This Side of Heaven tp-1

by Beverly Barton

  "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 notio
n. 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."

  Cyn glanced around the modern, brightly lit truck stop. Even with the windows up, she could hear the roar of en­gines, the beat of country-western music coming from somewhere inside and the loud laughter of two scruffy men in white T-shirts, faded jeans and ball caps with Budweiser embroidered across the front. One of the men lit a cigarette while the other bit off a big plug of chewing tobacco.

  Looking back toward the telephone booth, she noticed Bedford was smiling at her while he talked. He seemed relaxed and self-assured, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He must be pretty sure of his abilities to protect me, she thought. If only she could be sure that someone was protecting Nate. Her gaze searched the dark night sky, seeking and finding a bright star. With all the faith in her heart and soul, she prayed that a power far beyond any earthly force would keep Nate safe.

  Cyn heard the back door directly behind her open. Jerk­ing her head around she saw a man bending over, slipping inside. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could emit one sound, the stranger tossed a large white en­velope into the front seat, then pointed a gun in her face.

  "I wouldn't cry out if I were you, Ms. Porter." His voice had a ring of familiarity. She looked at him, recognition dawning.

  "Ah, yes, I see that you understand."

  "You can't get away with this," Cyn told him, stealing a quick glance toward the phone booth. Bedford was stand­ing outside, looking at her and smiling. What's wrong with him? she asked herself, can't he see the man in the back seat? Perhaps in the darkness, he couldn't. "There's a man with me. A government agent."

  Bedford opened the door on the driver's side, bent over and peered inside. "You have my money?" he asked.

  The man in the back nodded toward the front. "On the seat. Feel free to count it."

  Suddenly Cyn felt disoriented, knowing and yet afraid to admit that she understood what was happening. She glared at Art Bedford. "You're handing me over to this man. You're betraying the agency for money."

  "Smart, isn't she," Bedford said. "And pretty. You wouldn't care to share her with me before you confront Hodges, would you?"

  Fear, searing and painful, choked her. The very thought that either of these men would touch her made her physi­cally ill.

  "Get in, Bedford," the stranger said. "You will drive us back to Sweet Haven, to Nate Hodges's home. And then you will leave. I suggest you disappear quickly. You can buy yourself a woman, a dozen women, with the money in that envelope."

  Bedford obeyed, getting in, starting the car and pulling out onto the highway. "Oh, yeah, Ms. Porter, word is that Nick Romero has a visitor and that visitor has just received a message about you."

  No, no, she wanted to scream. This was all a trap, a trap to capture Nate, and she was the bait. The man in the back seat lowered his gun, but continued holding it in his steady right hand.

  "Don't think about doing anything foolish, Ms. Porter. I much prefer that you're still alive when Nate Hodges comes to me. You see, I have dreamed of the day I could take from him what he once took from me."

  Cyn stared at the man, noting the sinister black patch over one eye. His other eye gleamed a silvery blue in the flash from an oncoming car's headlights. His left arm lay limp at his side. The sleeve of his expensive silk jacket, creased just above his wrist, hung loosely over the hidden stub of his hand.

  "Turn around and relax, Ms. Porter. We have a long drive to Sweet Haven."

  Cyn ordered herself not to tremble, not to cry, not to give this monster the satisfaction of seeing her fear. When he reached out and touched her shoulder, she cringed, but forced herself not to pull away.

  "I'm sorry that I've been so rude. I just realized that we haven't been properly introduced, although I'm sure the Conquistador has spoken of me. I am Ian Ryker."

  Chapter 15

  Nate stepped outside the intensive care trauma unit. He hated hospitals, the smell of pain and death everywhere. Although he and Nick Romero had both suffered combat injuries in Nam, they'd both been damned lucky to be part of a highly trained unit where death had been the exception instead of the rule.

  Romero looked awfully rough. He was so high on medi­cation that his speech was slurred and his thinking con­fused. He'd been calling for a woman, the name familiar to Nate although he had no idea who she was. Once, years ago, Romero had mentioned her name when he'd been so drunk he couldn't stand. Nate had asked him about her later, and his old friend had laughed and said that she was the one blonde he'd never been able to forget. Nate wished he knew who she was and how to contact her. If ever Romero had needed someone to care about him, it was now.

  In critical condition and the safety of his leg still in doubt, Romero was as tough as they came, and if anyone could live through something like this, he could.

  Nate only hoped that he would be as lucky himself and be the one still alive after his confrontation with Ryker. Life had never meant so much to him. He had always been reck­less and unafraid. But that was before Cynthia Ellen Porter had entered his life in the form of a flesh-and-blood woman who loved him as he had never dreamed anyone could love him. He didn't want to die. He wanted to live.

  Walking down the hall in a meditative daze, Nate acci­dentally bumped into someone. He looked up and saw J. P. Higdon. "Romero's still alive," Nate said. "And he's still got both legs."

  "He'll make it," J.P. said. "You can't kill old battle-scarred warriors like you and Nick."

  "I hope you're right." Nate noticed the strange concen­trated stare Higdon gave him, the telltale nervousness as he shifted his feet repeatedly. "What's wrong?" Nate felt his heart in his throat, pounding loud and wild.

  "We just received a message from Ryker."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nate saw Emilio Rivera standing several yards away near the elevators. "The mes­sage was for me?"

  "Yeah, it was for you."

  "Hell, man, quit beating around the bush and tell me."

  "Ryker has Cynthia Porter."

  Pain, intense and all-consuming, spread through Nate like high-voltage electricity. Anger more fierce than any he'd ever known claimed him. Grabbing Higdon by the lapels of his jacket, Nate shoved him up against the wall. "How the hell did this happen? You said Bedford was one of your best men."

  Higdon, his eyes bright with fear, his upper lip coated with sweat, shook his head in a plea for understanding. "I have no idea what happened. Bedford could be dead for all I know. Does i
t really matter right now? Ryker has Ms. Porter at your place."

  Nate knew immediately that Ryker had taken her to the storage rooms, to the old mission. In Nate's recent night­mares, Ryker had been in a dark, musty room when he had smiled triumphantly at Nate as he held Cyn's lifeless body.

  "Ryker has threatened to kill her unless you come alone and we call off your protection," Higdon said, struggling to free himself from Nate's menacing hold.

  "Then call them off." Nate loosened his grip. "And if Bedford isn't dead, he will be if I ever find him."

  "You can't face Ryker alone. Your best chance of sur­vival is to take some cover. Our boys can be discreet." When Nate released him, Higdon straightened his jacket, shirt and tie.

  "Ryker is nobody's fool. I'm sure he isn't alone. He'll have lookouts just waiting for any sign of agents. He's probably got all the help he needs from the Marquez fam­ily." Nate glanced over at Emilio Rivera. "And from our friend Carranza."

  "All the more reason for you to take backup," Higdon said.

  "When I leave here, I don't want anybody following me. My survival isn't what's important to me. If I don't go alone, Ryker will kill Cyn." Nate knew his chances were slim, but that didn't really matter. The only thing that mat­tered was Cyn.

  "How the hell do you think that you, one man alone, can rescue her?"

  "I'm going to kill Ryker. Once he's dead, the Marquez family will have no reason to keep her, and they can do whatever they want with me once she's free."

  Nate gave Higdon one last warning look before walking to the elevators. Punching the call button, he glanced over at Emilio Rivera. The big man nodded, but didn't say a word. The elevator doors opened. Nate stepped inside. Emilio stepped in beside him.

  When the doors closed, Emilio spoke, his voice deep and quietly controlled. "Señor Carranza is waiting downstairs in the limo. He wants to speak to you."

  "To hell with what Carranza wants!"

  "You would be wise to speak with him, Nathan Hodges," Rivera warned.