Nate gripped her shoulder, his strength gentle yet commanding. "What's wrong? What happened in there?"
She covered his hand with hers, slowly pulling it away from her body to hold it to her cheek. "I'm not sure. I've always been fascinated by the legend, but I've never...never really believed it. Not the prophecy part, anyway."
"The prophecy?"
"I guess it's the fact that you're a warrior—"
"A former warrior."
"I suppose I associate the violence in the legend with the violence in your life."
"Tell me the legend," he said, taking her face in his hands, framing her cheekbones with his thumbs.
"The legend tells of a beautiful Timucuan maiden, with hair to her knees and a smile that enticed many a man. But she loved only one. A big Spanish conquistador. They came here to the mission to be married. You see, she had deserted her family's heathen ways and had converted to Catholicism. The priest married them." Cyn stopped talking. She didn't want to start crying. The legend, as beautifully romantic as it was, did not arouse all the feelings of magic and hope and love that it once had. Reality changed things. For the first time, she began to truly wonder what it had been like for those ancient lovers. What fear had they known? By whose violent hand had they died? And why?
"I take it that they didn't live happily ever after." Nate stepped toward her, his body leaning forward, almost touching hers.
"No. They were found dead, murdered, the morning after their marriage. Their bodies lay, naked and entwined, on the beach. The beach in front of my cottage." Tears escaped her eyes, trickling down her face, moistening the strands of her hair that curled around her ears. She wasn't crying for the lost lovers, but for herself and for Nate. There was a special bond forming between them, a physical attraction that drew them to each other. But they were such different people, with such opposing views on life. How could she ever love a man who'd made his living killing others? Could she ever reconcile herself to wanting a man to whom violence came as naturally as breathing?
Nate moved his body against hers, lowering his head until his lips hovered over her open mouth. "Why do the ghosts haunt the beach?"
"The legend says that until another warrior and his maiden find eternal love on this beach and are united in a way the ancient lovers could never be, then the conquistador and his Timucuan maiden can never enter paradise." Cyn could feel his breath, hot and moist against her lips.
"The legend doesn't make any sense." he nipped at her bottom lip, then soothed it with the tip of his tongue. "Surely the Spaniard and his bride had a wedding night. If they made love, then they were united."
"Who knows," Cyn whispered, longing for his kiss.
"And who cares," Nate said. "It's just a legend, isn't it?"
He took her mouth then, thrusting his tongue inside, tasting her sweetness. He ran his hands up and down her back, then crushed her to him, wanting to devour her, seeking out every inch of her flesh, needing to be a part of her.
She whimpered, then flung her arms around his shoulders. He moved his lips along her neck, into the hollow of her throat. She cried out his name. She wanted this man, wanted him here and now.
He jerked away from her, stepping backward, looking at her flushed cheeks and swollen lips? God, what was he doing? What was he thinking? He'd let some stupid tale of ancient lovers spin crazy dreams in his mind. He'd gone to find Cyn in the hopes of persuading her to leave Sweet Haven, and instead he'd lost his head and tried to make love to her.
"Nate?" She looked at him with those rich brown eyes, her gaze questioning him.
"Dammit, Cyn, I'm sorry." He took a tentative step toward her, then stopped. "I want you... I want you badly."
"I...I want you, too," she said, finally admitting the truth to him and to herself.
"Look, I don't have anything to offer you but a brief affair—"
"What if I said, all right?" The words escaped her mouth before thoughts of agreement had even reached her brain. She couldn't allow her heart to answer for her. If she did, she would be lost.
"No, it's not all right. If we'd met a year ago, then maybe. But not now."
"Why not now?"
He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Anyone close to me is in danger. I can't explain. The less you know, the better."
"But, Nate—"
"I can't risk it."
She reached out, touching his cheek with the pahn of her hand. "Some things are worth the risk." Dropping her hand, she turned and walked away.
Nate let her go.
Chapter 6
Cyn stood outside Tomorrow House inspecting the faded metal sign, thinking how the weathered condition of the sign epitomized the shelter's money problems. Oh, the sign could be easily redone, probably the cheapest repair job needed. The building was another matter. The church paid the rent on the one-story brick structure and provided the services of Bruce Tomlinson, but everything else was paid for by donations, and all the workers were strictly volunteers. Except Mimi. The sixty-year old woman, widowed eight years ago, had no other source of income.
No one, not even Mimi, knew that Cyn paid her salary, but all the volunteers did know that Cynthia Wellington Porter lived quite comfortably off a sizable trust fund set up by her paternal grandfather the day she'd been born.
Opening the front door, Cyn walked inside and was immediately bathed in bright sunlight. A few feet away, a small crowd of teens stood staring up at the ceiling. Cyn's eyes followed their line of vision. She gasped when she saw the large ragged hole in the plaster ceiling, the rafters exposed like the weathered gray skeletons of a decayed carcass. Circular water stains dotted the ceiling in several places all around the open gap.
"What happened?" Cyn asked as she neared the group of gawking kids.
"I think a bomb exploded in the attic," one freckle-faced boy said.
"Naw," a black girl said, laughing, "I think Reverend Tomlinson cut that hole so his prayers could get past the ceiling."
Cyn clamped her teeth together in an effort not to laugh. Bruce Tomlinson was a very nice man, and quite dedicated to his work, but his overly pious attitude did little to endear him to the kids he encountered at Tomorrow House.
A tall, robust woman with graying red hair stepped out of a room at the end of the hall. Wiping her hands on her large purple apron, she grinned when she saw Cyn.
"Welcome back," Mimi Burnside said, giving Cyn a bear hug. "I see you've noticed our skylight. Lets in the sunshine, the moonlight, the cool breeze, and if it rains, it'll let that in, too. Of course a real bonus is that it's created an extra entrance for insects."
"When did this happen?" Cyn asked as she started toward her office, Mimi following.
"Yesterday. Luckily, nobody was standing directly in the line of fire, but we had one heck of a mess to clean up." Mimi closed Cyn's office door behind them.
Cyn picked up a stack of mail from the edge of her green metal desk, an army surplus purchase. "That roof has needed repairs for the past three years, but we simply haven't had the money. Has Bruce called someone to come out and give us an estimate?"
"What do you think?" Mimi settled her hefty frame onto one of the three metal folding chairs lined up across the back wall in the office.
"Let me guess." Cyn grabbed the back of her swivel chair, pulling it away from the desk. "He expects me to take care of it this morning. And he also expects me to come up with the money."
"Right on both counts." Mimi cocked her head to one side and gave Cyn a long speculative look. "You seem to be back to your normal self, but I sense something's wrong, Cynthia Ellen Porter. Are you sure you're ready to come back to work?"