Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (6 page)

"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 absorbed 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."

Micah stiffened, but he said nothing.

She paused before she stepped into her suite. "There’s an apple on the patio table, if you’re hungry. Good night, Micah." Bliss held her breath as she closed and secured the French doors, as much to keep herself in her suite as to shut him out.

A violent word hurtled past Micah’s lips before he could stop it. He made his way into the bedroom, slamming the doors so hard that he half expected the panes of glass to shatter. He told himself that he didn’t care if the entire building fell down around his ears.

He moved through the dark room, his fury making him careless. He cursed yet again when he walked into an armoire positioned near the bed. He finally found the bed and jerked back the spread. After shoving all but one of the pillows onto the floor, he kicked off his deck shoes and shed his clothes. He stretched out atop the mattress, his naked body rigid with tension and unappeased sexual hunger, his mind filled with the images of a sensuous woman welcoming him into her heart and body.

The woman—delicate, dark–haired, and as willful as any female he’d ever known—was Bliss Rowland. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see her, because he couldn’t banish the erotic images of her that formed in his mind.

Micah listened to the sound of his own harsh breathing. He resented the desire that fired his blood. Even more, he resented the woman who seemed determined to challenge him on every imaginable level.

Made vulnerable by the arousal pummeling his senses, Micah reminded himself that no woman in her right mind would saddle herself with half a man, let alone invite him into her bed. Despite those reminders, Bliss continued to haunt his thoughts.

He realized that she aroused more than mere physical hunger in him. She inspired the need for something deeper than the casual affairs he routinely conducted with worldly females he encountered as he traveled the globe in his work. Dalliances with any other kind of woman, he’d decided long ago, were a mistake.

A man dedicated to avoiding emotional commitment, primarily because of the dangers posed by his covert work for Naval Intelligence, Micah sensed that a woman like Bliss possessed the potential to become a pivotal person in his world. Still, he felt reluctant to grant her that kind of power over him. He also cursed Cyrus Rowland for forcing him out of the hospital and into an unknown environment—an environment ruled by his intransigent, do–gooder of a daughter, for Christ’s sake. One day soon, he silently vowed, he would confront the old man and make it clear that there’d be hell to pay for his machinations.

Micah found little relief once he finally fell asleep. He tossed and turned until dawn, his subconscious alternating between fantasies that featured a sensual creature named Bliss and the explosion that had nearly killed Cyrus and several other foreign dignitaries in attendance at a multinational conference held at a Central America U.S. embassy.

Micah abandoned his bed just after dawn. His mood dark, he clumsily showered, bypassed shaving in favor of not cutting his own throat, and dressed. He remembered the apple Bliss had left on the patio table, found it, and then downed it in four bites. His hunger persisted, his belly growling emptily, which only served to spike his rage with his situation and with her.

Prowling his suite resulted in two falls and a banged up shin, so he retreated to the chair in the sitting room. When he heard activity beyond the walls of his bedroom, he waited with growing impatience for someone to check on him. He intended to order a breakfast tray, and he promised himself that he’d get one, with or without Bliss Rowland’s approval. His intentions, however, proved futile, which only served to fuel his ire.

** ** **

Later that same morning, Bliss waited in the long hallway while Dr. Chalmers examined Micah and changed the dressings that covered his eyes. Clad in a pair of shorts, a loose tee, and sandals, she looked more rested than she actually felt. She smiled when the retired physician pulled open the door and motioned her forward.

"We’re all done, Bliss. Your houseguest, I’m afraid, is a reluctant patient."

Bliss followed the white–haired surgeon into the suite. Her gaze went immediately to Micah. She noticed the muscle ticking in his unshaven jaw, as well as his white–knuckled fists. She also took in the gray T–shirt and shorts he wore, a spark of pleasure bursting to life inside her because she realized that he’d opted to explore the contents of his suitcase without help. The unique scent of soap made on the island by locals informed her that he’d showered. Small victories, she realized, but victories nonetheless.

His attire did nothing to conceal the brawny power of his muscular body, and his conservatively cut golden hair looked as though he’d shoved his fingers through it right after stepping out of the shower. He reminded her yet again of a weathered Viking adventurer. Her heartbeat accelerated, but she quickly put the brakes on her response to Micah and reminded herself to remain aloof.

"You’re a fortunate man, Micah," observed the doctor as he closed his medical bag.

"Why’s that?" Micah snapped.

Dr. Chalmers ignored his ill humor. "Our Bliss is an old hand with the visually impaired, and she’s our principal fund–raiser for the island’s residential school for the blind, which is named for her mother. She’s also beautiful, talented, and remarkably even–tempered."

"Yeah, Doc, she’s a regular saint! I’ll tell you a little secret about
our Bliss
. She’s heavily into torture and starvation."

Dr. Chalmers chuckled as he glanced at Bliss. She fought the flush staining her cheeks, and she shrugged helplessly. She accepted an affectionate hug and a thumbs–up gesture from the doctor before Chalmers collected his medical bag and paused beside Micah’s chair.

"I don’t expect a salute or a thank you, son, but I do expect the courtesy of a handshake."

Micah shot to his feet and extended his hand, ruddy color staining his cheeks. Doctor Chalmers accepted the handshake with his usual graciousness. Bliss knew he hadn’t deliberately tried to embarrass Micah. Rather, he’d reminded him that good manners were not the prerogative of the sighted alone.

"Bliss is an extraordinarily resourceful woman. Once you get past the self–pity you’re feeling, you’ll recognize how fortunate you are."

She watched Micah tense with resentment. She decided to intervene. "Dr. Chalmers is somewhat prejudiced, Micah. He’s my godfather."

"I also delivered you, young lady, so of course I’m prejudiced." Glancing at his patient before he strolled out of the room, he said, "I’ll see you both the day after tomorrow. If you need anything in the interim, Bliss knows how to reach me."

Once the doctor departed, Micah announced, "I’m hungry. I want a breakfast tray. Now."

She glanced at her watch. "Brunch will be served in the dining room in ten minutes."

"Forget it. I’ll eat in here."

She ignored his comment. "I’ll meet you in the foyer at the end of the hallway. Count your steps as you make your way down the hall and remember the number. You’ll have an easier time making your way around the mansion if you measure the rooms and hallways with your footsteps."

Micah moved toward her. Bliss didn’t budge. That he seemed to know her exact location, which meant he was paying close attention to the sound of her voice, displaced any uneasiness she might otherwise have felt for his safety. Her own well–being she already knew she could preserve.

"I will not be trained to perform like some God damned trick pony at the circus!"

She felt something snap deep inside of herself. "Damn it, stop snarling at me. I’m tired of it, Micah. You must learn new ways to live your life. I’ll show you how. Now, you’ve got ten minutes to find your way to the foyer. Shoes are optional around here."

She turned away from him, tears stinging her eyes. She grasped his anxiety and longed to console him, but she knew better. Blinking back her tears, Bliss lifted her chin, a stubborn look on her face as she glanced back over her shoulder at him.

Micah appeared stunned by her remarks, and Bliss felt like the cruelest thing on two feet. But she remained determined to get him out of his suite.

As he clenched his fists at his sides and breathed shallowly, Bliss goaded him with the comment, "I’d hate to think you’re a coward, Micah Holbrook."

She hurriedly exited the room, but not because she feared a violent response from him. She knew he needed a few minutes to calm down and to consider his options.

And his options were few. Cooperate, or go hungry. His choice.

Coward?

The word sounded and felt like a gun fired at his temple at point–blank range. It rang in his ears until he managed to clamp down on his reverberating emotions.

Coward?

He didn’t want to believe that Bliss Rowland thought him a coward, but she obviously did. Too stunned to move, Micah vibrated with a primitive inner fury that made him crave revenge. He pressed his clenched fists to his sides, breathing deeply as he struggled to calm himself and think in a clearheaded manner.

His pride finally kicked in, but it took a few minutes. Micah knew he had no choice but to pick up the gauntlet Bliss had hurled at his feet. She held all of the cards at the moment, but he silently vowed that he would beat her at her own game. He also promised himself that he would find a way to make her feel as raw–nerved and vulnerable as she’d made him feel.

With the word
coward
still ricocheting through his consciousness, he marshaled his emotions, walked to the bedroom door, and jerked it open. Micah didn’t intend to go hungry any longer. He also didn’t intend to allow a woman he barely knew to judge him or find him lacking in the guts department.

Squaring his broad shoulders, he forced himself to concentrate. He stepped out of the suite, touched the wall to his right in order to get his bearings, and slowly made his way down the hallway. And he counted every single step he took.

Micah calmed down as he walked. He felt the subtlely shifting air currents in the hallway and heard the faint hum of a motor—caused, he assumed, by the overhead fans. As he approached the foyer, he started to experience a sensation of expanded space. He slowed his steps, but he kept counting. When he ran out of wall, he paused.

"You’re doing fine, Micah."

He stepped forward, using her voice as an auditory beacon. Although still furious with Bliss, Micah allowed his pride and his senses to guide him toward her.

"I’m directly in front of you," she said. "I think you’ll like the meal I’ve arranged for us."

Micah detected her fragrance, took a final step, and paused. Extending his hands, he found her shoulders with ease. He gripped them, his fingers a conduit for the tension coursing through his entire body. He expected a reaction, even wanted one, but she failed to supply anything but a calm demeanor. Damn the woman!