Beverly Barton - This Side of Heaven

Slowly, cautiously, Nate lowered the knife. "You still haven't told me why your boss is so interested in me."

"I'm afraid I can't answer that."

"Can't or won't?" Nate asked.

"There is no need for either you or Ryker to die," Rivera said.

"Is that what this is all about?" Nate asked. "Carranza is so afraid that I'll kill Ryker, he's willing to send me on a little all-expenses-paid vacation? Ryker must be very im­portant to your boss, or perhaps to some of your boss's friends."

"If you change your mind, feel free to contact me." Em­ilio Rivera smiled, the expression softening his tough, lived-in face. He handed Nate a business card. "I'll tell Señor Carranza of your decision."

"You do that." Nate watched his uninvited guest leave, not bothering to follow him to the front door.

Just what the hell was that all about? Nate wondered. Something was damned screwy here. Something just didn't add up. What connection did a retired Cuban businessman have with the new Colombian regime? Birds of a feather? Or did Carranza's connection to Ryker supercede his old enemy's association with the Marquez family? And why had Emilio's powerful employer kept tabs on Nate since his days in Nam? As a favor to Ryker?

Nate walked over to the desk, picked up the phone and dialed. While he listened to the ringing, Nate looked at the card in his hand. The name and address of a local restau­rant was printed on the front. He flipped the card over. Scrawled in heavy black ink was a St. Augustine phone number.

"Yeah?" Nick Romero answered, his voice loud and clearly agitated.

"I've got a news bulletin for you," Nate said.

"What?"

"Guess who just paid me a visit."

Chapter 8

Nate sat in the cool stillness of his den, with only the sound of his own breathing to keep him company. He caressed the smooth blade of the straight razor he held. It was old, he knew, but exactly how old, he wasn't sure. Old enough to have belonged to his grandfather.

Closing the blade, he cradled the razor in his palm, then clutched it tightly. Had his knife collection started the day his mother had given this to him? he wondered. She'd placed it in his hand the last time he'd seen her, pale and weak in her hospital bed.

"This was my father's," she'd told him. "It belonged to his father, and he would have wanted you, his only grand­son, to have it."

Nate tossed the razor down on the metal trunk in front of the sofa as he stood up. He didn't think about his mother often, nor did he let his mind dwell on his tortured child­hood, his abusive uncle. But when he did, the hatred fes­tered inside him, feeding the loneliness and bitterness from which he couldn't escape.

In the thirty-six years since his mother died, Nate had been alone and unloved. A boy always on the outside looking in. A man whose untamed life had taught him brutal lessons about the dark side of humanity. But there was light in this world, something pure and good shining through all the dark horror. He had seen a glimpse of that light in his mother, and he saw it in Cynthia Porter. She was truly light to his darkness, joy to his pain, sweetness to his bitterness. She held the key that could unchain the heavy bonds hold­ing him prisoner in a cold, bleak and lonely existence.

After a lifetime of waiting for her, and not even realizing he was waiting, she had finally materialized. From out of his dreams, Cyn had entered his world, igniting the fires of a passion he had known only in the shadows of his fantasies. She was real, not some imaginary lover who had haunted him for so long. She was flesh and blood, and he wanted her as he had never wanted anything in his life.

But she could never be his. He didn't dare risk letting her into his heart. As long as Ryker lived, anyone close to Nate would be in danger.

Restless, anxiety and longing frazzling his nerves, Nate paced the floor, finally throwing open the door and walk­ing around the yard. In the distance, the ocean's steady heartbeat and the cries of an occasional gull echoed in his ears, creating a tune that blended perfectly with the vivid portrait of an isolated Florida beach, warm and damp after spring rain.

He knew he had to find a way to get Cyn to move out of her cottage, to leave Sweet Haven and return to Jackson­ville. After what Emilio Rivera had told him, he knew that Cyn's life was already in danger if she stayed here. If Car-ranza knew about Cyn, then no doubt Ryker would soon learn of her existence. He had to make sure that Ryker un­derstood the woman meant nothing to him. He couldn't al­low Cyn to be caught in the terror from his past.

He had to talk to Cyn, maybe even tell her just enough to persuade her to cooperate. She was proving to be a very stubborn woman. It had taken every ounce of his will­power the last three days to stay away from her. And the day she'd run to him on the beach, he had wanted nothing more than to lie her down in the sand and take her. Instead, he had given her a stern, disapproving look, then run away.

God, what it took for a man to reject a woman like Cyn! Maybe she didn't want to want him, but she did. He saw it in her eyes, those warm, rich brown eyes. Every time she looked at him, she told him she wanted him.

Would it be so wrong, he asked himself, to spend one day with her? It might be all they ever had, the only chance for him to find, even momentarily, an escape from the pain that ruled his heart. He could go to her now, ask her to be with him, and later, when he had absorbed some of her light into his dark soul, he would make her understand that, for her own sake, she would have to leave Sweet Haven. * * *

Cyn tapped her bottom teeth with the tip of her long fin­gernail as she scanned the pages of the paperback novel. Although she was having difficulty concentrating on the story, she was determined to finish the book. Reading was great escapism, and it had usually worked in the past to take her mind off her problems, but it wasn't working this eve­ning.

She couldn't stop thinking about Nate Hodges, about the black limousine and the mysterious danger surrounding the man she longed to help. Slapping the book closed and toss­ing it down beside her on the couch, Cyn clinched her teeth, released a loud huffing breath and balled her hands into fists.

"Damn. Stop doing this to yourself." Jumping up from the couch, she headed toward the kitchen. If a good book didn't work, then maybe food would.

"Why won't he let me help him?" Cyn asked herself aloud. "He's so alone and in so much pain, and yet he keeps shutting me out."

She placed her hand on the refrigerator handle, but be­fore she could open it, she heard several loud knocks com­ing from her front door. With her heart racing and her stomach swirling, Cyn rushed to the door, knowing before she saw him that Nate Hodges had come to her.

She swung open the door. His gaze met hers, his moss-green eyes pleading silently. She smiled. He looked so good, so very, very good. His jeans were old and faded but clean, and they fit his lean, muscular hips and legs like a snug, well-worn glove. His khaki-green cotton shirt encased his broad shoulders and chest tightly, then billowed out around his flat stomach and narrow waist. He had tied his hair back into the familiar ponytail. He looked big, rugged and dan­gerous. But in his eyes, she saw his soul, a dark, hungry soul in desperate need of light and nourishment.

"Nate."

He thought he'd never heard anything as beautiful as his name on her lips, and he knew he'd never seen anything as lovely as Cynthia Porter. Wearing a sheer yellow cotton blouse and skirt, with her golden-blond hair spilling freely to her waist and her flesh tanned to a tawny cream, she looked like a sunbeam—strong and bright and life-giving.