Cyn cleared her throat. "They called him the Conquistador."

Mimi sucked in her breath. "Who... but that's just a co­incidence, honey child."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"You think the man in your dreams was the ancient war­rior whose soul is supposed to roam the beach at Sweet Ha­ven with his Indian bride?"

"Part the ancient warrior and part Nate, the modern warrior who will set the lovers free to enter paradise."

"Well, I'm not sure I actually believe it." Mimi's ner­vous smile could not disguise her doubts.

"I'm not sure I do, either, but...every time Nate touches me, it's as if he's touched me a hundred times before. I've known him for such a short time, and yet I feel as if I've known him forever."

"I think you're tired and stressed out. In the last few weeks, your whole world has been turned upside down. If your belief that you and Nate are the lovers in the prophecy who will set a couple of ancient souls free helps you get through this ordeal, then who am I to think you're crazy?"

"He told me he didn't love me," Cyn said.

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Did you believe him?"

"I did when he told me," Cyn admitted.

"And do you still believe him?"

"No."

Cyn laid her head down on a large, soft pillow. Closing her eyes, she prayed for a few hours of sleep. Dreamless sleep. * * *

Nate didn't spot Nick Romero's car when he pulled into the all-night diner's parking lot. No doubt Romero had used a government vehicle. Something a lot less conspicuous than the sporty 1968 silver Jag he drove.

When Nate entered the diner, the big plastic clock above the counter reminded him that it was after midnight. The aroma of strong coffee mingled with the fading smells of numerous meals and the ever-present odor of grease. The place was spotlessly clean, but the equipment and furniture had seen better days.

Nate glanced around the partially deserted eatery. A cou­ple of guys sat at the counter drinking coffee, a middle-aged couple sat cuddled lovingly in a back booth, and an elderly man sat alone up front, reading a newspaper. Nick Romero sat in the second booth from the front door, and he wasn't alone. He was talking to a very attractive brunette.

Damn Romero, Nate thought. What the hell was he do­ing flirting with some dame? Nate knew that Romero liked women, and had spent over forty years living up to his nickname, but now wasn't the time for him to make a new conquest.

Nate approached the table, determined to control the urge to jerk Romero up by his collar and to send the brunette packing.

Romero looked up at Nate and smiled. "Sit down, old buddy, and let me introduce you to the lady."

Nate sat down on the opposite side of the booth and gave Romero a deadly look. "I haven't got time to meet any of your friends. This is business. Remember?"

Romero's smile widened. "Don't get bent out of shape. This lady is an agent. Donna Webb is going to be keeping an eye on Cyn until you finish things with Ryker."

Nate took a closer look at the woman sitting beside Romero. She appeared to be in her early thirties. Dressed in jeans, turtleneck pullover and a baggy plaid jacket, she could have passed for the average woman on the street.

Nate offered his hand. Donna took it. "I left Cyn at Mimi Burnside's. Dundee is with them."

"What did you think of Dundee?" Romero asked.

"I think he's capable," Nate said.

"Yeah, he's capable." Shaking his head, Romero laughed. "Sam Dundee was one of the meanest, toughest agents I ever worked with. He always reminded me a little bit of you."

"Then I'm glad he was available on such short notice," Nate said, then turned his attention to Donna Webb. "Cyn will probably feel more comfortable with a female agent. She hates the idea of having a bodyguard. I haven't told her yet that we're planning on sending her to her father's home in Savannah."

"You realize we can't force her to leave Jacksonville if she isn't willing to go," Donna said.

"She'll be willing to go," Nate said. "I can promise you that."

Nate spent the next thirty minutes drinking coffee, dis­cussing the situation and making plans with Romero and Agent Webb. By the time the three of them left the diner, Nate felt reassured that Donna was as capable of protect­ing Cyn as any male agent.

Outside, the cool night air swirled around them. Over­head storm clouds obscured the pale moon and blackened the normally starry sky. Streetlights illuminated the park­ing lot, as did the huge neon Open 24 Hours sign flashing with bright, colorful light.

"Do you want to go with me to drop Donna off at Mrs. Burnside's?" Romero asked.

Nate shook his head. "No. I've already said my good­byes."

"Okay. I'll meet you at your place in a couple of hours and we'll start tracking Ryker. If he can find you, then we should be able to find him."

Donna put her hand on Nate's arm. "Don't worry about Ms. Porter. I promise to take good care of her."

"Yeah, I know you will." Nate forced a fake smile, feel­ing nothing but loneliness and dread.

Romero and Donna headed straight for the brown sedan parked on the left side of the diner. Nate walked in the op­posite direction toward his Jeep.

A speeding car flew down the street in front of the diner. No other traffic stirred at such a late hour. At first Nate heard the roar of the motor, then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the vehicle swerve off the road, as if the driver had lost control.

Adrenaline pumped through his body like floodwater through a broken dam. Turning quickly, he caught a glimpse of a metal object sticking out of the car window, some­thing held by the man sitting on the passenger's side. The moment his mind registered the object as a gun, Nate yelled out a warning as he dropped to the sidewalk, seeking cover behind the Camaro parked beside his Jeep.

The earsplitting sound of an Uzi firing repeatedly echoed in Nate's ears. Hunched on his bent knees, Nate made his way down the front of the Camaro as the Uzi's lethal clat­ter rang out a deadly toll. He saw Donna go down, her slender body crumpling, her arms flying about in midair as the force of the Uzi's bullets ripped through her. Then the attacker turned his attention to Romero, who had just pulled his automatic from his shoulder holster. His hand was in mid-aim, his gun pointed, when he took his first hit.

Nate opened his mouth on a silent scream of protest. Then suddenly, he felt a sharp pain lance his side.

As quickly as the car appeared, it disappeared. The si­lence following the ungodly round of shots was morbid in its intensity;

Dammit all, he had never figured Ryker would try a sneak attack. He'd been so sure that he would want a face-to-face confrontation.

Running his fingers inside his jacket and alongside his rib cage, Nate felt the wet stickiness of his own blood. He knew he'd been hit.

As he struggled to stand, he noticed all the diner's cus­tomers coming to the door. But not one of them ventured outside. Nate saw that neither Donna nor Romero was moving. Blood covered both bodies. Nearby vehicles were dotted with splashes of red. Puddles of crimson formed on the sidewalk.

Nate checked Donna first. She was the closest to him. One of the bullets had taken off a chunk of her neck. She was dead.

Romero groaned when Nate leaned over him. "It's my leg," he said. "I'm bleeding like a stuck hog. I think he got the artery."

No matter how many times Nate had seen a comrade's body riddled with bullets or shattered by an explosion, the sight still sickened him. With trained instincts, Nate in­spected the large hole in Romero's leg, then administered the correct amount of pressure to stop the flow of blood from the femoral artery which the Uzi's bullet had severed.

Turning his head toward the array of onlookers hiding inside the diner, Nate yelled, "Call an ambulance!"

The elderly man who had been quietly reading his news­paper stepped outside. "I done called 'em. Told 'em it was a shooting and to hurry." He hesitated in the open door­way. "Is she dead?"

"Yeah," Nate said. "She's dead."

"How about him?" the man asked, nodding toward Romero.

Nate looked down at his friend. "He's alive, and by God, he's going to stay that way." * * *

By the time Dundee answered the insistent ringing of the doorbell, Mimi and Cyn were standing in the living room, belting their robes and yawning.

Cyn's heart beat overtime. She had never known such fear. Not knowing whether a killer or the bearer of bad news stood outside Mimi's apartment triggered a surge of adren­aline within Cyn's trembling body.

Holding his Magnum, Dundee motioned for Mimi and Cyn to step back inside the bedroom. With one quick move, he swung open the door and aimed his automatic.

"Put your gun away, amigo," Emilio Rivera said.

"Who the hell are you?" Dundee asked.

Peering out into the living room, Cyn gasped when she saw Ramon Carranza's huge bodyguard. Mimi gave her a shove and they both took several tentative steps, stopping abruptly when Emilio glanced their way.

"What's wrong?" Cyn asked.

"Señora Porter." Emilio's dark eyes rested on her briefly, then looked over at Mimi. "Señora Burnside, you will help her dress. Please. Señor Carranza is waiting outside in the limousine."

Cyn moved forward, hesitating several feet away from Emilio. "What's happened? Why does Señor Carranza want to see me?" She grabbed the back of the sofa, clutching the flowery material in her hands.

"Señor Carranza will explain everything. But you must hurry, señora," Emilio said.

"Now see here, one cotton-pickin' minute." Mimi put her hands on her ample hips, giving Emilio a warning glare. "You ain't taking this girl nowhere unless we get the word from Nate Hodges. Ain't that right, Dundee?"

"I'm afraid I must insist," Emilio said. "You can trust us, Señora Porter."

"Now that's where you're wrong, pal." Dundee, his au­tomatic still pointed at Emilio, moved toward their unin­vited visitor. "We know we can't trust you."

"Señora, surely after all Señor Carranza has done to help you, to finance your shelter, you can trust him." Emilio took a step toward Cyn.

Dundee moved quickly, placing his big body between Emilio and Cyn. "You go back downstairs and tell your boss that Ms. Porter isn't going anywhere with him."

"But he only wishes to take you to the hospital to see Nathan Hodges," Emilio said.

"What?" Cyn cried out. "What's happened to Nate?"

"Don't listen to him," Mimi said, grabbing Cyn by the arm. "It's some kind of trap."

Jerking out of Mimi's grasp, Cyn rushed toward the bed­room. Mimi caught her just as she swung open the door. "Don't be a fool, gal!"

Dundee edged closer to Emilio, who hadn't budged an inch. "What happened to Hodges?"

"He was shot in an ambush coming out of some seedy diner," Emilio said.

Cyn cried out. She clutched Mimi, feeling as if her own two legs weren't sturdy enough to hold her weight. If Nate was hurt, she had to go to him. Nothing and no one was going to keep her away from him. Not Ramon Carranza or Emilio Rivera. Not even Dundee. "I've got to go to the hospital."

"And so you will, honey child," Mimi assured her. "Mr. Dundee here will take you, won't you?"

Dundee never took his eyes off Emilio, but he nodded agreement as he stepped closer to his opponent. "You can go tell your boss that Ms. Porter doesn't need a ride to the hospital."

Emilio, as if reconciled to the fact that Cyn was not go­ing to leave with him, turned toward the outside door. "I will relay your message."

"One more thing," Dundee said as Emilio opened the door. "Tell your boss that Ms. Porter won't be out of my sight for a minute. My job is to take care of her, and I al­ways do my job, no matter what."

The minute the front door slammed shut, Cyn slumped into Mimi's arms. "What if... if Nate's dead."

"Honey child, we don't—"

"While you're getting dressed, I'll make a few phone calls," Sam Dundee said. "If I don't get some answers, we'll go straight to the hospital."

Pulling out of Mimi's comforting arms, Cyn rushed into the bedroom and began changing clothes. Mimi followed, closing the door behind her.

"Carranza was crazy if he thought you'd just go with him, and even crazier if he thought Dundee would let you go." Mimi flung open her closet, and, standing on tiptoe, reached up to the top shelf. Turning around, she held out a small handgun and a loaded clip. "I'll go with you if you insist on going, and I'll take along my little baby here."

Cyn stuffed her red blouse down into her navy slacks, pulled up the zipper and grabbed a sweater from out of her open suitcase lying on the bed. The minute Mimi laid the gun on the bed and began removing her housecoat, Cyn stared at the automatic. She had never held a gun. She hated them as much as she did knives. She despised any type of weapon.

"You aren't going with us, Mimi," Cyn said. "This isn't your problem."

When Mimi started to protest, Cyn held up a restraining hand. "I will not put your life in any more danger, but it seems I can't escape. I'm beginning to understand what Nate meant about having violence thrust upon you."

Cyn stared down at the gun lying on Mimi's bed. What if the only way to protect her life was to use that gun? What if the time came when Nate's life depended on her being able to defend him? Cyn, her hands wet with perspiration and trembling with uncertainty, picked up the automatic, in­serted the clip and reached for her purse.

"I'll borrow this," Cyn said, placing the gun inside her leather bag.

"Be careful," Mimi said. "Let Dundee do his job. And call me when you find out something about Nate."

Several loud raps on the bedroom door interrupted any further conversation. "Are you ready, Ms. Porter?" Dun­dee asked. "I haven't been able to find out much over the phone. Hodges and Romero have both been admitted to the hospital."

Giving Mimi a quick hug and kiss, Cyn opened the door. She left the apartment with Dundee, pausing briefly in the hallway to wave a final farewell to Mimi.

As they walked down a flight of steps, Cyn asked her bodyguard. "Was Nate shot?"

"Gunned down."

"Oh, my God!"

"He and Romero and a female agent were riddled by an Uzi when they came out of a local diner about one-thirty this morning."

Cyn forced herself not to cry, not to faint. Walking briskly to keep up with Dundee, who held her securely by one arm, she followed him outside and into his car.

Cyn's worst fears had come true. Nate had been so sure that Ryker would confront him man-to-man. "Are they alive?"

"The woman is dead. My sources couldn't tell me any­thing about Romero or Hodges except that they were both still alive when the ambulance brought them in to the hos­pital."

Cyn leaned her head back against the seat. The thought of Nate hurt, maybe even dying, was almost more than she could bear.

The trip to the hospital seemed endless as the streets be­gan to blur. The lights and the darkness merged. Cyn prayed. She couldn't lose Nate. If he died, they would be as doomed to an eternity without fulfillment as the ancient lovers were. If Nate died, she didn't want to live.

Chapter 13

Nate leaned against the wall just inside the first emer­gency room cubicle. He felt like hell. His side hurt despite the painkiller the nurse had shot into his hip, over his strin­gent protests. And he had a headache the size of Texas. He picked up his jacket, belt and sheath off the nearby chair, placing the belt and sheath over his arm and covering them with his jacket. He ran his fingers over his bandaged side, grimacing from the pain that bending his arm caused. Looking down at his opened shirt, he thought about trying to button it, then decided it wouldn't be worth the effort.

J. P. Higdon, Nick Romero's boss, had just left. He had assured Nate that everything possible was being done to save Romero's life and that the agency was handling the situa­tion with the local authorities.

For the last two hours, on the ride to the hospital and while the emergency room staff treated his gunshot wound, Nate had relived those few fatal moments outside the all-night diner. Had they been careless? How had Ryker known where they were meeting? Had Carranza had him under surveillance? Or maybe one of Ryker's associates in the Marquez syndicate? Nate felt guilty. He shouldn't have been so certain that Ryker wouldn't resort to an ambush. What hurt the most was knowing that he himself hadn't really been the gunman's target. Romero and Webb had been the intended victims. Webb was dead and Romero was hanging on by sheer willpower.

Ryker had issued a warning. Nate knew that, one by one, Ryker was going to attack the people closest to Nate. First John Mason. Now Nick Romero. There was only one per­son left...the most important person. And Ryker would try to kill her. Nate knew that as surely as he knew her death would destroy him.

Nate's big body shook, not from shock or pain, but from fear. Closing his eyes tightly, he sought to block out the fear, but instead the visions that flashed through his mind only heightened the terror. Dreams. The dreams of his brown-eyed lover that had once given him so much comfort. Dreams of Cyn lying dead in Ryker's arms.

Nate's eyes flashed open. He saw her. Her long golden hair hung in disarray over her shoulders, across her breasts, a vivid contrast to her bright red blouse. Her gaze moved in every direction, and he knew she was searching for him. God, it was good to see her. Not until this very minute had he realized how much he needed her.

She looked down the hallway. She stared at him, their eyes speaking a language only their hearts could understand.

She cried out and ran toward him. Dundee followed, rushing to keep up with her.

All the pain and fear and love that she felt came to the surface, full force, the moment she saw him. He was alive. Willing herself not to fling her arms around him proved to be the most difficult thing she'd ever done. She stopped, only inches separating them. With trembling fingers, she reached out and touched his face.

"Nate. Oh, Nate." Her voice was a fragile whimper.

She glanced down at his bandaged left side, wondering how serious his wound was and why he wasn't lying in bed instead of standing, partially dressed, just inside an empty cubicle. When he spread his right arm in a come-to-me ges­ture, Cyn lunged into his uninjured side. He pulled her up close against him, encompassing her within his strong em­brace.

She eased one hand up and across his broad back and laid the other on his bare chest. Closing her eyes, she allowed her hands to explore the solid reality of his body. Tears fell in never-ending rivulets down her flushed cheeks, but she didn't care if her weeping was a sign of weakness. She had been strong all the way to the hospital, and she would be strong again in a few minutes, but right now she wanted nothing more than to rejoice in the knowledge that she had not lost the man she loved.

She could feel his warm breath against her ear, her neck, her cheek. She looked up into his dark green eyes. His gaze devoured her as his big arm tightened around her, almost painfully, and drew her closer. He nuzzled her face, seek­ing and finding her mouth. In one savagely possessive thrust, he captured her lips, and she accepted him with ea­ger joy as the world around them faded into oblivion. Clinging to him, she felt her strength returning, as if she were absorbing his power.

He grasped her hip with his big hand, holding her quiv­ering body against him while he continued ravaging her mouth. Finally, he released her, gazing at her with wild hunger in his eyes.

"How the hell did you find out what happened?" he asked, his voice harsh, but he still held her close against his side.

"Ramon Carranza," she said.

"Damn that man!" Nate didn't trust Carranza. The chances were pretty good that he and Ryker were connected in some way. But what bothered Nate the most was that Carranza was obviously keeping tabs on Cyn.

Noticing Dundee standing discreetly several feet away, Nate motioned him forward. "Carranza knew about the shooting? How did he contact Cyn?"

"He sent his bodyguard," Cyn answered before Dundee had a chance to reply.

"Carranza sent his goon to get Ms. Porter. He told her Carranza was waiting downstairs in his limo," Dundee said.

"Good thing you were there," Nate said. "Why the hell did you bring her here to the hospital? The point in having you around is to keep her protected and as far away from me as possible."

"The only way I could have kept her from coming here once she found out you'd been shot was to have knocked her unconscious, and I didn't think you'd want me to do that."

Cyn wanted to scream. These two big macho men were discussing her as if she weren't standing right there. She glared back and forth from Nate to Dundee. They were of equal height and about the same size. Sam Dundee's com­plexion was almost as dark as Nate's, but his short hair was flaxen blond and his eyes a cold, menacing blue.

"I want you to take her back to Mimi Burnside's," Nate said, then swayed slightly, bending his body in an effort to ease the pain shooting through his side.

Cyn held her fingers out over his bandaged side, longing to touch him, to soothe his pain, but she let her hand hover over his wound. "I won't leave you. You're hurt and..." She made an unsuccessful attempt to stop crying. "How... how... bad is it?"

Giving her another crushing hug, he tried to laugh. "Not so bad." He couldn't bear the agonized look on her face. "Hey, Brown Eyes, don't you know I'm too tough and mean to kill?"

"Oh, Nate, don't joke about this." She buried her face in his shoulder, sobbing quietly, relieved that he was truly all right and angry at the injustice of life.

"Don't fall apart on me now, Cynthia Ellen Porter. I'll be okay. All I need is for you to go back to Mimi's."

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" she asked, raising her head and brushing the tears from her eyes. She completely ig­nored his request for her to return to Mimi's.

"No. I'm fine. The bullet only grazed my side. I admit it made a nasty mess, but I've suffered far worse."

"I can't believe they've allowed you to get up." Pulling away slightly, Cyn inspected him from head to toe, realiz­ing, for the first time since she'd entered the emergency room, that Nate looked like a man ready to run. "You were trying to leave, weren't you?"

"I am leaving," he told her, then glanced over at Dun­dee. "I'm going back to Sweet Haven, and I want her to stay here in Jacksonville."

"Has the doctor said you could go? Have they released you?" Placing her hand on her hip, she glared at him.

"I told them I was going. I've got to check on Romero, then I'm getting a cab home." Nate took several staggering steps.

Cyn quickly placed a supportive arm around him. "What's wrong? Are you in pain? Mr. Dundee, find a nurse."

"Don't move, Dundee. I'm fine, dammit," Nate said, clenching his teeth. "They shot me full of painkiller. I told them I didn't need it, but they insisted."

Cyn smiled, a trembly, teary smile. Dear Lord, what was she going to do with this man, her big, brave warrior? "Mr. Dundee and I are taking you home if you refuse to stay here overnight."

"I don't want you anywhere near me." Since he held her against him with fierce protectiveness, his words were inef­fectual, and totally contrary to his actions.

A petite silver-haired nurse entered the cubicle, and smiled when she saw Nate and Cyn. "I'm glad you have someone here to take you home, Mr. Hodges."

"Then it is all right for him to leave?" Cyn asked.

The nurse glanced over at Dundee. "We would prefer that he stay the night, but since Mr. Hodges has refused, he should have someone with him. We gave him a pretty high-powered injection. I'm surprised he's still on his feet."

"He won't be alone," Cyn said. "Is there anything spe­cial I need to do?"

The woman looked at Cyn. "Just keep his dressings changed, and see that he goes to the doctor for a checkup." The nurse turned to go, then glanced back at Nate. "Your friend is still in surgery. He's alive. Surgery could last sev­eral more hours."

"What about his leg?" Nate asked.

"I don't know." The nurse shook her head sadly and left.

"What happened to Nick Romero?" Cyn asked.

"He got it in the leg. The bullet severed his femoral ar­tery. There's a chance he'll lose that leg."

"Oh, Nate, I'm so sorry."

"Well, woman, don't you see?" Realizing he was still holding Cyn, Nate released her. "Ryker plays for keeps. As long as you're with me, your life is in danger."

"My life is in danger whether or not I'm with you." She nodded toward Dundee. "Otherwise, I wouldn't need a bodyguard."

Nate's knees weakened. The room began to spin slowly. He reached out, bracing himself against the wall.

Cyn willed herself not to rush to him. Maybe, just maybe, it would be better if he fell flat on his face, she thought. Then she and Mr. Dundee could just wheel him straight into a hospital bed. She watched him closely for several min­utes, then realized that Nate Hodges was fighting the drug the nurse had given him, and, knowing Nate's strength and determination, he wasn't going to lose gracefully.

"Mr. Dundee, would you please call Mimi and let her know how Nate is. Tell her that we're taking him home." Cyn frowned at Nate, her hard glare daring him to protest. "Make the call as quickly as possible and bring back a wheelchair. I don't think Mr. Hodges is going to be able to stand up much longer."

Dundee nodded agreement, smiling at Cyn and then at Nate before exiting the cubicle.

"He thinks it's funny," Nate said.

"He thinks what's funny?"

"That you're bossing me around." Nate wasn't used to having anyone in his life care about him, and he certainly wasn't used to some take-charge female issuing him orders. "The last thing a man needs when he's... he's been shot is some loud-mouth feminist telling him what to do."

"Oh, shut up, Nate." Cyn scooted a chair across the room, took Nate by the arm and eased him down. "Sit down and behave yourself. As soon as Mr. Dundee brings that wheelchair, we're taking you home."

"Romero. Need to stay...see about..." Nate's words began to slur.

"There's nothing you can do for Nick. I'll keep in touch with the hospital, and you can come back as soon as you get some rest."

"And if I don't... won't..." Nate slumped in the chair, his eyelids heavy, his breathing deep.

"You're going home, and you're going to do just what I tell you to do. Understand? And I'm not leaving you. Have you got that straight?"

"Come here," he said, motioning for her to lean down close to his face.

"What?" she asked, staring directly at him as she low­ered her head.

"You're a bossy wench, Brown Eyes."

Laughing and crying at the same time, Cyn kissed him on the nose. "You bet I am." * * *

While the coffee brewed and the bacon fried, Cyn looked out the kitchen window at the slow, steady rainfall. It had been raining when she and Dundee brought Nate home a little after dawn this morning. That had been almost five hours ago, and Nate had slept the first four hours. When he had awakened, he'd refused to take any of the pain medi­cation Cyn had found in his coat pocket, but she was deter­mined that he would eat the hearty breakfast she was preparing in the makeshift kitchen. In her own kitchen she could have made biscuits, but since Nate's kitchen didn't have an oven, he would have to settle for toast.

She had found a wooden crate under the sink and had cleaned it to use as a tray. Laying a clean towel over the rough surface, Cyn set a plate filled with bacon, eggs and toast in the center and placed a mug of steaming black cof­fee to the side.

As she passed the den on her way to Nate's bedroom, she saw Sam Dundee admiring the varied array of knives that comprised Nate's extensive collection. A slight shudder passed through her at the thought of all those deadly weap­ons housed under one roof, indeed being proudly displayed by their owner. Perhaps she would never understand the warrior within Nate, the beast that lived within every man. She abhorred violence, but with her motherly nature, she could understand fighting to protect those she loved. She would fight to protect Nate, to keep him safe.

The door to Nate's bedroom stood open. Nate sat on the side of the bed wearing only his unsnapped jeans. For a brief moment, Cyn stared at him, at his hard lean body, at his long black hair. He was every inch a man. And that very maleness called to Cyn on some primitive level, telling her that she was his.

He glanced up, watching her as she came in and held out the crate-tray for him to take. Staring down at the tempting food, he grunted, then accepted her offering.

"Thanks, I'm starved." He gulped down the coffee, then attacked the stack of crisp bacon.

After picking up his rumpled coat and empty leather sheath, Cyn sat down in the chair beside the bed. She won­dered what he'd done with his knife.

"It's still raining," she said. "Looks like it's set in for the day."

With his mouth half filled with egg, he mumbled, "Thanks for the weather report." He took another swig from the mug. "Where's Dundee?"

"Admiring your knife collection."

"Has Higdon called?" When he saw the puzzled look on her face, he said, "Nick Romero's boss. He's supposed to give me an update on Romero's condition, and... he's making arrangements to have you escorted to your father's place in Savannah."

"What?" Cyn jumped, throwing her body slightly for­ward. "I'm not leaving you, so you can just call this Hig­don guy and tell him I won't need an escort anywhere."

"If Donna Webb hadn't been killed last night, the two of you would already be in Georgia."

"What are you talking about?"

"The woman who was with Romero last night was an agent unofficially assigned to take care of you until I finish things with Ryker. Plans were for her to drive you to your father's home and stay there with you."

Seeing the wounded look in Cyn's eyes made him hate himself for having to be so blunt with her. But dammit all, if he couldn't make her understand the real threat to her life, he'd never be able to make her leave him. "Your father has already been notified," Nate said. "He was told only what was necessary."

"Who called Daddy?" Cyn demanded, jumping up, balling her hands into fists and shaking them at Nate.

Setting the tray on the floor, Nate glanced up at Cyn. Well, she was mad as a wet cat and just as ready to spit and scratch. "If Higdon doesn't come up with some more un­official protection for you, then I'm sending you off with Dundee."

"You're not sending me anywhere, Nate Hodges." Leaning over, she punched the center of his naked chest with the tip of her index finger. "I'm exactly where I want to be and exactly where I'm going to stay."

Nate reached out, closing his big hand around her stab­bing fingers. Looking into her rich brown eyes, he saw fury and determination and... love. He couldn't remember a woman ever trying to help him, trying to take care of him. He hated to admit, even to himself, that he liked seeing her fuss and fume as she ordered him around.

Clasping her whole hand in his, he pulled her forward. Her forehead rested against his, his breath warm and cof­fee-scented against her mouth. "I've been shot," he re­minded her. "When Ryker comes for me, I'll be at a slight disadvantage. If I have to worry about your safety, if I'm busy protecting you instead of myself, I'll be at an even bigger disadvantage."

"Nate—" She couldn't think when she was so close to him, her lips hovering over his, her body straining for con­tact.

"Don't you understand, Brown Eyes, if you stay with me, you'll die with me?"

Their breaths mingled as her lips touched his with whis-pery softness. "Yes, I understand."

She wanted to stay with him enough to die with him. The thought shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He knew she loved him, knew she didn't want to leave him and thought she understood the danger, but hearing her say that she was willing to die with him made him realize the extent of her feelings for him. This woman, his beautiful Brown Eyes, did nothing by half measures. She had a heart big enough to encompass every living creature, enough love and tenderness to soothe a thousand wrinkled brows, enough maternal instincts to try to mother the whole world. But she loved him, only him, as a woman loves a man.

Slipping his right arm around her, he pulled her to him as he pressed his lips against hers. She moaned into his mouth, opening for the potent thrust of his tongue. His kiss was frantic, wild with heady longing, ravaging with the need to possess.

Leaning into him, her slight weight toppled them over onto the bed. She fell against his uninjured side. He cra­dled her head on his shoulder, and buried his lips against her throat.

Dundee knocked on the open door, then cleared his throat. "Excuse me, but Higdon's here to see you."

Nate released Cyn immediately. She sat up on the bed and straightened her slightly rumpled blouse. Looking down, she realized that, somehow, Nate had managed to undo the top two buttons. She stood up, turned sideways and hastily refastened her blouse.

Nate sat up, groaning silently at the soreness in his left side. "Tell him to come on back."

"I'm staying," Cyn said, wanting Nate to know she had no intention of letting him and some government agent make plans for her without her consent.

J. P. Higdon was several inches shorter than Nate, at least twenty pounds heavier and a dozen years older. He wore a three-piece suit, parted his thinning hair at an awkward an­gle in an effort to cover a bald spot, and had perpetual wrinkles in his forehead.

"How are you doing, Hodges?"

"I'm fine. How's Romero?" Nate asked.

Higdon glanced at Cyn and raised a questioning eye­brow. "This must be Mrs. Porter."

Cyn stiffened her spine, tilted her chin and smiled. "I'm Cynthia Porter." She offered her hand, which J. P. Higdon accepted in greeting. "I have no intention of leaving Nate so the two of you can have a private talk." Her smile widened. She placed her hand on Nate's arm. "So you might as well go ahead and say whatever you came here to say."

Higdon glared at Cyn, his round blue eyes wide with wonder. "I assure you, Mrs. Porter—"

"I'm not leaving," she said.

"She's not leaving," Nate told the other man. "How's Romero?"

Higdon ran his pudgy fingers beneath the tight collar that bound his neck, inadvertently loosening his tie. "Looks like Romero is as tough as you. The doctors say he'll live, but saving the leg is still iffy."

"Damn!" Nate wanted to strike out at something, at someone. He wanted five minutes alone with Ian Ryker.

Cyn felt the coiled fury inside Nate as she tightened her hold on his arm. His muscles hardened beneath her fin­gers.

"The bullet severed the femoral artery. If you hadn't known what to do and acted so quickly, he would have bled to death long before the ambulance arrived," Higdon said.

"When can I see him?" Nate asked.

"He's in the trauma unit. No visitors except family."

"He has no one except his grandmother, and she must be over eighty." Nate knew that Romero's childhood and youth had been little better than his own. Where Nate had suf­fered from neglect and abuse, Nick Romero had grown up in abject poverty.

"I'll arrange for you to see him, soon, but for now, I think you'll want to know that I've commandeered some­one to take Mrs. Porter to Senator Wellington's." Higdon turned to Cyn. "Your father has been informed that you and Agent Bedford will be leaving Sweet Haven at approx­imately seven tonight."

Cyn started to speak, but kept silent when Nate took her hand in his and gave her a cautioning glance.

"She'll be ready," Nate said.

"I guess you know that this whole business with Ryker has become personal with us now that he's attacked two of our people." Higdon paused, but when Nate made no comment, he continued. "We're going to stick to you like glue until this thing is over."

"I don't think it'll be that easy." Nate squeezed Cyn's hand, not wanting to speak so frankly in front of her, but knowing she left him no choice. "When the showdown comes, Ryker will find a way to make sure I have no help. He'll want it to be the two of us."

"We'll see," Higdon said. "Agent Bedford will pick Mrs. Porter up here tonight at seven. And you can stop wasting your money on Dundee's services. We've already got our people in place."

"What do you mean?" Cyn asked, wondering if there was a combat squad surrounding the house.

"He means that there are men, strategically placed, who will be keeping an eye on me." Nate knew that Cyn must feel as if she had stepped into the middle of a badly written spy drama.

"Carranza's been making inquiries," Higdon said. "It seems he's very interested in the state of your health."

"Probably wants to give Ryker an update," Nate said.

"I can't figure out why that old Cuban involved himself in this mess with Ryker, even if he is in tight with the Mar-quez family." Huffing, Higdon shook his head.

Cyn felt Nate's whole body tense at the mention of the Marquez family. "Who's the Marquez family?" she asked.

"They're the top Colombian family working out of Mi­ami. They sort of inherited part of the action from Car-ranza. He retired without giving them any trouble, so he's been able to maintain ties with them." Higdon glanced down at his watch. "Good luck, Hodges. I'll keep you posted on Romero's condition."

J. P. Higdon gave Cyn a courteous nod before leaving. Dundee appeared in the doorway moments afterward.

"I suppose you heard," Nate asked, knowing full well that Dundee had been standing outside in the hallway lis­tening to the entire conversation.

"I'm as good as gone," Dundee said. "I'll stop by the hospital and check on Romero before I leave town."

"Thanks for your help." Nate offered his hand to the other man, who accepted it in a hearty handshake.

"Anything for a friend of Nick Romero's."

Cyn waited until Dundee had walked away before tug­ging on Nate's hand as she looked up at him. "Why should it matter that Ramon Carranza has connections to a crime family in Miami? That shouldn't come as any surprise con­sidering his background. I don't understand what it has to do with anything."

Nate took both of her hands in his and looked directly at her. "Ryker is employed by the Marquez family."

"Oh, my God!"

"Now do you understand?" he asked. "If Ryker has the Marquez family and Carranza behind him—"

"And I talked to Ramon Carranza about you, answered his questions. Told him things I shouldn't have. Oh, Nate."

"When Agent Bedford comes tonight, you'll go with him. You'll stay at your father's until this is over."

"I don't want to leave you."

"Cyn-"

"Hush. I... I don't want to leave you, but I will. I don't want to make things more difficult for you. I don't want—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Nate swallowed her words, silencing her with the heated passion of his desper­ate kiss.

Chapter 14

The sun, only recently visible through the haze of gray rain clouds, lay against the western horizon like an overripe peach, fat and soft and brilliantly clothed in varying shades of yellow and red. The sky, coated with an eerie golden pink glow, seemed so close. Cyn shuddered, a sense of forebod­ing chilling her body.

A gentle after-shower breeze stirred her hair. She had pulled it back into a large bun at the nape of her neck, but fly-away tendrils had escaped and draped her face. She ran her gaze over Nate's unkempt garden. Knee-high weeds choked the grass and overwhelmed the spring flowers which were blooming in glorious profusion. Once, years ago, Miss Carstairs had attended this garden with the passion other women would have bestowed upon a lover. Even now, the remnants of her special care showed. It saddened Cyn to think how beautiful the grounds had been only a few short years ago.

She had left Nate in his knife-filled den. Ever since Dun­dee's departure over an hour ago, Nate had been on the telephone. First to the hospital, then to J. P. Higdon.

Cyn knew where she was going. She'd known the minute she had left Nate to come outside. The vine-covered rooms called to her. She felt powerless to resist; indeed, she had no desire to resist. There was darkness and death and myster­ies long left unsolved lurking in the shadows, but there was more. There was love and commitment and hope. The Timucuan maiden and her conquistador had been married in the mission. They had made love in those rooms. And they had died there. Cyn didn't know how she knew; she just did.

The rooms had been a part of the old mission. They had not been the chapel itself, but the priest's living quarters. He had married them, that brave man of God, and had given them his bed in which to consummate their union.

Cyn's hand trembled as she reached out and pushed open the heavy wooden door. The air was oppressive, thick with mustiness, rich with the aroma of damp earth. Weak sun­light filtered through the boarded windows, casting the en­tire room into cold shadows.

Dear God, what was wrong with her? She felt hot and cold simultaneously. She was afraid, and yet realized she was safe. She knew things, felt things, wanted things that were alien to her.

It's why you came here, she told herself. They are here. Waiting. Wanting. Needing. With slow, almost trancelike movements, Cyn made her way across the cluttered room and toward a narrow wooden door in the center of the far wall. Behind that door lay the other storage room of the old mission.

Shivers of fear and excitement spread through her, stronger than the effects of any drug. Reaching out, she laid her hand against the cool wooden surface. Applying only slight pressure, she pushed. The door opened. Slowly. Ever so slowly.

She peered inside. The room was bathed in sunlight. Dark shadows had been forced into the four corners, leaving the center of the room filled with light...glorious, golden-pink light. Cyn sucked in her breath, awed by the almost sacred beauty of the room, her eyes seeing and yet not seeing that, except for the heavenly sunshine, there was scant difference between this room and the other.

She could feel the sun's warmth despite the chill in the ancient room. Her gaze traveled upward toward the source of the light. A huge section of the old ceiling was missing, leaving a jagged gap that permitted the outside world ac­cess within the coquina walls.

Although she had never been in this room before, it felt familiar. Memories flashed kaleidoscopically through her mind. Candlelight. Moonlight. The scent of fresh flowers. A soft blanket beneath her. A hard man above her. In her. Cyn shuddered.

They wanted something from her. Needed something so desperately. What? What do you want? she cried out si­lently. No one spoke the words and yet she heard them.

You and your warrior must be united as we could never be.

She didn't understand. How could she and Nate be united in a way the ancient lovers had never been? The maiden and the conquistador had consummated their marriage. They had been united. She and Nate had made love. They were already united.

Shaking her head, Cyn stepped backward toward the cool, shadowy wall. Her breath came in hard, shallow gulps. She trembled when she heard footsteps in the outside room. Who was out there?

Her mouth formed one word. Nate. Before she could voice his name, she saw the man standing in the doorway. He took a step forward.

She recognized him, and yet there was something differ­ent about him. He was Nate, her beloved Nate. And yet he was more. She was more.

In that one still moment when they stood staring at each other, Cyn knew. When he came to her, when they touched, when they loved, the fulfillment they found in each other's bodies would be shared by two ancient lovers. It had been that way before, every time she and Nate had made love, but only now did she realize the truth. A truth that should have frightened her, but didn't.

The love she and Nate shared had not begun a few weeks ago when they'd first met. It hadn't even begun years ago when she'd first dreamed of him. It had been born centu­ries ago when an Indian maiden and a Spanish conquista­dor had fallen in love.

Nate felt suspended in time, as if, in entering this ancient room, he had stepped back into the past. His past, and yet not his past. Someone else's past.

And she was here. Waiting for him. For a few endless moments, all he could see were her eyes, those rich, warm, brown eyes that had haunted his dreams over the years. The eyes of the woman he loved, the woman he had loved for­ever.

He moved toward her, watching the way the sunlight turned her yellow hair to gold, the way her full lips parted in anticipation, the way her body hugged the wall.

He had wanted her before, more than he had ever wanted another woman. She had given him pleasure beyond his most erotic dreams, and yet he could never get enough of her. As soon as he felt sated, his heart and body fulfilled, he began wanting her all over again. He wanted her now. More than ever. His need was filled with desperation. Some un­known force within him urged him on, reminding him that life held no guarantees, that death was sure and often swift.

When he reached for her, she went into his arms, docile in her surrender. Gazing down at her beautiful face, he saw the adoration, the hunger, the love, and he was lost. Her expression mirrored his own inner feelings, passion riding him hard. Lowering his head, he sought and found her lips, taking them gently, nipping, licking, nipping again. He cir­cled her moist lips with his tongue, then inserted the tip be­tween her teeth. She sighed. He delved deeper. She took him inside, welcoming the marauding exploration, sharing the pleasure as her tongue raked the side of his.

With several brutal stabs, he conquered her mouth. Trembling with desire, he released her lips, burying his face in her neck, his teeth covering her delicate skin with love-bites. She clung to him, her hands searching his shoulders and back, glorying in the feel of his hard, masculine body. Reaching between their bodies, he ripped at her blouse, jerking it out of her slacks and off her shoulders. When he began working on the hook of her bra, she started unbut­toning his shirt. Two sets of eager fingers moved hastily over two hot, hungry bodies.

She wore nothing but a pair of red bikini panties, he only a pair of unzipped jeans.

"You don't know how bad I want to be inside you," he said, his chest rising and falling with the harshness of his breathing.

"I love you." She took his face in her hands, her palms covering him from cheekbones to chin.

"Come back to the house with me. I want you. Now."

"No. Here. It must be here."

He glanced around the dirty, musty room, a room stacked high with decaying boxes and Uttered with an assortment of furniture and old junk. "There's no place to—"

She covered his lips with her fingers. "You've been wounded. You mustn't overexert yourself."

"I've got to have you, woman. Damn my wound!"

Cyn knelt on her knees in front of him. The hard rock floor beneath her feet was damp from the rain, warm from the sun, and smooth from centuries of wear. Placing her thumbs beneath the waistband of his open jeans, she grasped the faded denim and pulled.

"What the hell are you doing?" He slapped his hands over hers where she held his jeans just below his hips. He could feel himself jutting forward, and was unable to con­trol the fierce need eating at his insides.

"I want to make love to you." Her voice quivered with the intensity of her own arousal. "I've dreamed of this."

"Cyn..." She was offering him a precious gift, the ful­fillment of a man's most carnal desire.

He allowed her to remove his jeans. He stood above her, big and strong and powerfully male, his body straining to­ward her, needing, begging, demanding.

Running her hands up his hips, over his lean belly and across his muscular chest, she caressed him, savoring the feel of sleek, hard smoothness. The very touch of him was intoxicating her, seducing her onward, toward a path she had never followed, into an unknown world of sensual power.

Hot, untamed sexual energy flowed through her, domi­nating her as surely as Nate's big body beckoned her to sample its delights. She ran her hand over him in wild abandon. Over every inch, from tiny male nipples to strong, supple calves.

When her mouth replaced her hands, he bucked for­ward, his manhood touching the side of her face. He looked down and saw himself caught in the web of her golden hair. He groaned, so great was his need.

Turning her head, she tasted him. He cried out, the sound a harsh, guttural shout within the ancient walls. All sem­blance of his control vanished as he reveled in her loving attention.

He was about to explode. He couldn't stand any more. He reached down, jerking her to her feet, swinging her up into his arms. Glancing frantically around the room, he sought and found the only suitable place he could use.

Setting her down atop a tall stack of dilapidated boxes, he spread her legs and stepped between them. If he didn't take her soon, he would die.

She surged closer, allowing her breasts to sweep across his chest as she grasped his tense shoulders. "Now," she said.

He slipped his hand between them, pinching her tight nipples until she begged him to stop. "No more."

Moving his hand downward, he palmed her. She keened, the sound thin and high and piercing. His fingers found her hot and tight and melting.

Uncontrollable in her need, she bit into the taut flesh of his upper arm. "Please, Nate, please. I'm hurting."

"So am I," he said and rammed into her like an animal intent on perpetuating his species.

The pleasure was so intense she thought she'd die. A life­time of love consummated this mating. Cyn's love. Nate's love. The love of a Timucuan maiden and a Spanish con­quistador.

Clutching her hips, he surged in and out, harder and faster, creating premonitions of ecstasy that prompted them to accept the knowledge that four hearts were beating as one.

She not only accepted the savagery of his lovemaking, but basked in his dominance, reeling with the promise each possessive thrust made, knowing that in the end, she would attain the supremacy...for it was within her body that their immortality could be created.

With a relentless, pulsating rhythm, he took her, and with equal fervor she took him. Quick and wild and hot, their bodies spiraled up, up, up into the heat of fulfillment. In one earth-shattering second, a scalding pleasure burned through them. He poured himself into her as she sheathed him, tightening her body's hold on his pulsing release.

Tremor after tremor shook her body, the untamed heat searing her. Her own flesh had become so sensitized that the mere brush of his lips against her throat was a pleasure-filled pain.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the an­cient rooms, through the secluded garden and into his bed­room. Laying her down atop his rumpled sheets, he stretched out beside her and pulled her damp body up against his.

Threading her fingers through his long black hair, she smiled. "I've dreamed of you since I was fifteen."

He looked down at her and saw the truth of her words in her eyes. "You dreamed—"

"I've dreamed of you for years. Oh, I didn't know it was you. Even after we met, I tried to pretend that you couldn't possibly be my dream lover."

"Your dream lover?" What was she saying? he won­dered. Had she, too, been plagued by comforting dreams that ended with erotic lovemaking? "Tell me about your dreams."

He listened quietly, his heart hammering loud and strong as she told him about her dreams, when they had begun and why, and how, afterward, all she ever remembered were his mossy green eyes and the feel of his big body.

"Cyn." He kissed her tenderly. "I've dreamed of you, too. Since I was a kid. In Nam."

He felt her body tense, and ran a soothing hand over her back. "Did I bring you comfort?" she asked.

"Yes." He watched the play of emotions on her face and knew she was accepting the truth just as he must.

"And did I give you love?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And all you would remember afterward were my eyes and the feel of my body."

"Yes." He held her close, his lips against her throat.

"It wasn't just us," she said, arching into him. "It was them, too. They're a part of us. I can't explain it, but I know it's true."

"Yes, it's true." Nate realized that when a man lived as close to death as he had, he learned to believe in life.

She felt his erection pulsing against her and opened her legs to accept him. "We've loved each other forever."

He couldn't bear to think about what might lie ahead for them, the pain of separation, the agony of loss. If his most recent dreams came true, they would both die as surely as the ancient lovers had.

He thrust into her, glorying in her warmth, savoring the fact that they were both very much alive. At that precise moment, Nate knew that if only one thing survived this doomed earthly existence, it would be love. * * *

The world outside the car blurred into one, long, endless streak of darkness punctuated by an occasional flash of light. The hum of the motor, the soft roar of the speeding automobile, the gentle whine of the night wind, all com­bined, lulling Cyn into a semirelaxed state. For the first hour out of Sweet Haven, she'd been tense and edgy, consumed with her need to stay with Nate, tormented by the fear that she would never see him again.

Agent Bedford had arrived precisely at seven. Nate had wasted no time in sending her away. She understood why. He loved her and wanted to keep her safe. Their goodbye, though brief, had been passionate. As long as she lived, she would never forget the feel of his arms around her, the taste of his mouth on hers, the look on his face when he pulled away from her.

Nate was probably at the hospital with Nick Romero. He'd been determined to try to see his old friend. She knew that Nate had only two real friends. John Mason, who had taken his family home to Alabama to keep them safe from Ryker. And Nick Romero, who had almost died from Ry-ker's ambush attack. What sort of monster was this Ian Ryker? she wondered. A man filled with hate, who lived only for revenge?

Cyn glanced over at Art Bedford, a muscular, dark-haired man with a thick mustache and wire-framed glasses. Nate hadn't known Bedford because he was a fairly new man. J. P. Higdon had assured Nate that he was fast becoming one of their best agents, and Cyn couldn't be in safer hands, not even with one of their most seasoned veterans.

They were only a few miles outside Jacksonville, on In­terstate 17. Cyn had noticed the last road exit had been for Fernandina Beach. Although the Georgia line wasn't far, they still had the entire coastal expanse of Georgia to cover before reaching her father's home in Savannah. That meant a long trip lay ahead of them. She longed for rest, for sweet hours of sleep, but she was afraid to sleep, afraid of the dreams.

She closed her eyes and conjured up Nate Hodges. Sleek hard body, straight black hair, moss-green eyes, possessive words and loving touches. In a few short weeks, he had be­come the center of her universe, the reason for her exis­tence. No, not in a few short weeks, she reminded herself. Love like theirs hadn't blossomed overnight, it had been growing silently in their hearts, waiting patiently in their souls for four centuries.

Even with her undeniably romantic nature, Cyn realized that if anyone had told her that she was destined to take part in the fulfillment of an ancient legend, she would have scoffed at the very notion. She would have found the idea irresistibly fascinating, but the strong, sensible part of Cynthia Ellen Wellington Porter never would have believed it possible.

But she believed now. And so did Nate. No matter what happened with Ryker, even if somehow he managed to suc­ceed in destroying Nate, the prophecy would be fulfilled.

The prophecy...the prophecy... She could hear Miss Carstairs's soft voice recounting the tale, the romantic myth that had fired the twelve-year-old Cyn's imagination. A troubled warrior and the woman who could give him sanc­tuary would come to the beach, would abide within the walls of the old mission, and discover a passion known only by a precious few. And when their lives were joined as the maid­en's and the conquistador's lives could never be, then the ancient lovers would be set free, their souls allowed to enter paradise.

When Cyn felt the car slow down, she opened her eyes in time to see Art Bedford turning off onto an exit.

"Where are we going?" she asked, puzzled by the de­tour.

"I've got to check in, let them know we've crossed the state line. I'll find a pay phone. You stay in the car," he said, smiling at her. "I'll lock the door and keep an eye on you from the telephone booth."

Cyn shook her head in agreement. "Would you ask if there's been any update on Nick Romero's condition?"

"Sure thing. And if you want a cola or coffee or—"

"No, thank you. I'm fine." She closed her eyes again.

Bedford pulled into an all-night truck stop, parking the car close to the pay telephones. "I won't be long. And I'll be sure to ask about Romero."