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  This Side of Heaven

  ( The Protectors - 1 )

  Beverly Barton

  DANGEROUS PASSION

  Hot. Demanding. Inescapable. The power of destiny had joined Nate Hodges and Cyn Porter together, but the savagery of man seemed fated to tear them apart.

  A warrior who walked alone, Nate could never mean anything but danger for any woman who dared to love him. Yet Cyn, touched by tragedy herself, realized this soul-scarred soldier needed her strength.

  Though stalked by a madman bent on revenge, Nate succumbed to the pull of a passion older than time. Cyn, the brown-eyed beauty of his dreams—his impossible love—brought him peace. She was his very soul. But he knew with heart-shattering certainty that he could be her death...

  Beverly Barton This Side of Heaven

  To Linda Howard Okay, so you were right—again!

  Prologue

  They walked together along the isolated beach, the small Timucuan maiden and her big Spanish conquistador. Each knew the other's thoughts and could feel the other's pain, but they could not touch in a physical way, for their mortal bodies had long since returned to the earth's soil.

  They knew the time was near. The fulfillment of the an­cient legend's prophecy was at hand. Soon a troubled war­rior and the woman who could give him sanctuary within her heart and body would come to their beach, would abide within the walls of the old mission, and discover a passion known only by a precious few.

  The maiden and her conquistador had known such pas­sion, but had lost their lives in the hatred and destruction wrought by mankind's greed for wealth and power. For centuries the two lovers had roamed this Florida beach waiting for the heirs of their love to arrive and set them free.

  "Soon," she whispered. "Soon, they will come."

  "Yes," he said. "They will share the same eternal love that we do."

  "And when their lives are united as ours could never be, we will be allowed to go."

  "Yes, querida."

  And they continued their nightly stroll along the surf-kissed sand, waiting here, this side of heaven—waiting for the day they could enter paradise.

  Chapter 1

  He heard the blood-curdling scream. Tremors racked his body. He knew he couldn't save her. With a moan of an­guished pain and animalistic rage, he cursed the powers of heaven and earth.

  Nate Hodges opened his eyes. His harsh, erratic breath­ing gradually slowed as he lay on his sweat-dampened bed. He looked around the dark bedroom, seeking reassurances in the familiar, reassurance that the agony he had just en­dured had, indeed, been a dream. No, not a dream—a nightmare. The same gut-wrenching nightmare that had tormented his sleep for the past few weeks.

  Even though he knew why the dreams had begun again after all these years, he didn't understand why this dream was so different from the old nightmares, those cursed sou­venirs of the war. Until two months ago when he had moved into the ancient coquina house by the ocean, he'd never ex­perienced this particular dream. Unlike the ones that had plagued him after Vietnam, this one didn't involve the war.

  He had not been overcome by the sickening smell of rot­ting flesh. He hadn't felt the splattering of a friend's blood on his face, or heard the moans of a teenager dying in his arms. He hadn't seen piles of pulverized bodies lying on the deck of an incoming boat. Those had been the old dreams, the substance of long-ago nightmares.

  Only two things had been the same. Ryker had been there, his one icy blue eye staring triumphantly at Nate, his thin lips curved into a smile of psychotic pleasure. And she had been there. In the past, the woman had been his salva­tion—the calm voice, the soothing hand, his sanctuary from the madness from which he could not escape.

  But in these recent dreams, she had cried out for him, and he had not been able to save her. His only hope for peace-destroyed by an old enemy.

  Nate eased out of bed, the feel of the cold stone against his feet chilling his feverish body. He rubbed the back of his neck, stretching as he took several deep breaths. Reaching down to the cane-seated chair beside the bed, he picked up his jeans and pulled them on over his naked body. He re­trieved the K-Bar knife that lay beneath his pillow, slid it into its sheath and attached it to his belt that hung loosely through the loopholes in his jeans. It had been almost five years since he'd worn a knife—since he'd felt the need for constant protection.

  But for the last five years he'd thought Ryker was dead.

  Nate slipped into a pair of leather sandals, then, as an afterthought, he grabbed his shirt and threw it over his shoulder.

  Opening the heavy wooden door, he walked out into the long narrow hallway and, moving slowly, made his way to his den. The room lay in darkness, except for the shadowy glow of moonlight.

  Looking through the wide, open-shuttered windows, Nate noticed the nearly full moon, its silvery yellow light illumi­nating the patio, the unkept gardens, the rock walkway leading from the back of the house to the gravel road. He opened the huge, arched wooden door and stepped out­side. The salty, airy smell of the ocean filled his nostrils, mingling with the thick, heavy aroma of verdant Florida vegetation.

  The cool night breeze caressed his bare chest, shoulders and arms. He slipped into his shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. Slowly, cautiously, he walked along the patio, through the high arched openings that ran the length of the L-shaped porch that extended from the back to the side of the house.

  He'd done little to improve the shabby conditions of his new home since he'd moved in the last of January. But he hadn't purchased this place for its beauty or with any desire to redecorate or restore. This sturdy, solid fortress of a house had been purchased because of its isolated location. Except for the lone cottage across the road right on the beach, the nearest neighbors were a mile away at the state park. The realtor had assured him that the owners of the cottage seldom used the place except in summer. And that was good. Nate didn't want anyone else around when he had to confront Ryker. That was why he'd left St. Augustine, left his business—to protect his friend and partner John Mason, and John's family. Even with his departure, Nate wasn't sure the Masons were safe from a man as diaboli­cally bent on revenge as Ryker, who would use anyone and anything to settle an old score.

  Nate knew the final battle would be over long before summer. Ryker had been spotted in South America three months ago. It was only a matter of time until that mad dog would make his way to the States, find out where Nate was, and come after him.

  Nate walked across the road, leaned against a massive cypress tree dripping with thick Spanish moss, and looked out at the ocean. So peaceful. So serene. Comforting—like the woman in his dreams. If there was one thing on earth Nate wanted, it was peace, blessed sanctuary from the scars of a war long ended, the savage memories of a lifetime spent as a navy SEAL, the bitter regrets of a childhood he could never change.

  He had given up any hope of love or happiness so many years ago he could barely remember thinking such emo­tions existed. In childhood, he'd learned that he could count on no one except himself. As a protective mechanism, he'd closed his heart to love, and over the years, he'd found no woman capable of teaching him to entrust his life to an­other.

  His years in the special services had only reinforced his negative attitudes. He had seen the ugly side of life more times than he cared to remember. He'd thought he could find the peace his soul craved when he left the navy nearly five years ago. But that had been when he'd thought Ryker was dead.

  Nate rested his head against the tree, closed his eyes and remembered tonight's dream. He hadn't known where he was. He'd been lost in a dark, gloomy room filled with dirt and cobwebs, the smell of rotting wood and damp musti-ness everywhere. He had realized he was in terrible da
nger. Ryker was there. Close. Yet out of reach. And she was there. What the hell was she doing with Ryker?

  Nate opened his eyes suddenly, not wanting to see. But with his eyes wide open, he saw her lifeless body in Ryker's arms. The pain ripped through him hotter and more deadly than any blade could have. No. No. She couldn't be dead. She was his lifeline. She was his sanctuary. And Ryker had killed her for revenge. To get even with him.

  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."

  "I can do that here at Sweet H
aven."

  "Stay for as long as you need to. I'll try to keep the na­tives from getting too restless."

  "Thanks." Cyn knew she could count on Mimi. They were kindred souls, both dependable and nurturing women.

  "I'll call you in a few days. Гаке care, honey child."

  "Bye, Mimi." She laid the phone on the table, then fo­cused her attention on the beach, the sound of the lapping water soothing to her nerves.

  Cyn knew that Mimi was right. What she needed now was to escape from the real world. And she'd done just that for a few hours last night, but the dream world she had entered hadn't given her any comfort. He had been there. Big and strong. But he had been in danger. She had felt his fear, and knew that it was an alien emotion, one he'd long ago for­gotten. He had not been afraid for himself, but for her.

  Suddenly, without warning, Cyn saw him running along the beach. Her breath caught in her throat, her chest ach­ing, her heart beating loudly. He was big and powerfully built, yet his tall, muscular body was trim. He ran with the speed and ease of a wild stallion, his shoulder-length black hair flying around his face like a silky mane.

  Cyn blinked her eyes several times, uncertain whether or not the man was real. She looked again. He was still there. His powerful body, clad only in cutoff jeans, raced into the wind, moving farther and farther up the beach.

  She realized how foolish she'd been, even for one mo­ment, to have thought that the runner on the beach was him, the phantom protector from her dreams.

  No matter how hard she tried, Cyn couldn't turn around and walk away. She watched, fascinated by the stranger, by his incredible physical condition, the absolute perfection of his darkly tanned body and by the length of his inky black hair. Even at this distance she could tell he wasn't some long-haired youth. He was obviously a man in his prime. The shoulder-length hair gave him a roguish quality, as if he were a buccaneer. No, she thought, as if he were an ancient warrior.