Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (2 page)

"…a threat is possible," Cyrus was saying. "You probably know that Micah has spent most of his career with Naval Intelligence. He’s worked too many highly classified missions for me in recent years to even count, and a man makes enemies in those situations. Enough said?"

"More than enough." Bliss hesitated for a moment. "He’s a friend, isn’t he, not just someone who works for you?"

Cyrus laughed. "Try not to hold it against him, Bliss."

She couldn’t laugh. She couldn’t even find the strength to smile. Neither did she admit her sadness that her father seemed more at ease with friendships that had evolved through his work rather than as a consequence of his family relationships.

"When will he arrive?"

"This afternoon."

This afternoon?
She wanted to groan. "I assume they’re already on their way."

"Yes. They are." After a pause, he said, "Help him, Bliss. Please."

Before she could reply, he severed the connection. Still, she whispered, "Bye, Dad."

Bliss tucked her cell phone back into her pocket. Instead of cursing Fate or shaking her head in disbelief—neither of which would be helpful—she returned her attention to the sculpture on the pedestal in the center of her studio. She drew from the symmetry of her creation the strength and inner calm she knew she would need as she faced Micah Holbrook for the first time in eleven years.

The girl she had once been no longer existed. And the twenty–eight year old woman who’d replaced her had long ago given up her fantasies and illusions.

** ** **

Several hours later, Bliss stepped out onto the covered patio as she heard the sound of a helicopter. She watched the aircraft touch down on the back lawn of the estate. An expanse of perfectly manicured grass, it separated the mansion from the turquoise waters of the Caribbean.

Uniformed men spilled out of the interior of the helicopter. She recognized several members of her father’s household staff, and she assumed the armed men composed the security contingent he’d mentioned.

Micah, the last man to exit the helicopter, still resembled a brash Viking adventurer. Eleven years older now, the intervening years since their last encounter had treated him kindly. If anything, Bliss decided as she studied him, he seemed more ruggedly masculine than ever.

She registered first the sunglasses that covered his eyes, and then she took in the rigid set of his broad shoulders. His military bearing showed in his posture, despite his casual attire of slacks, a polo shirt, and leather deck shoes. Bliss remained motionless as two uniformed men stationed themselves on either side of him. Well over six feet in height, broad–shouldered, and narrow–hipped, Micah dwarfed his companions.

She sensed the depth of his resentment when he reluctantly placed his hand on the shoulder of one of the men. His long–legged stride appeared confident. Even as she silently blessed the landscaper who’d designed the level, open stretch of lawn, she recalled her mother’s fear of embarrassing herself in front of strangers if she stumbled or fell.

Bliss hated seeing Micah forced to depend on others, but she knew he needed to come to terms with the reality that he might never regain his sight. Squaring her slender shoulders, she tried to ignore her accelerating heartbeat and racing pulse as Micah approached her. Memories of the crush she’d had on him while still a teenager stirred in her heart and mind, but she chased them away.

The mature woman—the internationally acclaimed artist—felt an unexpected desire to sculpt Micah’s likeness, to capture the distinctive lines of his strong–featured face in clay. She’d tried several times over the years, but she’d always given up in frustration, not trusting her memory to do him justice. Although she understood why he wore sunglasses, she wished he hadn’t felt the need to conceal his bandaged eyes.

She wanted to see as much of his face as possible. Her fingertips tingled with the need to trace the contours of his strong brow, high cheek–bones, hard cheeks, and the aggressive chin that made him look willful and stubborn. She remembered him as both willful and stubborn. She also remembered his reckless smile and the sound of his laughter, both absent now. Bliss closed her hands into fists, fearful she might indulge the impulses she felt as he drew nearer.

Her breath caught as a sudden storm of emotions swept over her. The desire to protect herself came out of nowhere, colliding with the rashness of impulse and desire. She calmed herself with effort, assuming the role of gracious hostess with a smile that felt stiff and unnatural.

She felt shaken by her unanticipated need to draw Micah into her arms and simply hold him, but a heartbeat later she managed to reclaim her composure. Bliss possessed a strength of will that often surprised people, especially those foolish enough to assume her petite frame and delicate facial features translated into a fragile character. She couldn’t help wondering now if Micah Holbrook would make that same mistake.

Stepping aside, Bliss silently invited her guests into the foyer of the main house with an elegant sweep of her hand. She followed them, pausing in the center of the high–ceilinged room dominated by a gleaming crystal chandelier and a marble staircase that led to the upper level of the mansion.

"Welcome to Saint Thomas and Rowland House, gentlemen. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Bliss Rowland."

She immediately sensed the fury emanating from Micah. It rolled off of him in invisible waves, encompassing everything and everyone in its path. Bliss deliberately ignored his hostility.

"Some of you have been here before, so please settle in and reacquaint yourselves with the mansion. The two upstairs wings should accommodate all of you, but I’ll leave it to you to sort out the sleeping arrangements. Aside from the studio on the opposite side of the main courtyard, you have the run of the estate."

She approached Micah as she spoke. She knew she startled him when she took his hand. He flinched, but Bliss ignored his reaction and laced their fingers together as though they were old friends. "I’ll escort Captain Holbrook to his suite."

"Ma’am, I’m supposed to…"

She smiled at the young man who stood beside Micah. His uniform bore a corpsman’s insignia. "Please?"

Instantly charmed, he flushed. "Yes, ma’am."

"May I depend on you to deliver his luggage to his quarters?"

"Of course, ma’am."

"Thank you all." Bliss waited for them to disperse before she spoke to Micah. Once they stood alone in the sprawling foyer, she asked, "How was your trip?"

"Long."

He doesn’t remember me, she realized, a combination of relief and disappointment mingling within her. She took a moment to remind herself that most men rarely remembered mousy seventeen–year–old girls they’d met more than eleven years earlier. She also recalled Cyrus’s comment that Micah had been involved in numerous covert missions for Naval Intelligence, and she concluded that more recent violent events had eclipsed any recollection of a long ago terrorist assault on a London train station and shopping district.

"I have no medical credentials," she said, "although I am your hostess during your stay at Rowland House. Cyrus called earlier today. He explained your situation."

Micah remained mute.

Bliss smoothed her fingertips over their joined hands. She felt the answering clench of his strong fingers. "I’ll familiarize you with the mansion and the grounds of the estate. You’ll need to try to relax and trust me, which is a lot to ask of you right now, I know. Before we begin, I promise that I’ll try never to make you feel uncomfortable about your inability to see, but I won’t avoid the subject either."

"You don’t mince words."

She smiled. "No, I don’t. Do you mind?"

He tilted his head, as though he could see beyond the bandages that covered his eyes. She remembered from long ago the piercing quality of his dark–eyed gaze, and for a moment she felt relieved that he couldn’t see the hunger in her eyes as she studied him.

"Yes, I mind. I mind all of this."

"I don’t blame you. Cyrus has a way of bulldozing people into submission. He considers his judgment impeccable. The rest of us are left to deal with his orchestrations, so I guess it’s up to us to make the best of a potentially awkward situation."

He chuckled, but the sound lacked any genuine humor.

"I’ll show you to your suite now," she continued, not missing a beat. "I’m right–handed, so I generally lead off with my right foot."

Although pleased that he immediately adjusted his stride to her shorter one, Bliss didn’t kid herself that Micah Holbrook was feeling cooperative. She expected resistance and anger from him in the hours and days ahead. She understood and even empathized with his inner rage, but she was nevertheless determined to draw him out of the shell into which he’d recently crawled.

Despite the currents of tension she felt streaming through his muscular body, Bliss spoke with a nonchalance that belied the truth of her own chaotic emotions. "We’re entering the east wing of the main house. You’ve probably noticed how cool it is indoors. The floors and walls are marble. The hallway is quite long and six feet wide. There are three suites located in this particular wing. You’ll be using the one next door to mine, and we’ll share a patio that overlooks the back lawn and the beach. The third suite will remain vacant during your stay."

As they moved down the hallway at a sedate pace, Bliss savored the encompassing warmth of Micah’s hand. She remembered the way in which he’d watched over her all those years ago, reassuring her with his presence in the London hospital, holding her hand while the doctor swabbed cuts with anesthetic and then stitched a gash in her right thigh. She still bore the scar on her upper leg, although it had faded to a narrow white line. During those post–bombing hours, Micah Holbrook had become the center of her world. She’d never forgotten him, although she felt certain that he hadn’t ever guessed the impact he’d had on the vulnerable heart of a lonely seventeen year old girl.

"There aren’t any chairs or other furnishings in the hallway, so you won’t have to negotiate an obstacle course when you leave your suite."

Bliss slowed her steps to pause before a closed door. She guided Micah’s hand to the doorknob and smoothed his fingers over it. "We’re standing at the end of the hallway now."

He turned the knob and pushed open the door. Bliss inhaled the mingling scents of island flowers and salt–tinged Caribbean air that flowed through the open patio doors on the opposite side of the room. Taking his hand again, she stepped into the spacious room. Relief flooded her when Micah allowed her to draw him forward with her.

"This suite is a combination sitting room and bedroom with a private bath. The furniture is contemporary, and the color scheme is a mix of creams and burgundies." She glanced at Micah, noting the muscle that ticked furiously in his already tight jaw. "I’ll always describe your surroundings."

"What the hell’s the point?"

"By having mental images to work with, you’ll get a better sense of how to move through each room."

He jerked his hand free. "Are you blind?"

"No. You are," she said. "At least, for the moment. No one knows if your condition is permanent, so we’re going to deal with that reality, rather than pretend you might not be sight impaired for the remainder of your life."

"How in hell can you possibly know what I need?"

"Experience. My method may not be officially sanctioned by the medical community, but it works. And Cyrus trusts me," she reminded him.

He bit out an ugly word.

Bliss ignored his anger and reclaimed his hand. She led him around the room. She showed him the location of each piece of furniture, the walk–in closet, and the bathroom. By forcing Micah to skim his fingertips across each surface they encountered, including the walls, she knew she was helping him to imprint permanent images in his sensory memory. Finally, she escorted him to the open French doors that led out to the patio, pausing on the threshold.

"You can smell and feel the breeze on your face. It’s almost as good as a massage after a long day at work. It’s beautiful outside today. There isn’t a cloud for miles, and the temperature is in the high eighties."

"I’m tired." Micah turned his back on the view he couldn’t see. He stopped abruptly.

Bliss understood his dilemma. Resisting the impulse to guide him, she instead provided him with the means to deal with his disorientation. "There are two chairs and a coffee table approximately six feet in front of you. The low table is positioned between the chairs."

His spine as straight as an oak plank, Micah moved forward. Bliss watched him fight the urge to extend his hands in front of him. Instead, he pressed them to his sides.

"Micah," she said quietly.

He paused, his chin coming up as he tilted his head in her direction.

"The leading edge of the chair cushion is about eight inches from where you’re standing. Move slowly and you’ll feel the presence of the chair before you actually reach it, but only if you trust your senses and allow them to guide you."

He moved with care and an unusual grace for such a large man deprived of his ability to see. Once he sank down into the chair, he exhaled and gripped the arms. "I didn’t ask to be sent here." Anger and resentment resonated in his low voice.

"I realize that."

"Why would you want a stranger in your home?"

"You’re my father’s friend."
And you saved my life, even though you obviously don’t remember me.

"That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one I’ve got right now." Her gaze fell to his white–knuckled grip on the arms of the chair. She ached for him, but she managed to keep her voice calm as she spoke. "I’m offering you my hospitality and friendship, not pity. I save that for people who really need it."

"I don’t want or need your help, and I’d like to be left alone now."

"I understand what you’re saying, but I can’t allow you to turn this suite into a bunker while you ignore reality. I have some free time on my hands, and I intend to put it to good use while you’re here. Cyrus told me the doctors are uncertain if you’ll regain your vision. Since your blindness could be permanent, you need to learn some good habits right off the bat."