Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (3 page)

"Get the hell out of here. Now!" he shouted, his temper finally exploding.

She approached him, her hands joined in front of her as she studied him. "You cannot deal with this situation alone, and turning yourself into a recluse until you learn if the surgery’s been successful or not is a mistake. You must prepare yourself for the possibility that you’ll be blind. I’m putting you on notice right now, Micah Holbrook. I do not intend to let you hide from yourself or from the world. I know you’re angry, and I don’t have a problem with that. You’re an intelligent man, so be smart enough to make your anger work for you, instead of using it against yourself."

He raked ruthless fingers through his close–cropped, pale gold hair. When he finally spoke, he did so through gritted teeth. "Please just get out of here and leave me alone."

Bliss crossed the room. She paused at the door to glance back at Micah. She felt his panic, but she could do nothing about it at the moment. It would run its course, and then she would try again.

Trembling with an array of emotions, not the least of which was determination, she lifted her chin. She knew in that instant that she would go to war with Micah in order to help him through this nightmare. But she needed to remain emotionally detached, at least for the time–being, and she wondered if she had the strength required for that particular task.

"The evening meal is usually served at seven. I’ll see you then. We have a lot of work ahead of us, but I hope you enjoy your stay at Rowland House. Cyrus calls it the perfect place for rest and relaxation. When your luggage arrives, you should unpack your clothes without help from anyone. You’ll be less dependent on others if you do for yourself whatever you can."

Her heart ached for him as she watched him continue to grapple with his rage. She thought he looked as lonely and isolated as a jagged mountain peak. While he simmered in silence, Bliss cautioned in a gentle voice, "No one will be allowed to wait on you, Micah. Your rank is meaningless in my home, so don’t issue any orders. Anyone who caters to you will be shipped out in a matter of hours."

Bliss slipped out of his suite, pulled the door closed behind her, and then sank back against it. Her hands shook, and her heart raced. Tears filled her eyes, but she angrily brushed them away. She covered her face with her hands until the sound of footsteps coming down the long hallway forced her to compose herself.

As she straightened and produced a smile for the young enlisted man who carried Micah’s luggage, Bliss knew she’d done the right thing by immediately establishing the ground rules for his stay. She didn’t have any other options with a man like Micah Holbrook.

"Ma’am, okay if I take Captain Holbrook’s luggage into him now?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, but do not unpack for him. Simply put his luggage in an accessible spot and tell him its location. Then, excuse yourself."

"I shouldn’t unpack…"

"No, you should not wait on him unless he’s been injured or is in danger of stepping into the path of a speeding car."

Doubt–filled eyes studied her. "You’re absolutely sure, ma’am?"

She smiled. "Very sure."

And she was, Bliss realized as she turned and made her way down the long marble hallway.

Micah ignored the young man who delivered his luggage, just as he ignored the passage of time. As he struggled to master the emotions rioting within, he silently cursed Cyrus Rowland for the hundredth time that day.

He remained motionless in the chair, his fists clenched and the muscles of his large body knotted with tension. He seethed with the impotent rage of a man denied control over his own destiny.

Micah resented the uncertainty of his situation almost as much as he loathed the thought of spending the rest of his life dependent upon others. He still couldn’t endure even the possibility of that kind of half–life.
He
took care of people. No one took care of him. No one, God damn it!

Neither would he ever accustom himself to being the object of pity. He preferred the finality of death to such an existence.

A short time later, he heard the sound of footsteps on the patio. Micah immediately recognized them, but he refused to respond to Bliss’s presence even when his senses alerted him to her position in the open doorway.

"The sun is about to set." She leaned against the doorframe, her gaze captured by the natural beauty of their surroundings. "It looks like a fireball sitting on the edge of the horizon. The breeze has picked up enough to rustle the fronds of the palm trees that border the patio. It should be a beautiful evening."

She turned away from the view and walked into his suite. "When I was a child, I’d stand out on the back lawn early in the morning, take a deep breath, and then hold it for as long as I could. I thought it was the only way to bring all the wonderful scents of the island into my body. My mother used to tell me that the fragrances of the Caribbean sweetened the heart of the person who cherished them the most." She smiled. "It made sense when I was little, but it seems rather silly now."

Distracted from his conflicted thoughts, Micah tried to conjure an image of Bliss Rowland by assembling the puzzle pieces of her unusual personality. Earlier, she’d behaved with all of the subtlety of an exploding grenade. Now, though, she sounded almost whimsical. He heard the whisper of a silky–sounding fabric flowing over her body as she moved nearer. Then, he felt her closeness when she paused in front of him.

The next breath he took filled his senses with her personal fragrance. He recognized it as French and very expensive, and it had a greater impact on him than he expected. He told himself that he had to be insane to be attracted to Bliss Rowland, but he felt drawn to her nonetheless. His reaction angered and baffled him, but he felt helpless to stem the tide of awareness that swept over him and suffused his senses.

"Good evening, Micah. Shall we start over?"

He turned his head away from her softly seductive voice. Desire spiked deep inside of him, though, rousing his body so profoundly that he bit back an oath. He almost hated Bliss Rowland for making him aware of himself as a man with a more than healthy sexual appetite. He dug his fingers into the arms of his chair, determined to resist her unexpected appeal. He didn’t move a muscle, although he did wonder how he could want a woman he didn’t know and couldn’t see.

"I thought you might like to escort me to the dining room."

"Not hungry."

"That’s hard to believe. The chef Cyrus sent down with the rest of his staff told me you haven’t eaten since early this morning."

"Leave me the hell alone," he ordered.

"You already know I can’t do that, Micah." She sank to her knees between his muscular thighs, reaching out and covering his clenched fists with her small hands.

He told himself he didn’t want her to touch him. Yet, he craved her closeness, because it meant the promise of a temporary reprieve from the physical isolation he’d experienced since well before his surgery. Why did she understand, he wondered with no small amount of resentment, his hunger for simple human contact right now? God damn Cyrus for sending him here.

"You have every right to be angry with Cyrus," she said, jarring him as she voiced his thoughts. "He’s incredibly high–handed, but I think we both know him well enough to realize that he took control of your life only because he believed you’d lost it. You also have every right to be annoyed with me, especially after our conversation earlier this afternoon. I provoked you in order to get your attention, but my purpose was not to hurt you."

He felt the strength in her slender hands when she forced open his fists and flattened her palms over his. He gripped her wrists, unable to keep himself from treating her like a lifeline even though he loathed the need within himself.

"You have to make a decision, Micah. Either this is going to be a battle of wills between us, or you’re going to cooperate with me."

"I’ve made my decision, so you can leave now."

"Try again," she challenged.

Her voice sounded more gentle than he could bear. "Don’t badger me."

"Since I have no intention of coddling you, I guess you’re stuck with badgering. Listen to me, please. We can’t risk catering to you or babying you right now. Cyrus is worried about you. He sent you here because he trusts me, not because he was trying to punish you. He thinks you’re important. So do I."

"You don’t even know me."

She heard his scorn, and she very nearly recoiled in response to the slap of it. He
had
forgotten her. "I know about you, and I know about all of the little things you once took for granted. I know you can’t use a cell phone or a computer keyboard right now. I know you’re apprehensive about eating a meal in front of people, just as I know that everything you can’t see makes you feel as though you’re moving through a mine field each time you take a step. I know you’re angry that others are making the simplest decisions for you, like what you’ll wear each morning, or how you’ll spend your day. I know you can’t read the newspaper or a book. I also know you feel trapped and isolated, and you’re starting to think you’d be better off dead, because the alternative is to become a burden to your loved ones. What’s happened to you would disorient the strongest, most secure person in the world."

He looked stunned, so she paused, giving him a moment to digest her comments. Then, she asked, "Don’t I know enough, Micah?"

Extricating her hands from his grip, Bliss started to get to her feet. Shaken by her ability to intuit his most pressing fears, as well as by his anxiety over what his life might be like if he didn’t regain his vision, Micah responded instinctively. He reached out with lightning quickness, connected with her shoulders, and grabbed hold of her.

Pulling her forward, he hauled her up and into his lap. She weighed almost nothing, he realized in surprise. She also didn’t protest his aggressive behavior, which surprised him even more.

Her compassion–filled voice continued to echo in his head as he spanned her waist with his hands and held her atop his thighs. He trembled with tension and a startling renewal of the desire he’d felt just minutes earlier. And then he realized somewhat belatedly that Bliss wasn’t fighting to free herself. Hell, her breathing hadn’t even changed and her pulse remained steady.

Micah frowned. Did nothing shake this woman? Why wasn’t she upset with him? Why wasn’t she fighting him like a cornered wildcat? Did she think the bandages that covered his eyes made him less of a man, made him impervious to sexual desire? He assumed the latter, and anger reignited within him.

"Now what?"

Her calm voice stung like salt applied to an open wound. Micah’s grip on her waist tightened. He wanted her to struggle against his hold, but she didn’t, damn her! He exhaled, the sound ragged with emotions he couldn’t even begin to articulate.

What
did
he want from her?

Aside from the driving need to touch her, to reassure himself that she was more than a voice capable of irritating the hell out of him as she relentlessly peeled back his anxieties layer by layer, he finally admitted to himself that he’d reached a point where he just wanted a temporary truce between them.

What he didn’t want was her pity. He particularly did not want to be the recipient of Bliss Rowland’s pity.

She reached for his sunglasses, eased them free of his face, and tossed them onto the coffee table. Micah stiffened, wary because he couldn’t quite figure out her motives, but he didn’t try to stop her. His ego protested because she could now see the bandages that covered his eyes, although he sensed that her intention was not to harm or to humiliate him. Nevertheless, he felt vulnerable without the protection of his sunglasses.

Micah also felt every subtle movement of her body. He grudgingly gave her credit for not squirming in his lap, but her innocent movements nevertheless enticed and aroused a body that had gone without the pleasure of physical intimacy with a woman for far too long a time. Desire steamed hotly through his veins. He shifted beneath her, seeking to ease the pressure hardening his sex without revealing his need.

Bliss placed her hands on his broad shoulders. He froze, on guard lest she should decide to touch his face.

"Relax, Micah."

He realized again that she didn’t feel the least bit threatened by his anger or his physical response to her. Still unsure as to why she’d allowed him to manhandle her right into his lap, he waited warily for her next move.

Bliss skimmed her hands over his shoulders and up the sides of his neck. Micah experienced a reluctant kind of appreciation when he felt her unexpectedly capable touch. As she massaged the knotted muscles beneath her fingertips, he refused to voice his feelings.

Letting his mind drift, he began to relax, centimeter by centimeter. But a short while later he felt the sting of betrayal when Bliss raised her hands to the sides of his face and pressed her palms to his cheeks.

He seized her wrists, but her whispered, "Please, Micah," made him hesitate.

Lowering his hands, he felt her press her fingertips into his temples and move them in a circular motion. Her touch, gentle, firm, and incredibly effective, seduced Micah in ways he’d never imagined possible. His world, a world of subterfuge and violence, hadn’t prepared him for a woman like Bliss Rowland. Whatever her agenda, his senses responded to her wholeheartedly. He wanted—
needed
—to believe, if only for the present, that she was as sincere and caring as her touch implied. Moments later, the headache throbbing in his temples began to ease.

Although grateful for her kindness and the soothing quality of her touch, Micah still felt the ravages of his inner war. Not even Bliss Rowland’s compassion and sensitivity could quell his emotional tumult or his fears about what the future held for him.

He still felt the urge to ram his fist through the nearest wall, to shout his rage at the car bomb that had altered his life just a month ago. His headache clamored to life again with a vengeance, and he bit back a groan.