Father Mine Read online

  "Really?" Man, what kind of father was he that he didn't know all this.

  Well, that was easy. He hadn't been any sort of father at all.

  Bella extended her hand. "Let's shower, and then come with me. Let me introduce you to your daughter."

  Z took a deep breath. Then nodded.

  "I'd like that," he said.

  EIGHT

  As Zsadist breached the doorway of the nursery, he actually double-checked to make sure his shirt was properly tucked into his leathers. Man, he loved the smell of the room. Lemon-scented innocence was what he called it in his mind. Sweet like a flower, but not cloying. Clean.

  Bella squeezed his hand and led him over to the crib. Surrounded by satin bows that were bigger than she was, Nalla was curled up on her side, her arms and legs tucked in tight, her eyes shut hard as if she were working really, really, really diligently at being asleep.

  The instant Z looked over the lip of the crib, she stirred. Made a little noise. In her sleep her hand reached out, not toward her mother, but to him.

  "What does she want?" he asked like an idiot.

  "She wants you to touch her." When he didn't move, Bella murmured, "She does this in her sleep . . . she seems to know who's around and she likes a little pat."

  To his shellan's absolute credit, she didn't force him to do anything.

  But Nalla wasn't happy. Her little hand and arm strained for him.

  Z wiped his palm on the front of his shirt, then rubbed it up and down a couple of times on his hip. As he reached forward, his fingers trembled.

  Nalla made the connection. His daughter took his thumb and held it with such strength he felt a spear of pure, undiluted pride shoot through his chest.

  "She's strong," he pronounced, his approval positively dripping off the words.

  Bella made a little noise beside him.

  "Nalla?" he whispered as he bent down. His daughter pursed her little lips and held on even stronger.

  "I can't believe that grip of hers." He let his forefinger brush lightly on his daughter's wrist. "Soft . . . oh, my God, she's so soft--"

  Nalla's eyes flipped open. And as he looked into a stare the exact golden color of his own, his heart stopped. "Hi . . ."

  Nalla blinked and waved his finger and transformed him: Everything stopped as she moved not just his hand, but his heart.

  "You're like your mahmen," he whispered. "You make the world go away for me. . . ."

  Nalla kept wagging his hand and let out a coo.

  "I can't believe her grip. . . ." He glanced up at Bella. "She's so--"

  Tears were streaming down Bella's face, and her arms were locked around her chest as if she were trying not to shatter apart.

  His heart moved again, but for a different reason.

  "Come here, nalla," he said, reaching out to his shellan, tucking her in against him with his free hand. "Come here to your male."

  Bella buried her face into his chest and her palm found his.

  As Z stood there, with a hold on both his daughter and his mate, he felt eight thousand feet tall, and faster than his Carrera and stronger than an army.

  His chest swelled with renewed purpose. They were both his, these two. His and his alone, and he had to take care of them. One was his heart and the other a piece of himself, and they completed him by filling voids he didn't know he had.

  Nalla looked up at her parents and the most adorable sound came out of her button mouth, a kind of, Well, isn't this lovely, the way things have sorted out.

  But then his daughter reached up with her other hand . . . and touched the slave band on his wrist.

  Z stiffened. He couldn't help it.

  "She doesn't know what they are," Bella said softly.

  He took a hard breath. "She will. Someday she will know exactly what they are."

  Before Z went down to see Doc Jane, he spent more time with his ladies. He ordered some food for Bella, and while it was being prepared he watched for the first time as his daughter was fed. Nalla zonked right out afterward, which was perfect timing, as Fritz arrived with the food. Z fed his shellan from his own hand, taking special satisfaction in choosing the very best parts of the chicken breast and the homemade rolls and the broccoli spears for her.

  When the plate was clean and the wineglass empty, he wiped Bella's mouth with a damask napkin as her lids fluttered down. Tucking her in, he kissed her, picked up the tray and his right shitkicker, and stepped out.

  As he closed the door quietly and heard the knob click, a glow of contentment bathed him. His females were fed and sleeping and safe. He'd done his job well.

  Job? Try mission in life.

  He glanced toward the nursery door and wondered whether, as a male, you bonded with your children or not. He'd always heard it was only with your shellan . . . but he was starting to have some serious protective instincts over Nalla. And he hadn't even picked her up yet. Give him two weeks of getting familiar with her? He was liable to become an H-bomb if anything threatened her.

  Was that what being a father was like? He didn't know. None of his brothers had young and there was no one else he could think of to ask.

  Heading for the stairs, he limped down the hall of statues, boot, cast, boot, cast, boot, cast. . . . and he looked at his wrists as he went along.

  Downstairs he took the dishes into the kitchen and thanked Fritz, then went into the tunnel that led to the training center. If Doc Jane had given up waiting on him, he was going to cut the cast off himself.

  Stepping out through the closet in the office, he heard the high whining sound of a table saw and followed the scream to the gym. On the way he was looking forward to seeing how Jane's new clinic was coming along. The three treatment bays, which were being constructed out of one of the facility's audience halls, were designed to function as either surgical suites or patient bays, and the equipment was going to be state of the art. Doc Jane was investing in a CAT scan, digital X-ray imaging, and ultrasound technology, along with an electronic medical records system and a host of hi-tech surgical tools. With a supply room worthy of a fully functioning emergency department, the goal was to circumvent the Brotherhood's use of Havers's clinic.

  Which was safer for everybody. The Brotherhood's compound was surrounded by mhis, thanks to V, but the same couldn't be said for where Havers practiced--as had been proven when the clinic was sacked over the summer. Considering that the Brothers could be tailed at any time, it was smart to keep as many things having to do with them in-house.

  Z cracked one of the gym's metal doors open and paused. Yeah, whoa. Doc Jane evidently had some serious Extreme Home Makeover in her.

  Last night, when Z had been rolled in, everything had been as it always was. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, a six-foot-by-twelve-foot hole had been busted out of the cinder-block wall across the way. The opening exposed the audience hall that was going to be converted, and right in front of the chasm, V's mate was taking a two-by-four and feeding it into a table saw, her hands solid, the rest of her ghostly transparent.

  When she caught sight of Z, she finished with the board and turned the machine off. "Hey!" she called out as the din faded. "You ready to have that cast removed?"

  "Yeah. And clearly you're good with a saw."

  "You better believe it." She grinned and gestured toward the hole. "So, you like my interior decorating?"

  "You don't fool around."

  "Masonry hammers rock, what can I say?"

  "I'm ready for the next board," V hollered from the lecture hall.

  "It's ready."

  V came out wearing a tool belt hung with a hammer and several chisels. As he went over to his female, he said, "Hey, Z, how's your leg?"

  "Gonna be better once Doc Jane takes this deadweight off." Z nodded across the way. "Man, you guys are going to town."

  "Yeah, we should be able to take care of the framing tonight."

  Doc Jane handed her male the board and gave him a quick kiss, her face becoming solid as c
ontact was made. "I'll be right back. Just going to take off his cast."

  "Don't rush." V nodded at Zsadist. "You look tight. I'm glad."

  "Your female's a miracle worker."

  "That she is."

  "Okay, enough with the ego stroking, boys." She smiled and kissed her mate again. "Come on, Z. Let's do it."

  As she turned away, V's eyes followed her body . . . which no doubt meant that as soon as Zsadist was out of their hair, the new clinic wasn't the only thing that was going to get worked on.

  When Doc Jane and Z got to the PT suite, he went over and hopped up onto the gurney. "Thought maybe you'd want to use that table saw on me."

  "Nah. You already have one person in your bloodline missing a leg. Two would be overkill." Her smile was gentle. "Any pain?"

  "Nope."

  She rolled over a portable X-ray machine. "Put your leg up--perfect. Thanks."

  As she came back at him with a lead drape, he took it from her and settled it over himself.

  "Can I ask you something?" he said.

  "Yup. Let me get this done first, though." She arranged the eye of the machine and took a picture, a short, humming burst rising up into the room. After checking a computer screen across the way, she said, "On your side, please."

  He rolled over and she moved his leg around. After another quick hum and a check of the monitor, she said, "Okay, you can sit up. Leg looks great, so I'm just going to get rid of this outstanding plaster job I did."

  She handed him a blanket and turned her back as he shucked his leathers. Then she brought over a stainless-steel saw and carefully went to work on his cast.

  "So what's your question?" she said over the buzzing as she worked.

  Z rubbed the slave band on his left wrist, then extended his arm toward her. "Do you really think I could get these taken off?"

  Jane paused with the saw still running, no doubt collecting her thoughts not only from a medical standpoint but a personal one. She made a noise, a little huh, and quickly finished shucking the cast.

  "You want to clean your leg up?" she asked, bringing over a damp washcloth.

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  After he made quick work with the tidy business, she gave him something to dry off with.

  "Mind if I take a closer look at the skin?" she said, nodding to his wrist. When he shook his head, she bent over his arm.

  "Laser removal of tattoos in humans is quite common. I don't have the technology here, but with your help, I have an idea how we could give it a shot. And who could do it for you."

  He stared down at the black band and thought of his daughter's little hand on that dense black ink.

  "I think . . . yeah, I think I want to try."

  When Bella woke up and stretched in her mated bed, she felt like she'd been on vacation for a month. Her body was refreshed and strong . . . as well as sore in all the right places. And in spite of her earlier shower, Z's scent remained all over her, and wasn't that just perfect.

  Going by the clock on the bedside table, she'd been out like a light for about two hours, so she got up, put on her robe, and brushed her teeth, thinking a check on Nalla and maybe a snack was a good thing. She was on her way into the nursery when Z came through the door.

  She couldn't help beaming at him. "Your cast is off."

  "Mmm-hmmm . . . come here, female." He walked over to her, wrapped his arms around her, and bent her backward so she had to grab onto his arms to stay upright. He kissed her long and slow, rubbing his lower body and his huge erection into the juncture of her thighs.

  "I missed you," he purred against her throat.

  "You just had me only two hour--"

  His tongue in her mouth silenced her, as did his hands, which ended up on her butt. He carried her over to one of the windowsills, propped her up on the molding, unzipped himself, and--

  "Oh . . . God," she groaned with a smile.

  Now this . . . this was the male she knew and loved. Always hungry for her. Always wanting to be close. As he started to move slowly inside of her, she remembered back in the beginning, after he'd finally opened himself up to her. She'd been surprised by how much he wanted to be cozied against her, whether it was during meals or when they were hanging with the Brothers or during the day when they slept. It was as if he'd been making up for centuries of not having warm, nurturing contact.

  Bella wrapped her arms around his neck and put her cheek to his ear, the baby-soft brush of his skull trim caressing her face as he moved.

  "I'm going to . . . need your help," he said as he surged forward and slid back.

  "Anything . . . just don't stop. . . ."

  "Wouldn't . . . dream . . . of it--" The rest of what he said was lost as the sex took control. "Oh, God . . . Bella!"

  After they were finished, her male pulled back a little, his citrine eyes sparkling like champagne. "By the way . . . hi. I forgot to say that when I walked in."

  "Oh, I think you greeted me just fine, thank you very much." She kissed his mouth. "Now . . . help?"

  "Let's get you tidied up," he drawled, the light in that yellow stare of his telling her that the cleaning might well lead to more messiness.

  Which it certainly did.

  When they were both satiated and she'd had yet a third shower, she wrapped herself up in her robe and started toweling her hair. "Now, what do you need my help with?"

  Z propped himself against the marble counter next to the sinks, rubbed his palm over his skull trim, and got dead serious.

  Bella stopped what she was doing. As he stayed quiet, she backed up and sat down on the edge of the Jacuzzi to give him some space. She waited, hands clenching and releasing in her lap.

  For some reason, as he sat there collecting his thoughts, she realized that they had done a lot in this bathroom. It was here that she'd found him throwing up after he'd aroused her for the very first time at that party. And then . . . after he'd rescued her from the lessers, he'd bathed her in this tub. And in the shower across the way she'd fed from him for the first time.

  She thought of that rough period in their lives, her just out of her abduction, him struggling with his attraction to her. Glancing over to the right, she recalled finding him on the tile beneath an ice-cold spray, scrubbing at his wrists, believing himself unclean and unable to feed her.

  He'd shown a lot of courage. Getting over what had been done to him enough to trust her had taken a lot of courage.

  Bella's eyes went back to him, and when she realized he was staring at his wrists, she said, "You're going to try to get them removed, aren't you."

  His mouth twitched into a half smile, the side distorted by the tail of his facial scar lifting. "You know me so well."

  "How will you get it done?" When he finished telling her, she nodded. "Excellent plan. And I'll go with you."

  He looked up at her. "Good. Thank you. I don't think I could do it without you."

  She stood up and went over to him. "You're not going to have to worry about that."

  NINE

  Dr. Thomas Wolcott Franklin III had the second-best office in the St. Francis Hospital complex.

  When it came to quality administrative real estate, the pecking order was determined by your revenues, and as chief of dermatology, T.W. was behind only one other department head.

  Of course, the fact that his department was such a good earner was because he'd "sold out," as some of the academic stalwarts maintained. Under his leadership, dermatology not only handled lesions and cancers and burns in addition to chronic skin conditions such as psoriasis, eczema, and acne, but there was a whole subdivision that did only cosmetic procedures.

  Face-lifts. Brow-lifts. Breast enhancements. Lipo. Botox. Restylane. A hundred other improvements. The health care model was private-practice service delivered in an academic setting, and wealthy clients loved the concept. The bulk of them came up from the Big Apple--at first making the trip for the anonymity of getting first-class treatment out of the tight-knit plastics community in Manha
ttan, but then, perversely, for the status. Getting "work" done in Caldwell was the chic thing to do, and, courtesy of the trend, only the chief of surgery, Manny Manello, had a better office view.

  Well, Manello's private bathroom also had marble in the shower, not just on the counters and walls, but really, who was counting.

  T.W. liked his view. Liked his office. Loved his work.

  Which was a good thing, as his days started at seven and ended at--he checked his watch--nearly seven.

  Tonight, though, he should have already been gone by now. T.W. had a standing racquetball game every Monday night at seven p.m. at the Caldwell Country Club . . . so he was a little confused as to why he'd agreed to see a patient now. Somehow he'd said yes and had his secretary find a replacement for him on the courts, but he couldn't for the life of him remember the whys or whos of it all.

  He took his printed schedule out of the breast pocket of his white coat and shook his head. Right next to seven o'clock was the name B. Nalla and the words laser cosmetics. Man, he had no recollection how the appointment had been made or who it was or who'd given the referral . . . but nothing got onto that grid of hours without his permission.

  So it must be someone important. Or the patient of someone important.

  Clearly he was working too hard.

  T.W. logged on to the electronic medical records system and ran a search, again, for B. Nalla. Closest match was Belinda Nalda. Typo? Could be. But his assistant had left at six, and it seemed rude to interrupt her while she was having dinner with her family with just a what-the-hell-is-this?

  He stood up, checked his tie and buttoned his white coat, then picked up some work to review while he waited downstairs for B. Nalla or Nalda to show.

  As he headed out of the department's top-floor stretch of offices and treatment areas, he thought about the difference between up here and down in the private clinic. Night and day. Here the decor was done in hospital non-chic: low-napped dark carpet, cream walls, lots of plain cream doors. The prints that were hung had spare stainless-steel frames, and the plants were few and far between.

  Downstairs? Top-tier spa land with concierge services delivered in the kind of luxury the very rich expected: the treatment rooms had HD flat-screen TVs, DVDs, couches, chairs, tiny Sub-Zero refrigerators with rare fruit juices, food that could be ordered from restaurants, and wireless Internet for laptops. The clinic even had a reciprocal agreement with Caldwell's Stillwell Hotel, the five-star grande dame of lodging in all of upstate New York, so that patients could rest overnight after receiving care.