This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

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

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

  Once again Cyn and Nate answered simultaneously.

  "We don't."

  "We do."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "What?"

  "Are we going—''

  "No."

  "Then leave."

  "What?" he asked.

  "I said leave."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "The prophecy?"

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

  "A former warrior."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Why not now?"

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

  "But, Nate—"

  "I can't risk it."

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

  Nate let her go.

  Chapter 6

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

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

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