Heartbreaker (The Warriors)

by Laura Taylor

  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.

  3

  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.

  Although still restless and on edge, Bliss returned to her suite well after midnight. As she showered and dressed for bed, she realized how easy it would be for her to fall in love with Micah again. But she would risk far more as a grown woman than she’d risked as a teenager in the throes of her first crush. She realized, too, that secret dreams and private yearnings wouldn’t satisfy her this time. She would want more—need more—if Micah responded to her.

  Afraid of her vulnerability, Bliss absently studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She saw brilliant blue eyes that were shadowed by fatigue and haunted by memories of abandonment by the people she’d trusted. Her chin trembled until she clenched her teeth and glared at her own image, proclaiming herself a fool for wanting a man she couldn’t have.

  Emotions submerged for many years beneath an independent lifestyle, inherited wealth, creative success far beyond anything she’d ever anticipated, and her hunger to be loved without motive strained to burst free. Bliss swore, the word a hushed, wretched–sounding whimper in the silence of the night.

  Turning off the light, she walked into her bedroom. Moonlight spilled through the open patio doors and across the marble floor. Hearing footsteps, Bliss paused halfway to her bed and then detoured to the open French doors that led out onto the patio.

  She assumed it was probably one of the security guards checking on Micah, but she decided to be certain. Cyrus had voiced his concern about Micah’s safety, and she didn’t plan to ignore the situation when his threat perception skills and overall awareness of his surroundings were so compromised.

  She hesitated when she recognized the man pacing the patio. Smiling, she experienced a moment of pure pride in him. Micah had the left the relative safety of his suite. Although he hadn’t gone far, Bliss considered his presence on the moon–washed patio a positive sign. He’d grown tired of hiding.

  His ability to navigate the patio without hesitation told her he’d carefully inspected the area, discovering in the process the placement of a few pieces of wicker furniture, a table and four chairs, and the flower beds and palm trees that bordered the spacious outdoor retreat. She said a quiet prayer that he would one day be able to enjoy the view of the back lawn, the beach, and the turquoise beauty of the Caribbean waters. Until then, Bliss intended to teach him to maximize his other senses, even if he wound up hating her for her efforts.

  After snagging an apple from the bowl of fruit on her desk, she paused in the doorway that led out to their shared patio. She waited in silence as the night breeze ruffled the hem of her white silk nightgown. Micah paused less than a minute later, his head lifting as he turned in her direction. Wearing the same clothes he’d traveled in, he looked bone–weary, rumpled, and wary.

  Bliss moved on bare feet across the patio. Aware of the importance of signaling her exact location at all times in order not to disorient him, she remarked, "You’ve had a long day. I’m surprised you aren’t asleep."

  "I’d like to be left alone." Micah turned away from her, extended his hand, and moved in the direction of the double doors to his suite.

  "I witnessed what happened to my mother when she lost her vision a few years before her death. She was a diabetic all of her life. She coped really well with many of the limitations her illness imposed on her, but when her vision started to fail, she grew intransigent and angry."

  He stopped suddenly. "Is that what you think of me?" Micah demanded. "That I’m intransigent and angry?"

  Bliss knew better than to answer his question. "Mother shut herself away from the world. She stopped traveling, she refused to socialize with lifelong friends, and she quit inviting people into our home. I was a senior in college at the time. When she didn’t attend my graduation ceremony, I knew something was terribly wrong, so I came home. She’d kept the truth from me for several months, and the servants had honored her instructions not to inform me of her situation."

  She sighed, the memories coming back full force as she walked to the edge of the patio and looked up at the stars that studded the night sky like diamond chips. "I did and said everything I could think of to persuade her she was strong enough to handle what was happening to her. Mother fought me tooth and nail. It took months, but I finally reached her. In the end she fought the battle of her life, and along the way we both learned what she needed to do to compensate for her vision loss. We did it together, Micah. And Cyrus sent you to me, because he knows I’ve never forgotten what she went through. The primary difference this time is that you and I don’t have months, because your survival could be compromised by the same people who tried to murder Cyrus in Central America or by any number of terrorists who’ve put you on their hit lists."

  Bliss placed the apple on the round patio table as she moved past it. And then she paused a few feet from him to await his response.

  He turned slowly. And he moved forward with care, but without hesitation. "I’ve known Cyrus Rowland for a long time. He’s never even mentioned your mother to me. And I can count on one hand how many times he’s mentioned you."

  "He wouldn’t. He’s very private. Besides, they divorced before you ever met him. If you think about it, you’ll recall that he never discusses his personal life with anyone. I was five when their marriage ended, and they only saw each other a handful of times until Mother’s death. As to his mentioning me, that’s not important."

  "So you lived with her after their divorce?"

  "That’s right."

  "Here?"

  "Part of the time. I attended schools in Switzerland and England while I was growing up. Mother kept apartments in Zurich and just outside London. I enjoyed traveling with her during summer vacations and other holidays. What I never realized was that much of her restlessness was caused by pure loneliness and her fear of a premature death because of her diabetes."

  Micah stood beside her. "You don’t like to travel so much anymore, do you?"

  His insight pleased her. "Not at all. Other than a periodic trip to visit friends or for a gallery show, I stay rooted. I’m a nester at heart, and I really love Saint Thomas. It’s my home, and I couldn’t ask for a more beautiful one." Bliss inhaled deeply of the fragrant humid air currents that flowed over her before turning to study Micah’s profile. "What about you? Is there a place you particularly like, a place that gives you a feeling of belonging whenever you’re there?"

  "I used to feel that way about the Pacific Northwest, but that was a long time ago. I’ve lived a pretty transient life since the Naval Academy. In my line of work, you learn not to form any permanent ties to people or to places."

  "Sounds lonely," she observed.

  Shifting sideways, Micah extended his hands. As he reached for Bliss, his knuckles brushed across the silk–covered tips of her breasts.

  She inhaled sharply, the whispery contact paralyzing her senses for a moment. She also felt Micah’s surprise, saw the shocked stillness of his body as she stared up at him. It occurred to her that the angles and hollows of his hard–featured face appeared even more forbidding than usual. She glimpsed a stark neediness there, which seemed wholly sensual in nature.

  She managed a steadying breat
h, aware that she had to distance herself from him even as her nipples beaded with tension and her senses produced an image of his mouth at her breasts, his tongue and lips subjecting her to a glorious sensual torture. But she couldn’t seem to move—really didn’t even want to move—despite the frantic voice in her head that shouted one warning after another.

  "You’re wearing silk again."

  "Yes," she whispered, mesmerized by the feel of his fingertips as he traced the piping on the bodice of her nightgown. She shivered, despite the heat of his fingertips as he trailed them over the upper slopes of her full breasts.

  "And lace?"

  "Yes." Her voice resembled a sigh when he briefly dipped a fingertip into the valley between her breasts.

  "I seem to need to touch you when we’re together."

  She heard his bafflement and sensed his growing confusion. She also felt the tremor that shook him when he smoothed his fingertips over the warm skin above her breasts. After fingering the pulse that throbbed in the hollow of her throat, he curved his hands over her shoulders.

  Bliss breathed shallowly. Her insides churned, and her heart raced. She understood the reassurance he found in physical contact, but she also felt fear stir in her own heart that she might weaken in the face of his need and allow him to use her. She doubted he would intend to use her, but an absence of intent wouldn’t alter the result.

  Micah ran his hands down her arms, and then he shifted them to span her waist. His thumbs smoothed over and up her midriff, then stroked the undersides of her breasts. She felt them swell in anticipation of his touch, her nipples so sensitive, she could barely draw air into her lungs. Sensations cascaded through her. Her legs turned boneless, and she bit back the plea for greater intimacy that hovered on the tip of her tongue. As he dragged his knuckles down across her stomach and then cupped her hips, she felt a slight trembling in his hands as he drew her into his heat and hardness.

  She swayed against him, nearly shattered by the desire streaming through her even as she registered the strength of his body’s response to her. Gripping his forearms, Bliss struggled to maintain her equilibrium despite Micah’s apparent need to reassure himself that he was still capable of arousing a woman. Any woman, she realized. She was little more than a convenience, and she balked at the very idea.

  She trembled so violently, he released her. He closed his hands into fists and lifted his chin in a gesture of defense that Bliss now recognized.

  "Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

  "Of course not, although I do feel a lot of things when you touch me. Fear isn’t one of them, though."

  "You’re remarkably blunt," he noted. "What are you thinking right now?"

  "That I’m glad you’re here."

  He raised a hand to the strand of dark gold hair that had fallen across his forehead, shoving at it with ruthless fingers. "Why?"

  Bliss almost smiled at the incredulous tone of his voice. "Because I like you."

  "You hardly know me. Do you always let men you don’t know touch you?"

  She stiffened, controlling her own temper with effort. "I trust my instincts, Micah. You don’t intend to harm me, and I won’t allow you to use me. You’re simply testing the boundaries of our relationship, which isn’t all that surprising given your situation."

  "You’re real big on instinct, aren’t you?"

  "You needn’t sound so cynical. I trust my instincts because they’re usually right. And I suspect you’ve stayed alive over the years by doing exactly the same thing."

  "What do your instincts tell you about me?"

  She hedged. "It’s difficult to put it all into words."

  "Try." He jerked her forward, aligning their lower bodies with an ease that startled Bliss. She felt his fingers dig into her hips even as he forced her to feel the strength of his body’s hunger for hers.

  Bliss sensed it would be a mistake to put her instincts about him into words. "You’re trying to make me angry, but it won’t work."

  "Are you sure?" He rubbed against her, a low groan escaping him in spite of his attempt to swallow the sound. "You feel like a sin–filled version of heaven."

  "Micah." In saying his name, she voiced a clear warning.

  He stilled, but he failed to conceal the shudder that rumbled through his hard–muscled body.

  Bliss felt tension arc between them like a live electrical current. She craved his passion, but she also needed his trust, and she would lose it if she allowed their relationship to become intimate. Not now, she cautioned herself. Perhaps never.

  "We shouldn’t complicate an already complicated situation, should we?" she asked.

  "Is there a man in your life?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don’t trust easily, and I dislike being used," she explained, deliberately allowing him to think she suspected him of using her to slake his sexual hunger, the consequences be damned.

  "You’ve been used?" An odd stillness seemed to overtake him.

  "In a manner of speaking, and only once. It won’t ever happen again."

  "Tell me."

  She hesitated. This wasn’t about her, but she sensed he wouldn’t rest until he knew the truth. "I was entertaining a group of foreign dignitaries from South America for Cyrus. One of his guests tried to rape me. I broke his nose before he could succeed, and the security team beat him to within an inch of his life. Cyrus doesn’t know, and he never will. Are we clear on that?"

  "Yes."

  "Excellent."

  His grip on her hips eased. When she shifted back a step, he didn’t try to stop her. "You sound very determined and self–directed. Reminds me of another woman I know." He paused. "Leah, my baby sister."

  "I’m determined not to be hurt or victimized." Resenting the mere mention of another woman, then feeling immediate relief at his explanation of their relationship, Bliss shrugged beneath the large hands he curved over her shoulders.

  Act as though you’re indifferent, she told herself. After all, he’s a virile man, and he’s probably had lovers by the dozens. But the very thought of another woman in his arms still made her queasy.

  "I like my life, Micah. It’s very full and satisfying, and I don’t need any complications. Neither do you, for that matter."

  "We have something in common, or we did until about a month ago."

  Bliss didn’t object when he tugged her into a loose embrace. Although surprised that he held her with an absence of overt desire, she welcomed the haven she found in his arms—despite his still aroused body. She slid her hands around his waist and laced her fingers together. "Your career means everything to you, doesn’t it?"

  "It’s how I’ve always defined myself."

  "I think people define themselves and then adapt their instincts and personalities to the work they choose to do."

  "Interesting concept, but there’s something missing from your theory."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Who in hell’s going to trust a blind man?" he demanded. "I’ve worked in Naval Intelligence for most of my adult life. It’s what I know, and it’s what I’m good at, but now…"

  She hurt for him, but she knew if she acknowledged her feelings, Micah would interpret her response as pity. Bliss lifted her face into view. "If the surgery isn’t a success and you don’t regain your sight, some people will lose confidence in you. Others may become over protective. Those reactions go with the territory, I’m afraid. There will also be people who will trust you, but only if you make it happen. You have to set the tone, Micah. If you expect pity, you’ll get it in spades. But if you expect to be treated normally and then behave accordingly, people will respond to your cues."

  "You really believe all that, don’t you?"

  "Yes."

  "Why? Christ, how can you?"

  "Because I live the ethic every minute of every day of my life, and my life works." Her gaze skimmed over the strong lines of his jaw and his oh so sensual mouth. Pressing her hands to his muscular chest, she a
bsorbed through her fingers and palms the warmth of his skin despite the shirt he wore. "Promise me you won’t give up on yourself."

  He took her hands, lifted them to his lips, and then pressed a kiss into the center of each palm. "I can’t promise you anything right now, Bliss Rowland."

  She sagged a little as he released her and stepped back. "I understand."

  Bliss really did understand, she realized as she instinctively closed her hands into fists to hold the heat left by his lips. A promise on his part meant a commitment Micah wouldn’t break. Despite her disappointment, she respected his honesty.

  "I wish I did," he admitted, his voice bleak.

  "It’s early times in this particular journey. Give me as much effort as you can, and try to remain optimistic about the results of your surgery."

  "Shall I hope for the best like a good little boy scout?"

  She stiffened, anger bursting to life inside her at the depth of his sarcasm. "Perhaps you should, but first get rid of that chip on your shoulder. It isn’t an attractive addition to your wardrobe." She stepped away from him. "I need some sleep. So do you."

  "I need a lot of things."

  Bliss paused in the doorway to her suite. She glanced back at Micah, taking a moment to strengthen her resolve to do what was right for him. "I know you feel as though you’re riding an out–of–control roller coaster right now, but I won’t allow you use me simply because I’m convenient. I’m offering you my friendship, Micah. Nothing more." At least, not now, she amended silently.

  "That I understand," he retorted, the words sounding bitter.

  She didn’t correct him. She knew he’d be better off if he believed she wasn’t attracted to him, just as she knew that the feverish desire she felt for him would probably never fade. Feeling torn in two, she gripped the doorframe and quelled the urge to comfort him with the tenderness, love, and passion that she normally channeled into her sculpting. She even managed to speak in a level, unemotional voice. "Dr. Chalmers will arrive mid–morning for your checkup. He’s a retired surgeon, and he’s been asked by the Department of the Navy and Cyrus to supervise your medical needs while you’re here."