Grace Hodges had been a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, elegant. She had been the only person who'd ever loved him, and in the years since her death, he'd often wondered why she hadn't hated him. After all, he'd been a child born to her from a brief affair with a man who had deserted her, and soon afterward had gotten himself killed. Nate's father had been no good. And he was just like his father. His uncle had told him that—often.
"Your old man was some mixed-breed sonofabitch who ruined my sister's life," Collum Hodges had delighted in telling Nate. "If I'd had my way, she would've had an abortion. Our family had the money—we could have found a doctor. But no, she had to have you, and keep you, a constant reminder of her dead lover. She disgraced herself and the whole family. And now, I'm stuck with you, you dirty little bastard."
Nate told himself that his uncle's taunts no longer hurt him, that he was immune to the racial slurs his dark, Hispanic looks had garnered him over the years, especially as a boy growing up in an affluent north Florida Anglo neighborhood. The only anguish he endured now was knowing how badly his mother had suffered because she had refused to give away her lover's child.
And what about that lover? Nate had wondered about his father. Who had he been? Had he known, before his death, that Nate existed? And if he had, had he cared?
What difference did any of that make now? Nate asked himself as he stepped out of the shower and reached for a huge white towel. He had enough immediate problems without dredging up any from his childhood.
Drying off quickly, he walked down the hall, his body still damp and totally naked. His bare feet made a slight slapping noise as he moved over the slick stone floor. As soon as he entered his bedroom, he reached down, checking under his pillow for his K-Bar knife, then fell into bed. The night air felt chilly, but he didn't pull up a blanket or even a sheet. He lay there in the dark room, listening to the quiet, blessing the solitude. He closed his eyes. Restless and frustrated, Nate tossed and turned, longing for peace, for the pure dark moments of sleep when all his problems vanished.
If only he could sleep without dreaming—without seeing her lifeless body and Ryker's one gloating blue eye staring at him. * * *
Cyn slipped the cassette into the tape deck sitting on the first shelf of the bookcase near the back door. The living room in the cottage ran from front to back, the entire length of the house, so that both front and back doors exited from the same room.
Listening to songs from the fifties always reminded Cyn of her mother. Her father had often said she had inherited her romantic nature from Marjorie Wellington, who had lived an ideal life with a loving husband and two children— until it all ended tragically when the small airplane on which she'd been traveling crashed. Denton Wellington had been devastated, and had blamed himself because Marjorie had been touring the state on behalf of his congressional election.
Cyn would never forget how amazed family and friends had been that the plump, shy, fifteen-year-old Cynthia had shown a strength and courage that quite literally held both her father and younger brother together in the weeks and months following Marjorie's death. Cyn suspected that it was then that her fate had been sealed. Soon, everyone who knew her grew to depend upon her strength—in any crisis and under any circumstances.
Perhaps it was because others quickly forgot that Cyn, too, needed occasional support and comfort that the dreams started. For months after Marjorie's death, she dreamed of the strong, protective man with the incredible green eyes.
Cyn heard the small antique clock in her bedroom strike twice. Two o'clock. Pre-dawn hours when the world slept, when most people were lost in comforting renewal. But she couldn't rest.
After taking a long, soothing bubble bath, she'd slipped on her aqua silk gown and crawled into bed. After over an hour of endless tossing, she'd gotten up, put on her robe and rambled around the cottage, finally making her way into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of the coffee she'd prepared earlier. She knew sleep would be impossible. She couldn't stop thinking about what had happened tonight.
She had met the stranger, the handsome and magnetic man she'd seen on the beach. The man with the green eyes that so reminded her of her dream lover. She found it difficult to imagine Nate Hodges as a comforting protector, someone capable of unselfish care and ultimate gentleness. Cyn felt certain that he was as hard and cold and dangerous as the knife he had put to Lazarus Jones's throat tonight. And yet... she couldn't dismiss the feeling that she knew this man, that she'd known him all her life. Perhaps in another life?
Cyn shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her elbows in a fierce hug. What made her think something so outrageous? She was tired. Exhausted. The stress that had been building in her life for the last year had taken its toll on her emotions. The always-strong, always-reliable and in-control Cynthia Ellen Wellington Porter had finally reached the limits of her control. She had begun imagining things, things like seeing a resemblance between that brute Nate Hodges and the man from her dreams.
Opening the door leading to the patio, Cyn watched the sky, dark and mysterious, filled with countless stars and one big, bright moon. She breathed in the sharp, poignant smell of the ocean, felt the crisp, cool wind coming off the Atlantic. Leaning backward, she rested her head against the doorframe.
Sooner or later, she'd have to sleep. But not tonight. What if he came to her to comfort her? What if, after all these years, she would awaken to remember more than his eyes? What if, as he held her within the strength of his arms, she looked at his face and saw Nate Hodges?
The softly rhythmical cadence of the surf as it swept over the shore lulled Cyn's ravaged nerves like the sweetest lullaby. Looking out at the ocean, she watched as wave after gentle wave covered the beach, then retreated, only to repeat the process, again and again.
Drawn by the night, the hypnotic lure of the ocean, the smell of the water and beach, the big, yellow moon and the romantic music coming from inside the house, Cyn stepped outside. The wind chilled her for a moment, then her body adjusted as she walked to the edge of the patio and took a step down. Just as she reached the final step, her bare feet encountering the sand, she saw him.
He was at least twenty feet away, standing alone on the beach. Noticing that he'd changed into cutoff jeans and a clean shirt, and the end of his short ponytail appeared damp, Cyn assumed he had returned home to bathe. Where was home for him? Surely, somewhere close by.
Had he, too, tried unsuccessfully to sleep? Somehow she knew why he had come back, why he was on the beach taking a late-night stroll. He was seeking sanctuary from the demons that plagued him, and he was coming to her for the peace that could be found only in love. At the thought, she shuddered, wondering how on earth she knew that Nate Hodges was haunted by the past, that he was lonely and hurting, and in desperate need of her comforting arms. How could she possibly know such things about a total stranger?
He walked toward her, each step slow and deliberately measured, as if he were wary of her. She could feel his uncertainty, so strong was his apprehension. This big, dark and dangerous man was afraid of her. For some reason, he didn't want to be here right now, lured into coming to her as surely as some force beyond her understanding had guided her outside to wait for him.
Mesmerized, Cyn watched him approach. So tall. So big. So overwhelmingly male. Her mind told her to run, to escape the predatory look in his eyes, but her heart told her to open her arms to him, to take him into her comforting embrace and give him sanctuary. Cyn shivered with anxiety and with a need she didn't want to admit was sweeping her away, near the point of no return.
Nate moved closer, his gaze taking in every inch of her with undisguised hunger. So small and soft and alluring, she couldn't be real, he told himself. But she was. She was as real as the star-laden sky, the ancient ocean and the granules of sand beneath his feet. And she was his woman. The woman he'd dreamed about since he'd been eighteen. No matter how badly he wanted to deny it, he cou
ldn't. A man whose life often depended on gut-level instincts, he knew, deep in his soul, that Cynthia Porter was the brown-eyed lover from his dreams, the woman destined to be his, the woman Ian Ryker would seek out and destroy.
And he knew he had no right to be here, on her beach, his soul reaching out for hers. Getting close to this woman would mean trouble for both of them.
Her waist-length blond hair hung in disarrayed waves, the ends slightly moist as if she'd recently bathed. Her femininely round body was encased in aqua silk, the material as blue-green as the ocean and just as fluid where it clung to her curves.
He took a step forward, then waited. He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, as if her breathing had become labored. He took another step. She stood, unmoving. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak. His next step put his body within inches of hers.
He looked into her eyes. The sight that met his gaze was like a welcome home, so familiar was the rich brown warmth.
Cyn couldn't move. She stood, transfixed, her gaze mating with his, the experience unbelievably erotic, as if they had often exchanged this visual love play many times while their bodies joined in life's most primeval dance.
Finally, he broke eye contact as he glanced downward at her breasts, her waist, her hips and legs. Cyn felt his gaze as it moved over her, making her nipples harden with desire, her knees weaken with longing and her femininity moisten with passion.
She had never known such raw, primitive feelings. This man, this big, savage beast of a man, made her long for things she had never experienced—except in her dreams.
Nate reached out, running the back of his fingers across Cyn's cheek. When she moaned, softly, sweetly, he felt his whole body tighten with arousal. God, he had never wanted anything so badly.
She leaned her face into his caressing hand. Suddenly, he shot his fingers into her hair, grasping a thick handful. She moaned again, tilting her head backward, arching her neck.
"You shouldn't be out here," he told her. "You shouldn't have been waiting for me."
"What... what makes you think I... I was waiting for you?" she asked as she felt him loosen his tenacious grip on her hair, allowing his fingers to cup her scalp. "After what happened tonight, I couldn't sleep. That's why I'm out here."
"You knew I'd be back." His moss-green eyes, eyes so dark a green they appeared black, held her with their mesmerizing power.
"Where...where did you go, after you followed me here?"
"I went home. Like you, I've been trying to sleep and couldn't."
"Home? Where's home?"
"Didn't you know that I'm your neighbor? I bought the old house across the road." Using his gentle hold on her head, he brought her closer to him. Their bodies touched. Nate groaned when her soft breasts grazed his chest. Even through their clothes, he could feel her, his body reacting in a natural masculine fashion.
Cyn sucked in a deep breath, her head feeling light and slightly swimmy. "You bought Miss Carstairs's old place?" Dear God in heaven, Nate Hodges, the living, breathing embodiment of a ruthless warrior, was living in the old co-quina house, built on the grounds where the Spanish mission had stood. Miss Carstairs had sworn that the storage rooms had been part of that original mission. And she had told Cyn the legend, time and again, of the ancient warrior and his Indian maiden whose spirits were doomed to wander this earth until a new warrior and his mate fulfilled the prophecy.
"The realtor told me that the owners didn't use this cottage in the winter months." Nate let his other hand roam downward, from Cyn's shoulder, over her arm, inward to her waist.
"It's spring," she whispered.
"You shouldn't be here," he said. "No one should be here. I need to be left alone."
"You've been alone for far too long." She wasn't sure how she knew that Nate Hodges was the loneliest man she'd ever met, that he'd spent a lifetime without the warmth of sharing. She just knew. Instinctively, she felt his loneliness, his pain. When he grabbed her hip and shoved her body into his, she didn't resist.
"Why now, Brown Eyes? Why now?" He took her mouth with the greed of a man starving, his lips feasting on the sweet surrender he found. It was just as he knew it would be, the feelings erupting from within him somehow familiar and yet more devastating than any he'd ever known.
She accepted the hard, relentless thrust of his tongue, the bruising force of his lips. No one had ever kissed her like this, no man had ever aroused such unrestrained longings within her. She couldn't understand why, but the very savagery of his lips on hers, his big hands raking her body, brought back memories of their wild matings. Memories from her dreams of him? she wondered, and then ceased to think at all.
She knew he'd opened her robe when the cool night air hit her chest a second before he covered her breast with his hand.
He wanted to lie her down, here in the sand, and take her. More than anything, he wanted to bury himself deep inside her, feel the shudders of her release, hear her cries of satisfaction. He touched her lips with his in a quick, light kiss before moving to her ear and nipping the lobe with his teeth. "I'm a dangerous man."
"I know." He didn't have to tell her how dangerous he was, didn't have to warn her that she should stay away from him. Her mind had already issued its own warnings, but her heart was incapable of heeding them.
He captured her in his arms, burying his face in her neck, groaning so low the sound was barely audible. Cyn threw her arms around him, letting her hands slide down his back, savoring the feel of his corded strength. He was so big, so powerful. Just touching him was ecstasy.
Her hands continued their downward trail until she reached his waist, then she felt it—the leather sheath attached to his belt. She ran her fingers over the warm, supple leather.
He's wearing a knife, she thought. The knife he had held at Lazarus Jones's neck? She stiffened, her whole body going rigid against him.
He knew her hand was on his knife sheath and realized she was afraid. He wasn't sure why she was reacting so strongly, but perhaps it was for the best. Neither of them seemed capable of resisting the other. Sexual attraction could be powerful. But no matter how much he wanted this woman or she him, now was the wrong time.
Ryker is coming for you, Nate reminded himself. If she's with you, anywhere near you, he'll use her. Get away from this woman and stay away or your recent dreams are likely to come true.
"I've killed men with that knife." For twenty years, from Nam to every cesspool in the world, he'd used his special skills to subdue the enemy, to achieve the goals of his superiors. At first, the killing had been difficult, but it had been a release for all the pent-up rage he'd felt as a kid. But eventually, the killing became easier. Until one day it became too easy, and Nate knew he had to get out—or lose what was left of his soul.
She dropped her hand from the sheath as if it were a burning coal. Trembling, she closed her eyes and gulped down a tortured sob.
Nate took her by the shoulders and gently shoved her back, an arm's length away from him. Gripping her soft flesh, he met her questioning gaze.
"I know every conceivable way there is to kill a man, and I've used my knowledge to teach others." He could feel her withdrawing. He wanted to beg her not to leave him, to understand, to accept the beast within him, to give his savage heart peace.
"You were a soldier?" She stepped backward.
He let his hands drop from her shoulders. "I'm proficient at using everything from a machine gun to a flamethrower. I've learned how to rig claymores, how to construct homemade booby traps and how to turn rope or piano wire into a deadly weapon."
He waited for her to run. She didn't. She stood there staring at him, tears misting her eyes.
"I was a navy SEAL for over twenty years," he said. "I make no apologies for who I am. Not even to you."
She didn't know what to say, how to respond. How could she ever explain to him that she had been having dreams about him for twenty years, that she had thought her dream l
over was a gentle man, comforting and caring? How could she accept the fact that, after all this time, her green-eyed protector was actually a brutal warrior?
He saw the doubt and confusion in her eyes, and wished that she had never stepped out of his dreams into reality. When she had come to him in his dreams, she hadn't judged him, hadn't been appalled by the blood on his hands, hadn't cringed at the sight of the battle scars marring his body.
"I won't bother you again," he said, turning away from her.
She wanted to reach out, to call him back, but she couldn't. She was afraid. She stayed on the beach, watching him until he disappeared from sight. Hesitantly, she raised her fingers to her mouth, running them across her kiss-swollen lips. On a strangled cry of fear and remorse and unfulfilled longing, Cyn ran toward her cottage.
Nate Hodges needs you.
The ocean's gentle roar seemed to moan a premonitory message. She tried not to listen.
Chapter 4
Cyn placed the small wicker basket on the kitchen table as she debated with herself about the decision she'd made. Common sense told her to stay away from Nate Hodges. He was, by his own admission, a dangerous man. She didn't need a man, any man, least of all a troubled one. And she knew that Nate was a very troubled man.
If she'd learned anything from the tragedies she'd endured in recent years, it was the senseless waste that violence brought into the lives of both the perpetrators and the innocent alike.
Nate Hodges was no innocent. "I was a navy SEAL for over twenty years," he'd told her. "I make no apologies for who I am. Not even to you."
She kept reminding herself that a man like that didn't need anyone caring about him, worrying about him, wanting to be his friend. And, even if he did, she was hardly the right woman for him. He was a violent, dangerous man who carried a knife and was quite capable of using it. She abhorred violence of any kind, and the very thought of a knife brought back all the vivid memories of Evan's brutal murder.
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