Heartbreaker (The Warriors)

by Laura Taylor

  Heartbreaker

  by

  Laura Taylor

  An Updated Edition of the Loveswept Classic

  www.authorandeditor.com

  Copyright ©2011 by Laura Taylor

  Published in the United States by Blue Jay Media Group

  ebook ISBN–13: 978–1–936724–09–3

  Copyright ©1993 by Laura Taylor

  ISBN–10: 055–344346–1

  Bantam Loveswept

  Cover design ©2011 Blue Jay Media Group

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book, whether in print or electronic format, may be duplicated or transmitted without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Other Books by Laura Taylor

  Intimate Strangers

  Fallen Angel

  Desert Rose

  Midnight Storm

  Heartbreaker

  Troubled Waters

  Wildflower

  Jade’s Passion

  Starfire

  Promises

  Just Friends

  Wilder’s Woman

  Winter Heart

  Lonesome Tonight

  Seduced

  Dangerous Surrender

  Slightly Scandalous

  Cloud Dancer

  Anticipation

  The Christmas Gift

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Honorbound, hard cover and paperback

  For Jill Weiss

  Dear friend and proof–reader extraordinaire.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Other Books By

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  1

  Bliss Rowland spotted an imperfection in the clay she couldn’t ignore. She dipped her fingers into a bowl of water and then lightly smoothed one fingertip across the base of a large sculpture mounted atop a pedestal in the center of her studio. She smiled as she stepped back to survey the subtle change.

  A life–sized impressionistic piece, the sculpture possessed the flowing curves and hollows representative of the reclining figure of a naked woman. Partially submerged by an advancing tide, the woman appeared as an integral part of the ebb and flow of the sea.

  Bliss knew she was her own worst critic. She demanded the very best of herself, and she never settled for less. She also understood and accepted her nearly compulsive devotion to her sculpting, aware that it was a consequence of a tumultuous childhood and adolescence. She’d felt compelled to create order out of chaos, primarily within the confines of her own mind. Her ability to focus, as well as her extraordinary talent as a sculptor, now evidenced itself in the results of a grueling year of work.

  Although Bliss felt physically depleted, she smiled as her gaze swept across the spacious studio that now housed more than a dozen original sculptures. She cared little about the fatigue that caused shadows beneath the brilliant blue of her eyes, the disheveled state of her short, curly black hair, or the loose fit of her clothes. She never apologized for sleeping only when she was too exhausted to do anything else, or if she neglected regular meals when she prepared for a one–woman show. Bliss Rowland answered to no one but herself, and she liked it that way.

  She circled the pedestal one final time. Drying her fingertips on the hem of her T–shirt, Bliss slowly completed her inspection. When she paused, she lifted her arms to stretch the kinks from her shoulders, neck and lower back. Then, she exhaled softly. The satisfied sound that escaped her blended with the fragrant Saint Thomas breeze as it sighed through the palm trees in the courtyard, which separated her sculpting studio from the main house on the private estate she called home.

  Whatever the critics decreed about this collection, Bliss knew that she would experience only pride in her achievement. She felt a deep sense of satisfaction about each sculpture on its own merits, just as she appreciated the fact that the international art community had long ago acknowledged her as a sculptor of originality. In truth, she savored her reputation as a risk–taker who challenged the observer to explore both the subtleties and the boldness of her creations.

  Her cell phone chimed, jarring her from her thoughts. She dug it out of her pocket, tapped an icon on the screen, and then stiffened the instant she heard the voice on the other end of the line.

  "Bliss? This is your father."

  Caution saturated her senses as she said, "Hello, Dad. How are you?"

  "I’m fine," Cyrus Rowland answered.

  Bliss, long attuned to the subtleties of his personality, heard an undercurrent of tension in the presidential envoy’s cultured voice. "What’s wrong?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "You rarely call," she reminded him with the candor that had evolved between them over the years.

  "Is that a criticism, Bliss?"

  "Hardly. Just an observation." She summoned patience before she continued. "Your tone of voice gave you away. So, what’s going on?"

  "Do you remember Micah Holbrook?"

  Startled, Bliss said, "Of course, I remember him. How could I not?" She silently acknowledged that she’d measured every man she’d ever known against her memories of Micah Holbrook. No man had ever made the grade. Not a single one. But then, no other man had ever saved her life.

  "He’s in the hospital in D.C."

  Bliss closed her eyes. An ache lodged itself in her heart, and it throbbed like a dull wound. "Will he be alright?" she whispered.

  "Right now, that’s open for debate."

  "What happened?"

  "I’d rather not go into the details, Bliss."

  "Some things never change, do they?" she remarked. What do you want from me, Dad? "Look, he probably doesn’t even remember me, but I hope you’ll give him my best wishes for a speedy recovery."

  "I’m sending Micah to the estate."

  She gripped the phone. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  She swallowed her resentment at his high–handed behavior. Nothing new there, she reminded herself. "Why would you send him here?"

  "He needs a secure and private environment for his convalescence."

  "I’m less than a month away from my next one–woman show."

  "I realize that. Knowing you, though, the work is already done."

  How, Bliss wondered, did an absentee father know the details of her life, let alone her work habits? "I just finished the final piece for the collection this morning," she admitted.

  "He helped you when you needed him. I want you to help him now."

  "That was a long time ago. I was seventeen years old, for heaven’s sake. How in the world could I help Micah Holbrook?"

  "He saved your life. At the very least, you owe him the hospitality of the estate. Besides, you know better than most people what he’s going through right now."

  Her father’s voice faded. Bliss remembered more clearly than she wanted the blast that had nearly destroyed an entire London block and had taken countless lives on a warm summer morning. Trapped in the rubble of a fashionable dress shop near a busy train station, she had struggled to crawl through the debris and dead bodies. A twenty–seven–year–old American naval officer had come out of nowhere to rescue her, freeing her from the wreckage, shielding her as best he could from the carnage caused by a terrorist bombing, and carrying her to a waiting ambulance.

  "Bliss!" Cyrus Rowland barked. "Did you hear me?"

  Jolted back to the present, she said, "He saved my life."

  "Yes, he did, and now he needs you to help him save himself,"
Cyrus pressed.

  "Why does he need my help? Surely there are better places for him than Saint Thomas. His doctors must want to keep him…"

  Her father cut in. "I’m worried about him, Bliss. They can treat his body, but not his spirit. The surgery to restore his vision was experimental. He knows the failure rate is close to seventy percent, and he’s angry and frightened."

  "Like Mom," she whispered, recalling the mother whose diabetes had robbed her of her vision and sent her into full retreat from the world.

  "Yes."

  "What about his family? Wouldn’t he prefer to be around people he knows and trusts?"

  "They don’t know what’s happened to him, and he refuses to allow anyone to contact them. Plus, his father’s health is failing."

  "What exactly happened?" she asked, firming her tone to let him know that, this time, she expected a straight answer.

  "You remember that car bomb at one of our Central American embassies last month?"

  She recalled all too vividly the accounts she’d seen on news broadcasts about the explosion that had almost killed her father and seriously injured several others. "Was Micah with you on that diplomatic mission?"

  "Yes."

  "And was he one of the people who saved your life?" she pressed.

  "Yes."

  "Why didn’t you call me after it happened?" she asked quietly. "Didn’t you think I’d want to know if you were alright? Damn it, Dad, I had to read the accounts on–line to find out if you were dead or alive."

  Silence. More than a minute of it before a more subdued–sounding Cyrus said, "You sound like your mother right now."

  Bliss kept her voice even. "Mother is dead. She has been for a long time. I have a life, and I’m tired, Dad. This show’s important to me, and I’ve spent the last year preparing for it. I don’t know how much good I’d be to anyone else right now."

  He cleared his throat. "Bliss, please do this for me. We both owe him a great deal."

  The "please" got her. In truth, his use of the word absolutely stunned her. She couldn’t recall the last time her father had said the word when speaking to her, or to anyone else, for that matter.

  Like most men accustomed to wielding power on a global basis, he ordered and demanded. He spoke for presidents. He confronted dictators and brought them to heel. He dealt with crises, negotiated treaties, and ended wars. And he’d always made his daughter feel like an intruder in his life, until she’d learned not to seek his approval or attention.

  The God’s honest truth? Cyrus Rowland was a law unto himself. That much had not changed, and she knew that fact right down to her soul.

  "His well–being is that important to you?"

  "Yes. He’s in a bad place mentally, but you’re strong enough to handle him. I trust your instincts and your judgment where he’s concerned."

  Praise from Cyrus? That, too, shocked her. She released a sigh. "Alright, Dad."

  "Thank you, Bliss. I just don’t trust anyone else with him."

  "He’s one of the good guys, and you knew before you called that I wouldn’t be able to say no, didn’t you?" Not an accusation so much as an acknowledgement of a time–honored truth of their relationship.

  Cyrus said nothing for a long moment. "He’s one of the good guys. In fact, he’s the…best." His tone shifted from emotion–laden to one of brisk competence. "All of the appropriate arrangements have been made. Members of my personal household staff and an armed security detail will arrive with him. Everyone’s familiar with the layout of the estate except Micah."

  "Is he vulnerable to an attack?" she asked in response to the mention of armed security personnel.

  Accustomed to the need to guarantee the safety of senior government officials like her father, Bliss still didn’t like the idea of people lurking about her home with weapons at the ready. She’d always accepted the presence of armed security during her father’s infrequent visits to the family estate, or when she periodically acted as his hostess if he needed to entertain foreign dignitaries on behalf of the president.

  Cyrus hadn’t come to the estate in almost two years, and the memory of the last diplomatic gathering she had handled for him emerged from a locked mental closet she rarely explored. It had taken months of therapy for her to move beyond the incident that had involved one of his guests, a South American diplomat.

  The man had been a first class ass of a drunk. He’d over–powered her one evening after the other guests had gone up to bed, dragged her kicking and flailing into the depths of her late mother’s rose garden, and then nearly raped her before she’d managed to slam a fist into his face and break his nose. Her father’s security detail had beaten the man to within an inch of his life. Before they’d dumped the bastard’s unconscious body at the foot of the stairs to his private jet at the St. Thomas Airport, she had wrested a vow from each man on the security team not to speak of the incident to anyone, especially Cyrus. As far as she knew, they’d all kept their promise to her.

  "…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.