Heartbreaker (The Warriors)

by Laura Taylor

  "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.

  "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 exclaim
ed 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.

  5

  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.