Beverly Barton: This Side of Heaven

Restless with a need he could not explain, Nate started walking toward the beach. He felt like a fool. The woman in his dreams had no name, no face. All he ever remem­bered afterward were her eyes—rich, warm brown—and her body. When she'd given herself to him in his dreams, he'd found a sanctuary for his heart and his soul in her arms.

The first time he'd dreamed of her, he'd been eighteen and a newly trained SEAL in Nam. He hadn't dreamed about her in at least a dozen years, not until—until he'd moved to Sweet Haven, to the secluded house where he waited for a man who was as ruthless and dangerous as he was himself.

Suddenly, Nate stopped dead still. His trained instincts told him he wasn't alone. Then he saw her. In a long, flow­ing dress—white and shimmering in the moonlight—she walked along the beach, at the very edge of the ocean. For one split second he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Was it her , the woman from his dreams? He shook his head, then looked again. She was still there. She was real. No dream. No fantasy.

He knew she wasn't aware of him, of a stranger so close. She seemed to be lost in her private thoughts, and some­how, Nate could feel her loneliness. It was as if her frustra­tion and pain and anger had invaded his mind.

"Damn idiot," he mumbled under his breath. "You've been by yourself for too long." That's what's wrong, he thought. Whoever she is, she isn't her . The woman in his dreams didn't exist.

Nate made his way back to the tree, stopping briefly be­fore starting across the road. He slowed his steps, cursing himself for the need to see her again. He turned around and watched while she walked farther up the beach, then stopped, slumping down, cuddling her body up against her knees.

Who was she? he wondered. What was she doing here? And what was wrong with her? He resisted the temptation to go to her.

For what seemed like hours, Nate stood in the shadows of the ancient tree and watched her. Once, he thought he heard her crying and had to fight his desire to comfort her. He wasn't the kind of man who comforted women, and yet...

She stood up, her long blond hair blowing in the mild spring breeze, her dress billowing around her small body. He watched, fascinated by the way she moved, the way her waist-length hair created a shawl around her shoulders. When she came nearer, he saw that her dress wasn't white. It was pale yellow—a pale yellow lace robe that hung open all the way down the front, with a matching nightgown be­neath.

Nate's body hardened with arousal. He groaned in­wardly. So what? he told himself as she headed toward the two-story stucco-and-wood cottage. She's a beautiful woman and you haven't had sex in a long time .

He didn't turn and go back to his house until she disap­peared inside the cottage. He had no idea who she was, but obviously she was now his nearest neighbor. She was too close. He'd have to see what he could do to get rid of her. * * *

Cynthia Porter poured herself a cup of hot coffee, laced it with low-calorie creamer and a sugar substitute, then walked outside onto the patio. The morning was crisp and clear, the sky baby-blue and filled with thin, wispy clouds. The early morning sun warred with the sharp April wind for domi­nance, one issuing Florida warmth, the other a reminder that winter had just ended in the Sunshine State.

She set down her cup on the glass-and-concrete table be­fore pulling her royal blue sweater together, closing the top button. Seating herself in an enormous wooden rocker, Cyn picked up her coffee, sipping it leisurely as she tilted her head backward and closed her eyes.

It was her first night back here at her family's beach­front cottage in nearly six months, and she hadn't been able to get more than a few hours' sleep. Late in the night, she'd been so restless that she'd gotten up and taken a long walk on the beach, then she'd slept for a while. But she'd had that dream again—the familiar vision that she'd first had at fif­teen, a week after her mother's tragic death in a plane crash.

But the familiar dream had been different this time—dif­ferent from when she'd been fifteen; different from when she'd been twenty-one and the dream had come to her after her father's stroke; and different from when, four years ago, Evan had been brutally murdered. Always, at times of grief and great stress, the dreams would come, and somehow they comforted her. They gave her strength. He gave her strength.

The man in her dreams had no name, no face, no real identity, and yet she knew him as she had never known an­other man. Her heart knew him. Her soul recognized him as its mate. When she awoke, the only things she could re­member were his eyes—the most incredible, moss-green eyes she'd ever seen—and his body, big and strong and protect­ing. This phantom of her dreams came to her to give her strength and protection and... love.

Cyn opened her eyes quickly and ran trembling fingers down the side of her face. Dear God, she had to stop this! She had to stop fantasizing about a man who didn't exist. Taking another sip of her sweet, creamy coffee, she began to rock.

The shrill ring of the portable phone brought her back to reality. She knew before she answered that the caller was Mimi. Dear, good-hearted Mimi. Her title could best be described as chief cook and bottle washer, but what would Tomorrow House do without Mimi Burnside's grandmoth­erly wisdom and love? How many runaways had been saved because of her generous nature?

"Hello," Cyn said.

"So, was I right?" Mimi asked. "Wasn't getting away to Sweet Haven just what you needed?"

"You were right, as usual. All I need is a few days to re­cover from the trial—"

"I'd say a few weeks." Mimi's tone was gentle, yet com­manding. "Everybody, including me, expected you to be able to handle Darren's death." When Cyn made no reply, Mimi grunted. "If only we could have gotten through to that boy when Evan first brought him to Tomorrow House."

"It was already too late... even then." Cyn's hand quiv­ered. The warm liquid sloshed in the cup. Standing abruptly, she threw the last drops of her coffee into the yard, then set the cup down. Clutching the phone tightly with both hands, Cyn choked back the tears, trying not to remember her husband's death, trying to forget the sight of his bloody body.

"Evan didn't think so," Mimi said.

Cyn remembered how Evan, in his gentle and caring way, had been so sure they could help Darren. Evan had been wrong. "Darren's drug addiction had taken over his life and turned him into a monster capable of killing."

"You'll come to terms with this the same way you did with Evan's death," Mimi assured her. "You have to con­tinue Evan's work at Tomorrow House. There are so many hopeless kids out there who need our shelter, and need someone like you who really cares."

"I thought that I had put the past behind me when I went to see Darren in jail and accepted his pleas for forgive­ness."

"None of us expected another inmate to kill Darren. It was a shock to all of us.''

"I shouldn't have gone to pieces the way I did. People are counting on me, depending on—"

"Well, honey child, we all know you're a tower of strength. You've held your family together more than once, and you kept Tomorrow House running when the entire staff fell apart after Evan was murdered. But you're hu­man. You're a woman who takes care of everyone around you. What you need is someone to take care of you for a change."

"Oh, Mimi, you're always trying to take care of me." No one understood, least of all Cyn, why she'd fallen apart, why the murder of her husband's young killer had affected her so strongly.

"Well, somebody's got to," Mimi said. "What you need is time away from us here in Jacksonville. You need to for­get the problems at Tomorrow House and stay away from the real world for a while."