Beverly Barton - This Side of Heaven

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 lover 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.

The oven timer sounded. Cyn slipped her hand into the mitt, lifted the muffin tin from the stove and placed it on a wire rack to cool.

"Don't do this," she said aloud. "Be sensible, Cynthia Ellen. You can't take care of the whole world. You can't fix whatever's wrong in this man's life."

The whole time she was giving herself rational advice, she was searching the cabinets for a jar of Mimi's homemade orange marmalade. The delectable preserves would taste great spread atop the bran muffins.

She lined the basket with a soft, clean towel, then re­moved the muffins from the tin and placed them in the linen nest. Covering the muffins, she slid the small marmalade jar and a container of her favorite gourmet coffee inside the basket.

Taking a deep, confidence-boosting breath, Cyn picked up the basket and headed out the back door. She didn't want a sexual relationship with Nate Hodges, she told herself, despite the fact that no man had ever made her feel the way he'd made her feel last night. She had simply allowed her imagination to run rampant, she'd given herself over to the magic of moonlight, the power of an old legend and the potency of a virile man. In broad daylight, it would be dif­ferent. He was a troubled human being; she was a woman long used to giving comfort to the troubled. Indeed, Cyn couldn't remember a time in her life when someone hadn't needed her, depended on her, expected her to take care of them.

Perhaps she was being foolish. Perhaps Nate would throw her offer of friendship back in her face. But, mother-to-the-world that she was, Cynthia Porter couldn't turn her back on the loneliness and pain she'd felt in Nate Hodges. She knew, on some instinctive level, that if ever anyone had needed her, he did. * * *

Nate gulped down the last drops of strong, black coffee, then reached for the glass pot and poured his third cup for the morning. After less than three hours' sleep, he needed the caffeine boost.

His informative meeting with Nick Romero, the one-sided combat with Lazarus Jones and the ever-present knowl­edge that Ryker was alive and bent on revenge pumped adrenaline through Nate's body, preparing him for what lay ahead. A man long used to sleepless nights, Nate was sur­prised that he felt so lousy this morning. Hell, it was all her fault. That brown-eyed witch. He wasn't used to thinking about one specific woman, worrying about her, wanting her until he ached with frustration.

He had wanted her last night, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life—and he could have taken her. Even though she'd been repulsed by the idea of his past, she had still wanted him. He knew she had felt exactly what he had. Life wasn't fair, he thought. It offered you the fulfillment of a dream, then changed that dream into a nightmare. He couldn't have Cyn Porter. Making her his woman would put her life in jeopardy.

Through the dense fog of his thoughts, Nate heard a loud rapping on his front door. Who the hell? No one knew where he was, except Romero and John Mason.