Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (4 page)

Bliss withdrew her hands without warning. "I’m going to stand up now, Micah. I want you to stand with me."

He didn’t try to restrain her as she scrambled out of his lap, but he regretted her absence almost immediately. He told himself that, because she seemed willing to understand and accept his constantly shifting emotions, he could afford to reward her with cooperation, however grudging. Although he pushed up to his feet, Micah didn’t step away from the chair. He simply waited.

Bliss clasped both of his hands. He sensed that she was asking for his trust, but he hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d ever given his trust easily. Trust empowered the recipient, and that power could be misused by even the most well–intentioned person.

"You need to see me, and this is the best way," Bliss explained.

She brought his broad palms to her face and pressed them to her cheeks. More curious about her than he wanted to admit, Micah paused briefly before cupping her head and tunneling his long fingers into the soft curls that framed her face.

"You’re not very tall."

She laughed. "Don’t let the size of the package fool you."

"You’re telling me you’re tougher than you…look?" He spat the last word. Micah didn’t see her smile fade, but he felt her sudden stillness.

Would he ever be able to simply
look
at a woman again? he wondered. Would he ever again see the naked body of a lover or view the satisfaction that glazed a woman’s eyes in the aftermath of lovemaking? His hold on Bliss tightened as he questioned whether he’d ever even have another lover.

"Touch me, Micah," she encouraged, her voice steady, her manner serene, despite the fierceness of his expression and the tension in his hands. "See me by using your fingertips to map the contours of my face. Create an image in your mind to go along with what your senses have already told you about me.
Use
your senses, Micah. Use the gifts God gave you to recognize the face of a friend, because that’s precisely what I am."

Unease swept through him, only to be followed by a sudden hot burst of desire. His hands trembled as hers fell away. She lifted her face to invite his tactile inspection. Micah felt clumsy as he pressed his fingertips to her forehead.

He discovered smooth skin stretched tautly over a high forehead. Nervousness gave way to a concentration that those few who knew Micah Holbrook well would have expected of him. As he breathed deeply of Bliss’s unique scent, Micah shifted his fingertips to her temples and discovered throbbing pulse points with the callused pads of his fingers.

As he slowly brought his thumbs across her arched eyebrows, he sensed a delicacy in her features that seemed at odds with her assertive personality. He moved lower, his fingers fanning her hairline before he carefully stroked his thumbs over her closed eyes. Dense lashes that reminded him of mink feathered over his skin and sent sensation after sensation shimmering across his nerve endings.

"Talk to me." His voice contained a lover–like huskiness as he traced the shape of her slender nose and the elegance of her high cheekbones.

"My skin is very fair, but I tan easily. My eyes are large, blue, and thickly lashed, and my hair is as black as ink. I’ve been told that I resemble my late mother."

Cupping the side of her face with his broad–palmed hand, Micah trailed a fingertip across the seam of her lips, then back over the lush fullness of her lower lip. Her mouth invited a leisurely exploration, and his body tightened in response to that invitation.

He felt her tremble, and then he heard her breath catch. He froze, certain she felt uncomfortable with his touch despite her earlier encouragement. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing."

Frowning, he asked, "Would you rather I didn’t touch you?"

"No, I’m fine." He felt Bliss place her hands over his as though to emphasize that she spoke the truth. "As you touch me, think about the sensory bridge that exists between the sighted world and the unsighted world," she suggested quietly. "We both know there’s a seventy percent chance you’ll be visually impaired, so you need to give some thought to constructing that bridge yourself. It’s the only way you’ll ever be comfortable when you travel it."

Micah didn’t want to hear about the risk he faced. He needed to concentrate on Bliss, not on himself, so he focused for several silent moments on the shape of her generous mouth, as well as the seductive images that filled his mind and tantalized his senses. His entire body throbbed with desire, and purely male instincts told him that making love with this woman would be like her name—bliss.

Micah exhaled, forcing his thoughts away from the sensual hunger that tantalized and tormented him. "You aren’t telling me anything I haven’t already figured out for myself," he finally admitted a few moments later.

"Do you intend to build that bridge, Micah?" she asked, something akin to urgency in her tone of voice. "Do you believe you’re capable of building it? Do you really understand that your mind, your heart, and your will to succeed are separate parts of your being and must work in harmony, but that they are not dependent upon your vision?"

He knew what she wanted him to say, but he couldn’t manage the words. He didn’t know the true answer to her questions yet. So he remained silent and continued his exploration of her features, feeling her disappointment in the rush of air that escaped her when she sighed.

He trailed his knuckles across the width of her lower lip, simultaneously fascinated and tempted by the soft flesh and the warmth of her breath. He craved a very thorough taste of Bliss Rowland, but he consciously fought the urge to stake a claim on her with the reminder that she hadn’t granted him any rights beyond her offer of friendship.

"I don’t understand anything right now," he muttered more to himself than to her. Anger resonated in his voice. Driving his fingers into the cap of silky black curls that covered her head and framed her face, he kneaded her scalp like a jungle cat fondling its prey.

Bliss silently slipped free of him. Micah’s head came up. He reached out, made contact with her shoulders, and seized her.

"Very good. See what happens when you trust your instincts."

He scowled. "I don’t like tests."

"Nether do I, so there won’t be any more."

"You’re very small, aren’t you?"

"And you’re quite large," she countered.

"Not for my family."

Turmoil stirred within him yet again. How in God’s name, he wondered, would he tell his parents that he might never see again? Hating the thought, he let his shoulders slump.

"I’m five feet three inches tall," Bliss said hurriedly. "I weigh one hundred and ten pounds. I’m single, twenty–eight, and I have all of my teeth."

He realized that she’d sensed his anxiety and was making an effort to distract him from it. He wondered yet again why she even cared about his state of mind.

"Am I supposed to count them now?" he asked, referring to her teeth.

She laughed. "Only if you absolutely have to," she teased, despite his obvious sarcasm.

He smiled, his first genuine smile since his arrival, and tangled his fingers in the tumbled curls that partially covered her nape. "It’s soft."

"My hairdresser thanks you."

Concentrating, he shifted his hands and curved them over her shoulders. He recognized the fabric. "Raw silk."

"That’s right. What do you hear in my voice?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Approval?"

"What does that suggest to you?"

"You tell me," he answered, although he took her point.

"You have to listen to the words and the emotions in the voices of the people who speak to you. Most people don’t realize that they reveal their feelings when they talk. Since you won’t always have the luxury of physical contact to gauge the state of their emotions, how you listen and what you listen for beyond the words becomes doubly important."

"Your perfume is subtle, French, and very expensive, which also proves that my nose works. What of it?" He refused to care if his sarcasm offended her.

"Your senses need to work in concert, but you have to allow them the opportunity. For the record, that particular fragrance is my only vice."

"And here I thought you were perfect." Micah smoothed his large hands down her arms, measured her narrow wrists with his fingers, and then clasped her hands. He felt the flexing strength of her fingers when she squeezed his hands. "You’re remarkably petite."

"So you keep saying."

"A man could hurt you very easily."

"You won’t."

He heard the conviction in her voice. Although pleased that she didn’t perceive him as abusive or a threat, he wasn’t certain he liked being so transparent. "How can you be sure? You don’t know me."

"Your hands. They say a lot about you."

"Like what?"

"You’re aware of your physical prowess. When you aren’t feeling angry or threatened, your touch is very light, even gentle." Bliss paused. "The real question right now is whether or not you’ll accept my compassion and assistance at this difficult time in your life. It’s a new role for you, I suspect."

"What in hell did Cyrus tell you about me?" he demanded, thrown by yet another of his hostess’s blunt curves.

"Enough for me to realize that you’re always in the driver’s seat in every relationship you have, and enough to understand that you instinctively balk at the idea of depending on anyone other than yourself in a crisis."

"You’re lying," he accused. "Cyrus wouldn’t have said those things."

"It’s what he didn’t say that was so revealing," she admitted.

"You’re spooky, lady. Very spooky."

"No, I’m just me, and I never apologize for being myself. Do you?" Bliss challenged.

"Hell, no!"

"Then we’re standing on a level playing field, aren’t we?" When he didn’t answer, she filled the ensuing silence. "I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Micah."

"You’ll just talk me to death, is that it?"

Bliss laughed. "Probably," she conceded.

He discovered that he liked the sound of her laughter. It was warm and rich, hinting at a vitality of spirit that he suddenly envied. Almost without thought, he released her hands and lifted his fingertips to the edges of her lips.

Making out the uplift of her lingering smile, Micah felt a sudden burst of apprehension. He didn’t want to like anything about Bliss Rowland. He already desired her with a hunger he hadn’t felt for any woman in years, and that was bad enough. He also feared becoming her personal cause, a charity case she felt compelled to adopt because of his connection to her father. He feared, as well, becoming dependent on her.

"Micah…"

"I don’t want to like you," he said bluntly, his hands falling to his sides before he lowered himself back into the chair. His frustration with the situation doused his desire like a bucket of water poured over a campfire. "And I’ll be damned if I’ll depend on you. I don’t need or want a nursemaid."

Bliss walked around him to stand behind his chair. She soothed him by massaging his rigid shoulders. "Of course, you don’t want to like me. It’s extremely risky, because if you like me, you’ll have to trust me."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why do this? Why become involved in my life? Why put yourself through this? You don’t owe me crap."

"And I don’t pity you, either," she snapped.

He grabbed her wrists, trapping her and forcing her to hover at an odd angle behind him. "Everyone has an agenda, Bliss Rowland. What’s yours?"

He interpreted her sigh as a sign of patience stretched to the limit, and he suddenly experienced a perverse need to push her until he found her breaking point.

"Do you assign motives to every person you meet?" she asked.

"Absolutely. In my business, it’s the only way you stay alive."

"I suppose that’s true." She sighed. "You are a man of character, strength, and purpose, Micah Holbrook, which is why your work in Naval Intelligence is respected by men like my father. And your success or failure in your current situation is largely dependent on your willingness to accept a challenge."

"Now you sound like him," said Micah, his voice like an endless stretch of gravel road.

Bliss flinched. Micah felt the sharp movement as it winnowed through her slender frame.

"For the record, I’m nothing like Cyrus," she said. "I just want to help you."

He jerked on her wrists. "Try again, damn it!"

"You’re hurting me."

Stung by her comment, he instantly freed her.

She straightened and moved to his side. "The household staff has instructions not to deliver any meal trays to your suite without my permission. You have three options. Come with me now, find the kitchen yourself, or go hungry. It’s your choice."

"God damn you!" he shouted.

She slipped a circular object, heavy and cool to the touch, into his open palm. Micah closed his hand around it, his curiosity piqued despite his frustration with her mulish determination to bend him to her will.

"You’re holding a pocket watch. Press the stem at the top to open it. It needs to be re–wound once a day."

"I… cannot… see." He ground out the words through clenched teeth.

"Don’t be obtuse, Micah. It doesn’t suit you." Bliss walked away, but she paused in the doorway to the patio. "Last chance for the evening meal."

He sat still and silent until she slipped out of his suite. He listened to her departing footsteps as they faded away. Only then did Micah open the watch and smooth his fingertip across its face. And for the first time in almost five weeks, he knew the exact time.

Bliss hated losing her temper, and she sternly reminded herself that Micah’s needs took precedence over her own inner emotional turmoil. Although she ate a solitary meal in the dining room and spent the remainder of the evening in her studio, she continued to feel his presence.

She chided herself several times that she had to get beyond the magnetism storming her senses, but she suspected she was destined to a tightrope existence for the duration of their time together. She doubted that her heart would allow her to ignore the feelings Micah evoked in her. It never had during the preceding eleven years.