Heart of Danger (16 page)

She didn’t need to touch anyone to understand the emotions between the two. You could almost see the waves of love washing back and forth between mother and child.

Quietly, Catherine disposed of the placenta and cleaned up the birthing area.

“Try putting her—Mac—to the breast,” she suggested softly. The baby could wait, but Bridget couldn’t. Catherine didn’t understand what was going on, but it looked like though this baby was clearly wanted, they were having a child in difficult, perhaps dangerous circumstances. Nursing her child would reassure Bridget that the sacrifice was worth it. Skin-to-skin contact—there was nothing like it. “Babies should nurse as soon as possible after birth.”

Catherine reached out and gently guided Mac’s little head to Bridget’s breast. In her stint in OB-GYN she’d heard a nurse describe how a newborn crawled up her mother’s abdomen to her breast and latched on all by herself, finding the nipple with a little sigh of relief.

Mac opened her little rosebud of a mouth and latched onto her mother’s nipple. She suckled contentedly, tiny hands kneading her mother’s breast like a kitten’s paw, her father’s hand cupped over the back of her head.

Everything Mac needed to know she knew already.

She was loved.

It was there in her mother’s eyes and her father’s gentle touch. Catherine watched the small family fold in on itself, secure in their love for each other. Every touch had confirmed that the love was genuine, the kind that lasted a lifetime. And the little girl—pure magic.

Whatever dangers this family faced, they’d face them together.

Feeling all of that even secondhand dazzled her. She’d never encountered that connection between two people, as if they were one. And now a third person—tiny but so powerful Catherine could still feel the effects of her luminescence—had joined the circle.

Powerful emotions rushed through her.

It was too much.

She was exhausted, a deep physical and emotional exhaustion.

She’d spent a lifetime shielding herself from others. This little trio on the bed—father, mother and child—had cracked her open, overwhelmed her with their feelings beating against her like a hot wind scouring her. She had no defenses left.

Their voices dimmed. Her eyes blurred, the room blurred. And a strong hand gripped her arm. Behind her Mac stepped up close, so close she could feel his body heat, so close she’d touch him if she took a deep breath. He was like a wall behind her, holding her up.

A sharp knock and Stella walked in, pushing a serving cart.

“Whoa, party time! We’ve got something to celebrate here!”

Behind her, Surfer Dude, and the dark man, Nick. Behind them, ten, no, fifteen, no twenty people, laughing and chattering, filling the infirmary. Noise and colors and voices.

Sharp pops and Surfer Dude was pouring champagne into flutes which had been lined up along the cart. There seemed to be endless bottles of the stuff. He poured by simply walking along the flutes with a tilted bottle. As fast as he could pour, they were lifted away, to be replaced by other glasses.

He lifted the empty bottle, grabbed another one, nodded with satisfaction at the label and popped the cork. “Good stuff,” he noted.

He thrust a flute in her hand, smiling at her. “Forgot to introduce myself back there. Name’s Jon.” Something soft and cylindrical was thrust in her other hand. “Have a cigar.” He beamed. Then he turned to give Mac a glass.

Catherine put the cigar down and sipped the champagne. Good stuff, indeed.

Bridget, still nursing, held a flute and so did Red.

“Okay, guys, settle down.” The noise level dropped a little. Stella lifted her glass, the harsh overhead lights illuminating every single scar and the beauty beneath it. “I propose a toast, to the newest member of our community. The newest but . . . not the last.”

Her eyebrows waggled as she looked across the room.

A pretty brunette choked on her champagne, blushing bright red. She looked up in indignation at a tall, thin man. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You talked!”

His head reared back in surprise. “No I didn’t, honey! Promise!”

“Never underestimate feminine intuition,” Stella said smoothly. “So. The toast.” Something changed in her voice and a sudden quiet descended on the room. Catherine could feel Stella’s power, her charisma. She attracted attention like filings to a magnet.

“To the newest member of our community. To the
other
Mac. May she grow strong and loved. May she be blessed with health and community. To Mac!”

“To Mac!” Everyone in the room echoed the name, the overhead light reflecting brightly off the crystal flutes raised in salute.

A quick glance up at Mac’s face and Catherine froze. He wasn’t looking at Stella, he was looking at
her
. He didn’t look away when she caught him staring, either. His gaze wasn’t seductive but it wasn’t hostile. It was . . . it was something and she had no idea what. The temptation to reach out to touch him, to understand what was going on in that head of his was so strong she had to curl her hands into fists to stop herself.

And . . . well. The temptation to touch him just to feel those muscles was strong, too. Nearly irresistible. He was made of a substance harder than human skin. Like steel, only warm. And steady strength underneath it.

Catherine often felt the frailty of people under their skins.

Their hopes and dreams, sure. But also their fears and insecurities. What made them shrink in terror, what baffled them, what weakened them. Love slipping through their fingers, the small acts of cowardice that peppered their lives, lies and swindles and vices—all there under her fingertips.

There had been nothing like that touching Mac. He was a force of nature, a man of granite self-control, with no chinks in that muscled armor and no weaknesses. There was anger there and a strong sense of betrayal, but something rocklike, too. She’d never been near anyone like him and the urge to touch him, one last time, was almost overpowering.

A tall, thin, pale woman and a short, stocky, dark-haired man slipped into the room.

“You guys missed all the fun!” Jon called out. Voices vied to fill them in on what they’d missed. Pat and Salvatore, the nurses. When they were briefed on what had happened, they both lifted a glass to her and she lifted hers in return.

“Catherine.”

She swiveled her head in surprise. Stella had her flute still up and was looking straight at her.

“Listen up, everyone. I’ve got another toast, an important one. To Catherine, who helped bring the latest addition to our community into the world, even though”—and here she narrowed her eyes at Mac, Nick and Jon, each in turn—“even though she hasn’t been treated too well by us.” Stella stopped and slowly looked at every person in the room. “There is an us. We’ve come to this place by ones and twos. Found our way here because . . . because the outside world became too dangerous for us. Here we’ve found refuge and protection. Mac and Nick and Jon—well, who could ask for better protectors? We’ve found each other. So tonight we have two new members of our little community. Mac, a tiny baby girl, and Catherine, who found her way to us the way we all did. By the strength of her heart. So . . . to Catherine!”

“To Catherine!” The room echoed with the roar. Several clapped loudly, others joining in with enthusiasm. The noise level was incredible.

Glancing over at the bed, Catherine saw that baby Mac slept blissfully through it all. Maybe babies had some kind of radar that let them know which loud noises were dangerous to them and which were not. This roar was definitely benign. The roar of happy people, raising their glasses in a toast.

A toast to
her
!

It was dizzying. She’d never been toasted before. She’d never been at the center of so many beaming faces before. Faces beaming at
her
!

Someone spilled some champagne on her and laughed. “Drink up!” someone shouted, and they all did. Catherine, too. The champagne was delicious, heady. It tasted like bottled moonlight, crisp and clean and probably 90 proof since it went immediately to her head.

Jon was now a supercharged sommelier, walking around with a bottle in his hand, pouring constantly. When one finished, there’d be a pop and another would appear.

The noise and laughter rose.

An arm jostled her and she stumbled, felt herself start to fall. Mac caught her, held her upright. He simply wrapped his big hand around her upper arm and straightened her. The other huge hand was on the small of her back, pulling her to him. She was—she was in his embrace.

Looking up, all she saw was hard, square jaw, slight five o’clock shadow and shuttered eyes. From this angle the burn scar stood out, rippled skin casting small furrowed shadows. The knife scar on the other side of his face was a keloid slash, like a tribal scar.

Their eyes met. The raucous sounds in the room faded away to nothing. His eyes were deep brown with lines of lighter brown in them. Dark and compelling and impenetrable.

Did he dislike holding her? It was impossible to tell. It was impossible to tell what he felt about her. All she really got from him was strength and power.

One thing she knew, though. He wasn’t letting go of her. He held her tightly against him, so tightly she could feel the cut muscles of his chest through the black sweatshirt he wore, down to the individual muscles. Such amazing power. What must it be like to be so powerful?

“Great job!” A laughing elderly gentlemen threw his arms around her from behind, pushing her even more tightly against Mac. “Welcome to Haven!”

Someone on her left hugged her. She couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Someone else hugged her to her right. A woman this time, soft and smelling of lavender.

Someone tried a group hug and tripped, champagne spilling onto the floor. A laughing man and woman squeezed her shoulders. Behind them, others pressed forward until there was a tangled mass of happy people clustered around her like barnacles.

Her head swam. She was slightly claustrophobic but that wasn’t it, even though she was so tightly squeezed between a wall of flesh and the hard wall of Mac’s chest. Claustrophobia always came with a tinge of fear.

There was no fear here, none at all. Nothing to be afraid of, nothing threatening her. Just very happy people celebrating a happy event.

But . . . they were all touching her, as if it were a competition to see who could grab the biggest piece of her. However friendly the gestures, their emotions pulsed and swam around her.

Catherine had rarely had two people touching her at the same time. Now there were twenty, more, maybe, pushing and shoving and trying to hug her and kiss her cheek, laughing. A few wiped tears from their eyes.

There’d been suffering here, there was worry, there was sadness.

There was great joy and a sense of companionship.

Someone touched her neck—a runaway. He’d escaped with his life from somewhere, he was still scared. Someone else—determined to find a niece who was in the hands of a gang. Sorrow and anxiety, a burst of great affection for someone, for . . . Mac! For the larger Mac, not the baby.

The emotions fed on each other. Each person had a history, a highly emotional past, not always pleasant. They were happy to be here in this specific time and place but there was an outside world pressing in, threatening . . .

The threat felt like ropes around her chest, dark and burning. There was love here but no safety except the safety provided by the three men in command. Catherine perceived the underlying fear and the threats, and yet in Mac’s embrace, the part of her touching him was free of fear, while the part of her being touched by others was absorbing it, she was a sponge soaking up the dark tides rising, rising . . .

And her knees buckled.

Fuck.

Catherine crumpled in his arms. Mac tightened his hold on her and turned to everyone who’d been crowding her. He knew his community was celebrating, and not just the birth of the little girl.

Named Mac. Jeez. What the fuck was that about? You couldn’t call a little baby girl Mac. He’d have to talk to Bridget and Red about that.

“Okay, gang, listen up!”

Mac had a deep voice and he knew how to put command in it. In two seconds there was utter quiet in the room. Everyone had stepped back and were now recognizing that Catherine was unsteady on her feet.

“I know you’re all happy about the birth of Mac.” He had a straight line of sight to Bridget cradling the baby, Red by her side. “And you two—you’re gonna have to rethink that name.” He put a hard, stern note in his voice but Bridget just smiled at him sleepily. “And I know you are all grateful to Catherine for her help. But I think we’re overwhelming her.”

Yeah. Nearly freezing to death in a snowstorm, interrogated by professional soldiers who’d been subjected to SERE training, watching her home being trashed by thugs, delivering a baby . . . yeah, that would try anyone, let alone someone as fragile-looking as Catherine Young.

She stirred. “No, really.” She smiled weakly. “I’m fine, I—”

“Shut up,” Mac growled. He’d felt her buckle, felt now the weakness, could even feel the effort she was making to stand up straight. She was trembling.

The hell with this. He scooped her up in his arms.

He turned with Catherine in his arms and stopped when Stella put a hand on his shoulder. She was frowning with concern, accentuating the scars left by the knife slashes. “Take her to your quarters, she’ll be more comfortable. I’ll send some tea in.”

He nodded and walked out.

“I can walk,” Catherine protested.

Yeah, she probably could. But shit, she felt really good in his arms.

He had spacious quarters—a large apartment really—two floors down. He stood for a second outside his door. The lock was biomorphological, set to recognize his body shape, together with the shapes of Nick and Jon. It didn’t recognize his shape with Catherine in his arms so he had to enter in a code in the alphanumeric keypad hidden in the wall.

Mac had to suppress the shocking thought that he’d better reset the biomorphological lock because it wouldn’t be the last time he’d have Catherine Young in his arms.