Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (7 page)

Annoyed, Micah deliberately ran his fingertips down her arms, his senses alert to any telltale sign of apprehension on her part. She seemed unmoved by his nearness and his touch as he traced the inside curves of her wrists. Micah suddenly realized that she expected him to behave aggressively, and he regretted meeting that expectation.

"If you’re angry with me, Micah, say so. I don’t read minds."

"God damn it, quit trying to manipulate me. It won’t work."

"I did what I had to do."

"I don’t like your tactics, lady."

"Then don’t force me to use them again," she suggested, her tone supremely reasonable.

He slid his fingers up her inner arms, pausing finally at the hemmed sleeves of the top she wore. "What have you got on?"

"White shorts and a pale pink t–shirt."

"Cotton?" he speculated as he fingered the fabric, determined to keep her off balance until he could figure her out. While he thought about what it would feel like to conduct a leisurely exploration of the curves and hollows of her naked body with his fingertips, he contented himself with breathing in the subtle but alluring scent of her skin.

"That’s right."

He trailed his fingers down over her narrow wrists and then across the backs of her hands. He felt a faint tremor run through her and wondered if he made her nervous. He hoped so. He most sincerely hoped so. As they stood there, he cursed the darkness that prevented him from seeing her face, from reading the emotions in her eyes.

Bliss suddenly stepped free of him, clasped one of his hands, and turned so that they stood side by side. "Let’s go into the dining room."

He didn’t budge. "Your skin’s very soft."

She laughed. An uneasy sound to Micah’s ears.

"I haven’t got time for a beauty regimen, so the humid climate gets all the credit."

"You washed your hair this morning." He felt her surprise, not just the shift in her stance when she glanced at him. Micah intended to prove to her that he wasn’t as dull–witted as she apparently assumed.

"How did you know?"

"I can smell your shampoo."

"Good for you."

Micah shrugged to make it clear that her praise meant nothing, and then he matched his footsteps to her shorter stride as they walked across the foyer. His dignity felt a little less damaged now, and that realization gave him a burst of confidence.

Bliss slowed her pace and cautioned, "Two steps down, Micah. All the floors and walls in the mansion are white marble. There aren’t any rugs in the rooms."

He took the steps with care, his relaxed posture hiding his anxiety. Pausing, he commented, "No one’s ever called me a coward before."

"I don’t believe I did."

"You implied…"

"I said I didn’t want to think you were a coward. I challenged you to prove that you aren’t."

"I don’t have to prove anything to you." He kept his voice level, wondering if she realized just how angry she’d made him.

"I agree, but you have a whole heck of a lot to prove to yourself."

He shook his head in consternation, acknowledging that he couldn’t dismiss Bliss as shallow or self–serving. Her insights were right on target, but he nevertheless resented her attempts at manipulation.

Moreover, he didn’t appreciate her comprehension that he faced an uncertain future, because he didn’t want to think of her as an ally. He operated alone, personally and professionally. That was his style, and he intended to keep it that way. Theirs had to remain a casual relationship.

"You may be small, but you’re tough."

She chuckled. "So I’ve been told. Ready?"

He nodded, amazement and grudging admiration surging through him as he contemplated the steel in Bliss Rowland’s character. He couldn’t recall ever meeting anyone quite like her.

"Ready," he said, all of his attention on her voice now.

"The dining room is quite spacious. It’s about thirty feet long and nearly as wide. Sideboards line three of the walls. The upper third of each of those walls provides an unobstructed view of the outdoors, and the large rectangular shaped panes of glass allow light to flood the room during the day. They also make it easy to see the stars on a clear night. There’s a tall set of French doors on the final wall that lead out into the rose garden. The dining room is typical of most high–ceilinged formal rooms in the mansion."

Bliss placed his hand on the top edge of a high–backed upholstered chair as she spoke. "I generally take meals in the kitchen, but I thought today it might be nice to eat in here, since it’s our first meal together. The table seats twenty. There are nine chairs on either side of it and one at each end. We’ll sit opposite one another today."

Micah listened to her footsteps as she made her way around the table. Once she seated herself, he pulled out his chair and sat down, but he kept his fisted hands in his lap. "You forgot something."

"Did I?"

"The chandelier above the table. Crystal, isn’t it?"

"Very good. And, yes, it’s tear–drop crystal. I’ve always loved the sound it makes when there’s a breeze." Smiling, she took her napkin and spread it across her lap. "I want you to feel comfortable here, Micah."

He knew the smile he produced looked strained. Oddly enough, he only feared making an ass of himself in front of her. Her opinion mattered a great deal to him, he realized, in spite of the decision he’d made to repay her for her previous cruelty—mattered despite his decision of just minutes earlier to relegate her to the status of casual and meaningless acquaintance.

He exhaled a gust of pure frustration. Then his sense of smell alerted him to the food in front of him, and his hunger momentarily eclipsed his anger.

Lifting his hands, Micah ran fingertips along the edge of the table. He measured the width of his place setting and made certain of the location of his silverware and napkin while he grappled with the anxiety he felt.

"As you’ve discovered, your plate is directly in front of you. Since the plate is round, think of it as a clock. Most people who share a meal with you in the future will wonder if they’re supposed to tell how your food is situated on your plate. Many will feel reluctant to ask, though, so it’s up to you to encourage them to do it. You’ll alleviate their sense of helplessness, dispel any possible awkwardness, and eliminate the inclination some might feel to offer to cut your food for you, which invariably creates awkwardness for everyone concerned. It also tells them that you aren’t afraid of references to your lack of vision."

"The nurse insisted on feeding me. I hated it," Micah admitted as he ran the tips of his fingers around the edge of the plate to measure its size.

"I don’t blame you. Forced dependence on others is the pits, especially when it’s unnecessary. Alright then, let’s get started," she encouraged. "At twelve o’clock, you’ll find ham–and–cheese finger sandwiches. There are apple wedges and a cluster of grapes at three o’clock, turkey finger sandwiches at six o’clock and julienned carrots and celery, as well as cucumber slices, at nine o’clock."

Concentrating on his mental image of the place setting in front of him, Micah located the linen napkin positioned beside his plate, shook it loose, and placed it in his lap.

"There’s a glass of orange juice four inches above the tip of your knife," Bliss explained. "Six inches farther to the right is a filled water glass. I’ve also placed a carafe of coffee in the center of the table, as well as two mugs, a platter of extra sandwiches, and a tray of brownies."

He inched his fingers in the direction of the juice glass, grazed its base with the tip of one finger, and then wrapped his hand around it. Before he lifted the glass to his lips, Micah asked, "Are we alone?"

"Of course. I didn’t think you’d appreciate an audience just yet. When you don’t mind company other than me, we’ll graduate to the kitchen. It’s a less formal environment, and I prefer it. I think you will, too." She paused, exhaled softly, and lapsed into silence.

As he listened for her next comment, Micah drank half the contents of his juice glass before setting it back on the table. Her silence began to unsettle him. "What’s wrong?" Her hesitation surprised him, because he knew she tended to speak her mind.

"I understand how vulnerable you feel right now. Even though I’m not very subtle some of the time, I wouldn’t ever do anything to compromise your dignity. If I have a criticism or a course correction to suggest, I’ll express it privately. Alright?"

Micah nodded. He felt at a loss. He realized that she was trying to bridge the gap between them and under the circumstances might even have given her credit for understanding how unbalanced his world had become; but he still couldn’t get completely past her remark about cowardice.

"I don’t know about you, but I’m starving."

"You’re good at this," he conceded, the manners ingrained in him during his youth emerging.

"Thank you."

He heard pleasure as well as surprise in her voice. "You were right before. I am angry." Micah carefully took one of the sandwiches from his plate as he spoke, but despite his hunger he simply held it. "I loathe what’s happened."

"I know."

It took him a moment to realize that there was no pity in her voice. He felt a certain amount of relief, because pity was the last emotion he wanted to inspire in a woman. Especially this woman, even though she infuriated him one moment and then bewildered him with her compassion in the next. "Perhaps you do," he said quietly, his voice reflective.

"What you’re feeling is normal, but you can’t let it cripple you."

"Are we eating the same meal?"

"Of course. Who do you think fixed it?" She laughed suddenly. "Mother never learned her way around the kitchen, but our cook taught me the fine art of finger sandwiches. Just be glad I didn’t decide to feed you minced pimento and cream cheese."

"Sounds awful."

"Doesn’t it just?" she answered. "I could never stomach those sandwiches."

He could hear the lingering humor in her voice, and liked the sound more than he wanted to admit. Micah felt some of his tension ease, but he didn’t relinquish all of his wariness.

Too hungry to delay eating any longer, he brought the sandwich to his lips and took a bite. He nearly groaned with relief when he tasted the slices of honey–glazed ham and Swiss cheese. He focused on filling his empty stomach, carefully treating his plate like the face of a clock as he selected his food. They ate in companionable silence, the sound of the surf and the fragrance of the island flowers enhancing the ambiance of their first shared meal.

"You’re an odd mix of patience and temper," Micah observed once he’d taken the edge off his hunger.

"I’m half Irish and half Italian."

"That explains it."

"So I’ve been told," she replied. "You mentioned the Pacific Northwest as home. Is your family still there?"

"All except my baby sister."

For the first time in several weeks Micah thought of Leah, her husband, and their son, and the reason they no longer resided near the rest of the Holbrook family. He missed them, but their new identities and relocation to a small New England college town lessened his worry about their well–being.

Micah knew they would survive the terrorist threat that had almost ended Leah’s life not long ago, but his forced separation from them had taken its toll. Brett was not only his younger sister’s husband, but his best friend and a former colleague in Naval Intelligence. He longed to contact Leah and Brett, especially now. He trusted them, and he knew they would provide understanding and support as he awaited the results of his experimental surgery.

"Do you come from a large family, Micah?"

He nodded and shifted his thoughts to his other loved ones. A smile flickered at the edges of his mouth. "Two brothers, three sisters, my parents, of course, and countless cousins, aunts, and uncles."

"How wonderful. I can hear the affection in your voice. You love them all very much, don’t you?"

"Of course," he answered, his voice gruff. He rarely spoke of his family. To preserve their safety, he’d learned not to during his years in Naval Intelligence.

"You’re fortunate to have them in your life. Why don’t you want them to know what’s happened to you?"

He stiffened. "This doesn’t concern them."

"How can it not?"

"My mother’s a nurse, and she has her hands full with my father. He’s got serious cardiac problems."

"And you don’t want to become an unnecessary burden?"

"Precisely."

"Don’t you think they can decide for themselves what’s best for them?" she asked.

"I won’t have my mother turning her home into a hospital ward, which is exactly what she’d feel compelled to do if… if the surgery fails." He hated even saying the words.

"What’s plan B? What will you do if the surgery isn’t successful?"

"You tell me," Micah shot back, his patience with this particular subject at an end.

"I shouldn’t have to tell you."

"I’m not ready to think about it."

"You’re not being very realistic, which surprises me. You know as well as I do that preparation is half the battle when you’re dealing with adversity. Doesn’t Cyrus call it an anticipatory battle plan? Perhaps you should start exploring some of your options for the future." When he failed to respond, she asked, "Doesn’t your family deserve to know what you’re up against so they can prepare themselves for the first time they see you? Or don’t you intend to have anything to do with them if the surgery fails?"

Hearing her articulate some of the thoughts he’d had in recent weeks made him realize how ludicrous it would be to cut himself off from his loved ones, but he refused to acknowledge how close she’d come to the truth. "My family isn’t up for discussion, so find another topic."

She did, but so smoothly that she startled him. "I realize that most of your work is classified, but I’d like to know more about the explosion in Central America."

He felt his appetite fade. He loathed thinking about that day, especially since he could recall only bits and pieces of the incident when he was awake. His nights were different, of course. He remained haunted by a kaleidoscope of violent images that made it impossible for him to sleep restfully.