The bright headlights of an oncoming car nearly blinded Cyn. She slowed the van to several miles below the speed limit just in time to see the turnoff to the beach. Taking a right, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that Nate had turned directly behind her.
She was tempted to pull off on the side of the road, wait until he stopped, then get out and demand that he quit following her. She wanted to tell him that he didn't have to see her safely home, that there was no danger for her in Sweet Haven. But she didn't stop until she pulled into the driveway at her cottage.
Jerking the keys from the ignition, she opened the door and hopped down onto the stone walkway. Expecting Nate to drive his Jeep in beside her van, Cyn turned around to greet him, the words "thank you and goodbye" on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes widened in surprise when she watched him pass her cottage. Where is he going? she wondered. Didn't he realize she lived on a dead-end road, and even though he probably lived nearby, there was no way out except the way he'd come in?
He turned into the overgrown drive across the road. She sighed with relief, assuming he was going to turn around. When his Jeep disappeared behind the old shell-rock and wooden house that had stood deserted since its last owner had died nearly two years ago, Cyn planted her hands on her hips, shaking her head in bewilderment. What did he think he was doing?
She waited for a few minutes, thinking his Jeep would reappear. It didn't. Well, whatever kind of game he was playing, she wasn't going to cooperate. With an exasperated groan, Cyn went into her cottage.
Stumbling over a footstool in the living room, she cursed herself for not leaving on a light when she'd left. She kicked off her heels, then reached out to turn on a nearby table lamp. Hopping around on one foot, she massaged the throbbing toes that had collided with the footstool. She headed toward the kitchen, flipping on light switches as she went. She opened the freezer, pulled out a half-gallon container of chocolate-marshmallow ice cream and set it on the table.
"Where is he?" she said aloud. Was it possible that he planned to stay the night in the abandoned house across the road so he could watch over her? "You're fantasizing again, Cynthia Ellen. Nate Hodges is not your protector. He's a ruthless, deadly man. Tonight, you saw what he's capable of doing."
Cyn retrieved a long-handled spoon from a nearby drawer, sat down at the table and opened the ice cream carton. Sticking the spoon into the frozen dessert, she lifted a huge bite to her mouth.
Think about something besides him, she told herself. You've got enough problems without borrowing trouble. You took a dangerous chance tonight hoping to help Bobby, and maybe even Casey, and where did it get you? Into trouble—trouble spelled N-A-T-E. Stop that now! Concentrate on finding a way to help Bobby. There was no telling where the boy was right now. She only prayed that he wasn't with Casey.
Cyn slipped the smooth, creamy chocolate concoction into her mouth, savoring the rich, sweet taste. She dipped the spoon in again and again as she devoured her edible nerve-soother. That's what Mimi called Cyn's addiction to sweets, especially ice cream.
Mimi. That's it. She needed to talk to Mimi. Checking her watch, she saw that it was after midnight. She couldn't call the elderly woman at this hour, no matter how badly she needed a motherly shoulder to cry on. The heart-to-heart talk she so badly needed would have to wait.
While Cyn finished almost a third of a carton of ice cream, she tried to figure out just what she would do if Nate should appear at her door tonight. She'd tell him to get lost. No. She'd thank him again for coming to her rescue, then she'd say a polite goodbye. Or maybe she would invite him in for coffee.
Without even thinking about what she was doing, Cyn got up and prepared her coffeemaker. Just as she flipped on the switch, she realized what she'd done. What was wrong with her? Did she actually want Nate Hodges to come by for coffee? A man like that? A man who carried a deadly knife. A man who had subdued a muscular young man half his age with the ease of a wolf overpowering a rabbit.
She took a deep breath, groaning at the pungent odors her own body and clothes emitted. God, she smelled like a sweaty, smoky, whiskey-perfumed streetwalker. Running her fingers over her face, she realized she probably didn't look much better. She'd overdone the makeup just a bit tonight in the hopes of fitting in at the Brazen Hussy.
Forget about Nate Hodges, about phoning Mimi, about where Bobby and Casey are, she told herself. What she needed was a long soak in the bathtub and a good night's sleep.
Maybe she wouldn't dream about a man with incredible green eyes. * * *
Nate prowled around the den, feeling like a caged animal. If he let himself, his feelings for Cynthia Porter could close in, corner and trap him. He didn't know why, now of all times, she had come into his life. He'd been alone most of his forty-two years. He didn't want or need the complications of a permanent relationship—now or ever. He'd never been in love, had never believed the crap about that undying, forever-after emotion.
Love was only a word. His mother had loved his father, but that love had given her nothing but grief. The man for whom she'd borne a child hadn't cared enough about her to marry her. For all Nate knew, his mother had been one of countless women his father had loved and left behind.
And when his mother had died, he'd been handed over to his uncle, a man who'd taught Nate, early on, that love was for weaklings and only the strong survived. Nate was strong. He'd lived through years of physical and verbal abuse from the man who'd taught him to trust and depend on nothing and no one except himself. Hate was a powerful teacher. And Nate hated Collum Hodges—almost as much as his uncle had hated him.
He didn't want or need a woman in his life, depending on him, caring for him, demanding more of him than he could give. Oh, he'd had his share of women over the years, but he'd never allowed one to mean more to him than a temporary pleasure. No woman had ever pierced through the painful scan that protected his heart—except her. The woman from his dreams, the woman with the warm, rich brown eyes, the woman who gave his heart and soul sanctuary within her loving arms.
And for some stupid reason he had allowed himself to think, for a few crazy minutes, that Cynthia Porter might be that dream woman come to life. What had given him such delusions? Even if his beautiful neighbor did have the same hypnotic brown eyes, it didn't mean that she was—Stop it! He cursed himself for being a fool. He had more important things to worry about than a woman—any woman.
Ryker was in Miami working for one of the most notorious drug families in the country. Nate knew his days were numbered. Soon, maybe sooner than he'd planned, Ian Ryker would go hunting, searching for a man he blamed for the death of his lover and the loss of his eye and hand.
Nate had relived that day a hundred, no, a thousand times, and he knew there was nothing that he or any of the other SEAL team could or would have done differently. They had all regretted that the woman had been killed, accidentally, in the crossfire when she'd tried to protect Ryker. Momentarily paralyzed by the sight of his Vietnamese lover's lifeless body, Ryker's reaction to Nate's attack had been a second off, costing him his eye, his hand and perhaps, over a period of time, his sanity.