This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

  "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." Hu
ffing, 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 de
ath 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.