Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (8 page)

"Why?" Micah asked, his voice low and wary.

"Cyrus almost died."

"He’s your father. Why do you call him by his first name?"

"We’ve always had an unusual relationship," she told him candidly. "Unless I’m speaking to him face–to–face or on the telephone, he often seems like a stranger. So, are you going to tell me about the attack?"

He frowned. "I can’t."

"You don’t want to talk about it?"

"I can’t remember most of what happened," he admitted. "My memories are… fragmented."

"Do you have nightmares?"

Her voice held a gentleness that made Micah shift uncomfortably in his chair. He reached for his water glass, in his haste knocking it over. He swore viciously as he closed his extended hand into a tight fist and slammed it against the tabletop. Then, he heard something else thud against the table and froze.

"For heaven’s sake!" Bliss exclaimed with a laugh that sounded totally natural. "We’re a pair, aren’t we? No harm done, though. All we did was give the table a little water bath."

Still furious with himself, Micah remained silent.

A few minutes later, Bliss said, "There, the water’s all mopped up. Are you ready for coffee and my legendary brownies now?"

Micah nodded slowly. Although still embarrassed by his clumsiness, he couldn’t get beyond the fact that Bliss had deliberately spilled her own glass of water in order to make him feel better. A part of him resisted her compassion, but a deeper and far more vulnerable part of him felt a profound gratitude.

He listened to her get up from her chair, make her way around to his side of the table, and remove his plate. "How old are you?" he asked.

She poured the coffee, took his right hand, and brought it to the side of his mug with an unconscious grace and thoughtfulness he reluctantly appreciated. Even though he realized that there was nothing even remotely sexual about her touch, he felt seduced by her nearness and the hint of the fragrance she wore.

"The coffee’s hot and black. There are two brownies on the plate in front of you. And I’m twenty–eight," she said, answering his question as she made her way back to her chair. "You’re thirty–eight, aren’t you?"

"How did you know?"

"Something Cyrus said, I suppose. What do you do for him these days, aside from dealing with the never–ending terrorist threat?"

These days?
"This and that," he answered, perplexed by her choice of words.

"Another bad topic?"

"Not really."

"You’re accustomed to being noncommittal about your career, aren’t you?"

Micah shrugged "For the most part."
These days?

"Have you ever been married?"

"Of course not."

"Demands of the profession, I suppose."

Micah took a sip of coffee and then carefully returned the mug to the table. "I already told you… no permanent ties. They don’t work, so it’s easier all around."

"Sounds lonely. Don’t you like brownies?" she asked.

He reached for his dessert fork. Using his left hand to hold the side of the plate, Micah tentatively cut a piece of brownie with the side of his fork and then speared it with the tines, but he hesitated as he pondered her previous observation. "It can be lonely, but you get used to it."

"I can’t help wondering if people in government service should even bother to marry and have children," she said after sampling her own brownie and pronouncing it delicious. "They’re hardly ever home."

"Do you resent Cyrus for being an absentee parent?"

"Not really. I just wish things had been different between us. My mother didn’t remarry after they divorced."

"Do you blame him for putting the needs of his country before his family?"

"I did as a child."

"You’re honest. I’ll give you that."

"Would you prefer pretense? I’m not so public–spirited, and I definitely wasn’t capable of nobility or forgiveness as a child. I wanted a father I could count on. He provided money for clothes and school and the gifts his secretaries purchased, but not much more. I’m the kind of person who requires time and communication when I care about someone. As far as I’m concerned, any other kind of a relationship is second best and a waste of time."

"What do you do when you aren’t trying to rescue people from themselves?"

She laughed, and he sensed something oddly familiar about the sound. It gnawed at him, because he couldn’t place where he’d first heard it.

"I stay busy."

"Charity work?" he asked, an edge in his voice.

"I’m not an altruist by nature, although if I see something that needs to be done, I generally do it."

"At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say that you sound like Cyrus."

"I find that very hard to believe. He told me a long time ago that I reminded him of a butterfly, flitting from one thing to another when I’m bored or restless. He doesn’t seem to realize that I’ve actually got a fairly well–developed work ethic."

"He really said that to you?"

"Not verbatim, but that’s what he meant."

"Perhaps you misread him."

"Perhaps."

"You don’t think so, do you?"

Bliss sipped at her coffee before responding. "I honestly don’t know what to think. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to become better acquainted once he retires, if he ever retires. In the meantime I have a life to live, and I intend to live it with as little regret as possible about the things I can’t change or fix."

"Have we ever met before?" asked Micah, shifting gears without warning. Her silence in the minutes that followed set his nerves on edge. "Bliss?"

"Sorry. Yes, we’ve met before. It was about eleven years ago. I was attending school near London. Cyrus was in England on behalf of the White House."

"I don’t remember."

"That doesn’t surprise me. There’s not much to remember."

Micah lapsed into silence as they finished their dessert and coffee. He also pondered her comment that there was nothing memorable about their first meeting, but the sound of her chair sliding back from the table and her footsteps distracted him from his thoughts.

Setting aside his napkin, Micah got to his feet. He felt Bliss slip a narrow length of smooth wood into his right hand. His instincts told him it was a cane, and he instantly rebelled against the idea of tapping his way through the mansion.

She anticipated his anger. "Before you hit me with this thing, let me tell you about it. Alright?"

"So talk."

"My grandfather was an avid bird–watcher. He loved taking long walks around the estate, but some of the terrain is quite rugged, especially around the bluffs on the north side of the property. During a particularly nasty tropical storm when I was a little girl, a fruitwood tree fell across one of his favorite paths. He said he took it as a sign that he didn’t have to pretend to be as nimble as a mountain goat while he took his daily exercise, so he carved a half–dozen walking sticks from the trunk of the fruit tree, gave them to his closest friends, and kept one for himself. End of story."

"I don’t need it," he insisted. "And I sure as hell don’t want it."

Bliss smoothed her fingertips over the back of his hand. Micah felt her gentleness, and he ached to draw her into his arms. Clutching the cane even more tightly, he tried to banish the erotic images that flashed, unbidden, through his mind.

"Grandfather was a good man, as well as very proud and fiercely independent. Like you, Micah. But he wasn’t a fool, and I know you aren’t, either. How about a compromise? Take his walking stick back to your room and think about the freedom it will give you. Try it on for size without an audience. The final decision is obviously yours. I’m just asking you to meet me halfway on this."

"You’re asking a lot."

"I know," she whispered. "Believe me, I know."

Despite his conflicted emotions, he was pleased when Bliss looped her arm through his and guided him to the steps at the entrance to the dining room. She paused for a fraction of a second before the first step. Reading her body language with an ease that surprised him, Micah automatically responded to her subtle cue. They climbed the two steps and walked across the foyer together.

"How about a stroll on the beach this afternoon?" Bliss asked as they paused at the hallway entrance. "It’s a perfect day outside, and you must be feeling cooped up by now."

Because he craved far more from her than a compassionate touch and guided tour of a beach he wouldn’t be able to see, Micah stepped away from her. His senses warned him that he was near a wall. Extending his left hand, he slid his fingertips across an expanse of cool marble. "I’ve had enough torture for one day," he said dismissively.

"Micah?"

Determined not to become disoriented by her soft voice, he paused, but he didn’t turn around.

"I enjoyed our brunch. Thank you for joining me. If you want my company or if you just need me, one of the staff will help you locate me."

I need you now,
he nearly shouted.
I need you naked and beneath me in a bed. I need you to share your passion and your laughter while I bury myself in your body. I need you to help me forget what’s happened to me, if only for a few hours.

Micah walked away from her without a word, his spine rigid, his head held high, and the walking stick gripped in his right hand, although he refused to use it. He made his way down the long hallway and into his suite without incident. Closing the door behind him, he sank back against it and let the cane fall from his fingers. He doubted that he would ever feel in control of his life again.

Bliss needed to believe that Micah would find a way to get beyond his stiff–necked pride. She refused to cater to his moody behavior during their time together, which she deliberately limited to a few hours each day. She treated him like a sighted man, and she refrained from offering him anything more than guidance, friendship, and patience.

Despite her repeated urging, Micah refused to leave the mansion. He spent nearly all of his time in his suite, although he took meals with Bliss in the dining room. He reluctantly spoke to her, but only when she asked him a direct question.

Frustrated by his long silences during their shared hours, she nevertheless continued her attempts to draw him out. By the fourth morning of his stay at Rowland House, Bliss despaired that she’d have to use dynamite to force him out of the mansion. But then he surprised her.

Bliss found Micah at the water’s edge late that afternoon. She stood on the low bluff that overlooked the estate’s private beach and paused to watch him. She noted the determined look on his face, and she viewed with pleasure the courage he exhibited as he made his way along the shoreline. He held her grandfather’s walking stick, using it and the low waves that frothed and bubbled around his bare ankles to maintain his course.

She wanted to applaud his emergence from the cocoon of fear that had kept him indoors for the last four days, but she knew better than to make a big deal of his decision. She saw him pause in the low surf and lift his face to the sun. Warm Caribbean air gusted against his large body, ruffling his golden hair and molding the T–shirt and gym shorts he wore to his muscular chest and narrow hips.

Bliss felt her senses sparkle with response to his masculinity. Simply looking at Micah, she realized, reinforced the attraction that continued to simmer inside her. She nearly groaned, realizing the arousal he inspired in her had become far too pronounced to dismiss.

She finally summoned the effort required to shift beyond her reaction to Micah. She abandoned the bluff and made her way across the beach, alert to the security personnel hovering nearby. With every step she took, Bliss reminded herself that helping Micah to adjust needed to be her first priority. She must ignore the emotional war taking place in her heart, not to mention the desire she felt every time she looked at him or thought about him.

"You’ve discovered my favorite stretch of beach," she announced so he wouldn’t be caught off guard by her presence. "The sand is as fine–grained as sugar and almost as white."

Micah turned abruptly, missteped, and then steadied himself with the walking stick.

"I didn’t mean to startle you."

"You didn’t," he insisted.

Bliss knew he was lying. She instantly regretted disturbing him, because she realized that the last thing he needed to feel was disorientation. Courage, she knew, could be fragile, especially in the early stages of rediscovering one’s place in the world.

She watched the muscles in his body ripple with tension, saw him lift his chin the way he always did when he felt threatened or defensive. Bliss moved to within a few feet of him, but she quelled the urge to reach out to him even though her fingertips tingled with the need to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin, to stroke the muscled power of his body.

"Have you been out here long?"

"Long enough."

"I missed you at lunch. Weren’t you hungry?"

He shrugged, turning his head away from her. Gulls screeched overhead, and a cruise ship in the distance announced its impending arrival at the Charlotte Amalie Harbor with a succession of horn blasts.

"What’s wrong, Micah?"

He stiffened, prompting Bliss to wonder if he felt uncertain about making his way back to the mansion on his own. She impulsively took his free hand and laced their fingers together. She needed to touch him, however impersonal or brief the contact. She savored the strength of his fingers and the warmth of his skin as he clasped her hand. Sensations she fought to ignore sizzled in her veins, but she managed to keep her voice even as she suggested, "Why don’t we walk together?"

Instead of agreeing to her suggestion, or stepping forward, Micah startled her by turning toward her. He adjusted his stance, tossed aside the walking stick, and seized her hips. Finding herself parked between his powerful thighs, Bliss flattened her hands against his chest.

"How much longer are you going to keep this up?" he taunted her.

Bewildered, she frowned. "I don’t understand."

"Don’t you?" he demanded.

Bliss paled. He obviously realized how much she wanted him. She felt unsettled by his discovery of her attraction to him, as well as unnerved by the seductive feel of his hands curved over her hips. "No, I don’t understand," she insisted.