Nate longed for a drink, a stiff belt of strong whiskey, not the watered-down bourbon he'd been served at the Brazen Hussy earlier tonight. He didn't want to remember Nam or any of the death-defying assignments he'd taken part in during the years he'd been a SEAL. He wanted no more violence in his life. All he wanted was peace.
Running his fingers through his hair, he loosed the band that held the thick black mass into a subdued ponytail, releasing it to fall freely down his neck and against his face. He walked over to the three-legged pine cabinet sitting in the corner of the den, opened a drawer and pulled out an almost-full bottle of Jack Daniel's. Undoing the cap, he tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a short, quick swig. The straight whiskey burned like fire as it coated his mouth, anesthetizing his tongue, burning a trail down his gut when he swallowed.
Hell, he shouldn't need this. He'd never been a man to use liquor to solve his problems. He recapped the bottle and shoved it into the drawer.
Cyn. He'd heard the boy named Casey call her Cyn. What a name for a church shelter worker. She looked like sin— pure, damn-a-man's-immortal-soul type of sin. All soft, female flesh, with round hips, tiny waist and full breasts. And golden-blond hair. God, a man could go crazy thinking about that mane of sunshine covering his naked body.
But the one thing he couldn't forget about her, no matter how hard he tried, were her eyes. Those rich, warm brown eyes.
Nate took in a hefty gulp of air, then released it slowly. The heady aroma of sweat and smoke and liquor clung to his body, hair and clothes. Damn, he needed a shower—a cold shower—and about eight hours of dreamless sleep.
Within minutes, Nate had stripped and stood beneath the cleansing chill of the antiquated shower in the house's one bathroom, located just off the kitchen. For a while he simply stood and let the water pour over his hot, sticky body. A body heavy with desire.
He had to focus on something besides Cyn Porter, or he'd be up half the night if he didn't settle for a less-than-satisfactory, temporary solution. Think of something pleasant, he told himself. He tried to recall the carefree shore leaves he'd shared with Nick and occasionally with John, days they'd sowed their wild oats in countries all over the world.
But his most pleasant memories were hidden deep in his heart, tucked away in a private section he had marked with No Trespassing signs. The happiest moments of his life had been spent with his mother when he'd been a small boy. Although she'd died when he was six, he could still remember what she looked like, what she smelled like, how she'd felt when she'd held him close.
Grace Hodges had been a beautiful woman. Tall, slender, elegant. She had been the only person who'd ever loved him, and in the years since her death, he'd often wondered why she hadn't hated him. After all, he'd been a child born to her from a brief affair with a man who had deserted her, and soon afterward had gotten himself killed. Nate's father had been no good. And he was just like his father. His uncle had told him that—often.
"Your old man was some mixed-breed sonofabitch who ruined my sister's life," Collum Hodges had delighted in telling Nate. "If I'd had my way, she would've had an abortion. Our family had the money—we could have found a doctor. But no, she had to have you, and keep you, a constant reminder of her dead lover. She disgraced herself and the whole family. And now, I'm stuck with you, you dirty little bastard."
Nate told himself that his uncle's taunts no longer hurt him, that he was immune to the racial slurs his dark, Hispanic looks had garnered him over the years, especially as a boy growing up in an affluent north Florida Anglo neighborhood. The only anguish he endured now was knowing how badly his mother had suffered because she had refused to give away her lover's child.
And what about that lover? Nate had wondered about his father. Who had he been? Had he known, before his death, that Nate existed? And if he had, had he cared?
What difference did any of that make now? Nate asked himself as he stepped out of the shower and reached for a huge white towel. He had enough immediate problems without dredging up any from his childhood.
Drying off quickly, he walked down the hall, his body still damp and totally naked. His bare feet made a slight slapping noise as he moved over the slick stone floor. As soon as he entered his bedroom, he reached down, checking under his pillow for his K-Bar knife, then fell into bed. The night air felt chilly, but he didn't pull up a blanket or even a sheet. He lay there in the dark room, listening to the quiet, blessing the solitude. He closed his eyes. Restless and frustrated, Nate tossed and turned, longing for peace, for the pure dark moments of sleep when all his problems vanished.
If only he could sleep without dreaming—without seeing her lifeless body and Ryker's one gloating blue eye staring at him. * * *
Cyn slipped the cassette into the tape deck sitting on the first shelf of the bookcase near the back door. The living room in the cottage ran from front to back, the entire length of the house, so that both front and back doors exited from the same room.
Listening to songs from the fifties always reminded Cyn of her mother. Her father had often said she had inherited her romantic nature from Marjorie Wellington, who had lived an ideal life with a loving husband and two children— until it all ended tragically when the small airplane on which she'd been traveling crashed. Denton Wellington had been devastated, and had blamed himself because Marjorie had been touring the state on behalf of his congressional election.
Cyn would never forget how amazed family and friends had been that the plump, shy, fifteen-year-old Cynthia had shown a strength and courage that quite literally held both her father and younger brother together in the weeks and months following Marjorie's death. Cyn suspected that it was then that her fate had been sealed. Soon, everyone who knew her grew to depend upon her strength—in any crisis and under any circumstances.
Perhaps it was because others quickly forgot that Cyn, too, needed occasional support and comfort that the dreams started. For months after Marjorie's death, she dreamed of the strong, protective man with the incredible green eyes.
Cyn heard the small antique clock in her bedroom strike twice. Two o'clock. Pre-dawn hours when the world slept, when most people were lost in comforting renewal. But she couldn't rest.
After taking a long, soothing bubble bath, she'd slipped on her aqua silk gown and crawled into bed. After over an hour of endless tossing, she'd gotten up, put on her robe and rambled around the cottage, finally making her way into the kitchen to pour herself a cup of the coffee she'd prepared earlier. She knew sleep would be impossible. She couldn't stop thinking about what had happened tonight.
She had met the stranger, the handsome and magnetic man she'd seen on the beach. The man with the green eyes that so reminded her of her dream lover. She found it difficult to imagine Nate Hodges as a comforting protector, someone capable of unselfish care and ultimate gentleness. Cyn felt certain that he was as hard and cold and dangerous as the knife he had put to Lazarus Jones's throat tonight. And yet... she couldn't dismiss the feeling that she knew this man, that she'd known him all her life. Perhaps in another life?
Cyn shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and gripping her elbows in a fierce hug. What made her think something so outrageous? She was tired. Exhausted. The stress that had been building in her life for the last year had taken its toll on her emotions. The always-strong, always-reliable and in-control Cynthia Ellen Wellington Porter had finally reached the limits of her control. She had begun imagining things, things like seeing a resemblance between that brute Nate Hodges and the man from her dreams.
Opening the door leading to the patio, Cyn watched the sky, dark and mysterious, filled with countless stars and one big, bright moon. She breathed in the sharp, poignant smell of the ocean, felt the crisp, cool wind coming off the Atlantic. Leaning backward, she rested her head against the doorframe.