Page 40 of Heart of Danger
There was no way to know how long she’d been with Bridget and Red. Her watch had died together with her car and cell and computer. The room had no outside windows and no wall clock. Her best guess was that she’d been here for at least four or five hours, which would make it late afternoon of the most stressful day of her life.
Being kidnapped, watching her home being invaded and then trashed. The long, intense birth of Mac. The vivid, overpowering emotions swirling in the room, penetrating down to her very cells.
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 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. Her knees buckled…
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.
She needed to lie down, close her eyes, center herself.
She needed to get away, fast. Away from the dark solid mass of the man propping her up. Away from the intense emotions of the little family on the bed. Away from this entire community, where she had no place, no role, except her usual one of outsider.
Only…away to where?
Not back home. Not with Baring and his goons looking for her.
Not back to Millon.
Not back to Chicago.
Not back to Boston.
Back to…where?
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.” Some 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 Manuel.
“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 theotherMac. 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.
