Heartbreaker (The Warriors) Page 3

  He looked stunned, so she paused, giving him a moment to digest her comments. Then, she asked, "Don’t I know enough, Micah?"

  Extricating her hands from his grip, Bliss started to get to her feet. Shaken by her ability to intuit his most pressing fears, as well as by his anxiety over what his life might be like if he didn’t regain his vision, Micah responded instinctively. He reached out with lightning quickness, connected with her shoulders, and grabbed hold of her.

  Pulling her forward, he hauled her up and into his lap. She weighed almost nothing, he realized in surprise. She also didn’t protest his aggressive behavior, which surprised him even more.

  Her compassion–filled voice continued to echo in his head as he spanned her waist with his hands and held her atop his thighs. He trembled with tension and a startling renewal of the desire he’d felt just minutes earlier. And then he realized somewhat belatedly that Bliss wasn’t fighting to free herself. Hell, her breathing hadn’t even changed and her pulse remained steady.

  Micah frowned. Did nothing shake this woman? Why wasn’t she upset with him? Why wasn’t she fighting him like a cornered wildcat? Did she think the bandages that covered his eyes made him less of a man, made him impervious to sexual desire? He assumed the latter, and anger reignited within him.

  "Now what?"

  Her calm voice stung like salt applied to an open wound. Micah’s grip on her waist tightened. He wanted her to struggle against his hold, but she didn’t, damn her! He exhaled, the sound ragged with emotions he couldn’t even begin to articulate.

  What did he want from her?

  Aside from the driving need to touch her, to reassure himself that she was more than a voice capable of irritating the hell out of him as she relentlessly peeled back his anxieties layer by layer, he finally admitted to himself that he’d reached a point where he just wanted a temporary truce between them.

  What he didn’t want was her pity. He particularly did not want to be the recipient of Bliss Rowland’s pity.

  She reached for his sunglasses, eased them free of his face, and tossed them onto the coffee table. Micah stiffened, wary because he couldn’t quite figure out her motives, but he didn’t try to stop her. His ego protested because she could now see the bandages that covered his eyes, although he sensed that her intention was not to harm or to humiliate him. Nevertheless, he felt vulnerable without the protection of his sunglasses.

  Micah also felt every subtle movement of her body. He grudgingly gave her credit for not squirming in his lap, but her innocent movements nevertheless enticed and aroused a body that had gone without the pleasure of physical intimacy with a woman for far too long a time. Desire steamed hotly through his veins. He shifted beneath her, seeking to ease the pressure hardening his sex without revealing his need.

  Bliss placed her hands on his broad shoulders. He froze, on guard lest she should decide to touch his face.

  "Relax, Micah."

  He realized again that she didn’t feel the least bit threatened by his anger or his physical response to her. Still unsure as to why she’d allowed him to manhandle her right into his lap, he waited warily for her next move.

  Bliss skimmed her hands over his shoulders and up the sides of his neck. Micah experienced a reluctant kind of appreciation when he felt her unexpectedly capable touch. As she massaged the knotted muscles beneath her fingertips, he refused to voice his feelings.

  Letting his mind drift, he began to relax, centimeter by centimeter. But a short while later he felt the sting of betrayal when Bliss raised her hands to the sides of his face and pressed her palms to his cheeks.

  He seized her wrists, but her whispered, "Please, Micah," made him hesitate.

  Lowering his hands, he felt her press her fingertips into his temples and move them in a circular motion. Her touch, gentle, firm, and incredibly effective, seduced Micah in ways he’d never imagined possible. His world, a world of subterfuge and violence, hadn’t prepared him for a woman like Bliss Rowland. Whatever her agenda, his senses responded to her wholeheartedly. He wanted—needed—to believe, if only for the present, that she was as sincere and caring as her touch implied. Moments later, the headache throbbing in his temples began to ease.

  Although grateful for her kindness and the soothing quality of her touch, Micah still felt the ravages of his inner war. Not even Bliss Rowland’s compassion and sensitivity could quell his emotional tumult or his fears about what the future held for him.

  He still felt the urge to ram his fist through the nearest wall, to shout his rage at the car bomb that had altered his life just a month ago. His headache clamored to life again with a vengeance, and he bit back a groan.

  Bliss withdrew her hands without warning. "I’m going to stand up now, Micah. I want you to stand with me."

  He didn’t try to restrain her as she scrambled out of his lap, but he regretted her absence almost immediately. He told himself that, because she seemed willing to understand and accept his constantly shifting emotions, he could afford to reward her with cooperation, however grudging. Although he pushed up to his feet, Micah didn’t step away from the chair. He simply waited.

  Bliss clasped both of his hands. He sensed that she was asking for his trust, but he hesitated. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d ever given his trust easily. Trust empowered the recipient, and that power could be misused by even the most well–intentioned person.

  "You need to see me, and this is the best way," Bliss explained.

  She brought his broad palms to her face and pressed them to her cheeks. More curious about her than he wanted to admit, Micah paused briefly before cupping her head and tunneling his long fingers into the soft curls that framed her face.

  "You’re not very tall."

  She laughed. "Don’t let the size of the package fool you."

  "You’re telling me you’re tougher than you…look?" He spat the last word. Micah didn’t see her smile fade, but he felt her sudden stillness.

  Would he ever be able to simply look at a woman again? he wondered. Would he ever again see the naked body of a lover or view the satisfaction that glazed a woman’s eyes in the aftermath of lovemaking? His hold on Bliss tightened as he questioned whether he’d ever even have another lover.

  "Touch me, Micah," she encouraged, her voice steady, her manner serene, despite the fierceness of his expression and the tension in his hands. "See me by using your fingertips to map the contours of my face. Create an image in your mind to go along with what your senses have already told you about me. Use your senses, Micah. Use the gifts God gave you to recognize the face of a friend, because that’s precisely what I am."

  Unease swept through him, only to be followed by a sudden hot burst of desire. His hands trembled as hers fell away. She lifted her face to invite his tactile inspection. Micah felt clumsy as he pressed his fingertips to her forehead.

  He discovered smooth skin stretched tautly over a high forehead. Nervousness gave way to a concentration that those few who knew Micah Holbrook well would have expected of him. As he breathed deeply of Bliss’s unique scent, Micah shifted his fingertips to her temples and discovered throbbing pulse points with the callused pads of his fingers.

  As he slowly brought his thumbs across her arched eyebrows, he sensed a delicacy in her features that seemed at odds with her assertive personality. He moved lower, his fingers fanning her hairline before he carefully stroked his thumbs over her closed eyes. Dense lashes that reminded him of mink feathered over his skin and sent sensation after sensation shimmering across his nerve endings.

  "Talk to me." His voice contained a lover–like huskiness as he traced the shape of her slender nose and the elegance of her high cheekbones.

  "My skin is very fair, but I tan easily. My eyes are large, blue, and thickly lashed, and my hair is as black as ink. I’ve been told that I resemble my late mother."

  Cupping the side of her face with his broad–palmed hand, Micah trailed a fingertip across the seam of her lips, then back over the lush
fullness of her lower lip. Her mouth invited a leisurely exploration, and his body tightened in response to that invitation.

  He felt her tremble, and then he heard her breath catch. He froze, certain she felt uncomfortable with his touch despite her earlier encouragement. "What’s wrong?"

  "Nothing."

  Frowning, he asked, "Would you rather I didn’t touch you?"

  "No, I’m fine." He felt Bliss place her hands over his as though to emphasize that she spoke the truth. "As you touch me, think about the sensory bridge that exists between the sighted world and the unsighted world," she suggested quietly. "We both know there’s a seventy percent chance you’ll be visually impaired, so you need to give some thought to constructing that bridge yourself. It’s the only way you’ll ever be comfortable when you travel it."

  Micah didn’t want to hear about the risk he faced. He needed to concentrate on Bliss, not on himself, so he focused for several silent moments on the shape of her generous mouth, as well as the seductive images that filled his mind and tantalized his senses. His entire body throbbed with desire, and purely male instincts told him that making love with this woman would be like her name—bliss.

  Micah exhaled, forcing his thoughts away from the sensual hunger that tantalized and tormented him. "You aren’t telling me anything I haven’t already figured out for myself," he finally admitted a few moments later.

  "Do you intend to build that bridge, Micah?" she asked, something akin to urgency in her tone of voice. "Do you believe you’re capable of building it? Do you really understand that your mind, your heart, and your will to succeed are separate parts of your being and must work in harmony, but that they are not dependent upon your vision?"

  He knew what she wanted him to say, but he couldn’t manage the words. He didn’t know the true answer to her questions yet. So he remained silent and continued his exploration of her features, feeling her disappointment in the rush of air that escaped her when she sighed.

  He trailed his knuckles across the width of her lower lip, simultaneously fascinated and tempted by the soft flesh and the warmth of her breath. He craved a very thorough taste of Bliss Rowland, but he consciously fought the urge to stake a claim on her with the reminder that she hadn’t granted him any rights beyond her offer of friendship.

  "I don’t understand anything right now," he muttered more to himself than to her. Anger resonated in his voice. Driving his fingers into the cap of silky black curls that covered her head and framed her face, he kneaded her scalp like a jungle cat fondling its prey.

  Bliss silently slipped free of him. Micah’s head came up. He reached out, made contact with her shoulders, and seized her.

  "Very good. See what happens when you trust your instincts."

  He scowled. "I don’t like tests."

  "Nether do I, so there won’t be any more."

  "You’re very small, aren’t you?"

  "And you’re quite large," she countered.

  "Not for my family."

  Turmoil stirred within him yet again. How in God’s name, he wondered, would he tell his parents that he might never see again? Hating the thought, he let his shoulders slump.

  "I’m five feet three inches tall," Bliss said hurriedly. "I weigh one hundred and ten pounds. I’m single, twenty–eight, and I have all of my teeth."

  He realized that she’d sensed his anxiety and was making an effort to distract him from it. He wondered yet again why she even cared about his state of mind.

  "Am I supposed to count them now?" he asked, referring to her teeth.

  She laughed. "Only if you absolutely have to," she teased, despite his obvious sarcasm.

  He smiled, his first genuine smile since his arrival, and tangled his fingers in the tumbled curls that partially covered her nape. "It’s soft."

  "My hairdresser thanks you."

  Concentrating, he shifted his hands and curved them over her shoulders. He recognized the fabric. "Raw silk."

  "That’s right. What do you hear in my voice?"

  He hesitated for a moment. "Approval?"

  "What does that suggest to you?"

  "You tell me," he answered, although he took her point.

  "You have to listen to the words and the emotions in the voices of the people who speak to you. Most people don’t realize that they reveal their feelings when they talk. Since you won’t always have the luxury of physical contact to gauge the state of their emotions, how you listen and what you listen for beyond the words becomes doubly important."

  "Your perfume is subtle, French, and very expensive, which also proves that my nose works. What of it?" He refused to care if his sarcasm offended her.

  "Your senses need to work in concert, but you have to allow them the opportunity. For the record, that particular fragrance is my only vice."

  "And here I thought you were perfect." Micah smoothed his large hands down her arms, measured her narrow wrists with his fingers, and then clasped her hands. He felt the flexing strength of her fingers when she squeezed his hands. "You’re remarkably petite."

  "So you keep saying."

  "A man could hurt you very easily."

  "You won’t."

  He heard the conviction in her voice. Although pleased that she didn’t perceive him as abusive or a threat, he wasn’t certain he liked being so transparent. "How can you be sure? You don’t know me."

  "Your hands. They say a lot about you."

  "Like what?"

  "You’re aware of your physical prowess. When you aren’t feeling angry or threatened, your touch is very light, even gentle." Bliss paused. "The real question right now is whether or not you’ll accept my compassion and assistance at this difficult time in your life. It’s a new role for you, I suspect."

  "What in hell did Cyrus tell you about me?" he demanded, thrown by yet another of his hostess’s blunt curves.

  "Enough for me to realize that you’re always in the driver’s seat in every relationship you have, and enough to understand that you instinctively balk at the idea of depending on anyone other than yourself in a crisis."

  "You’re lying," he accused. "Cyrus wouldn’t have said those things."

  "It’s what he didn’t say that was so revealing," she admitted.

  "You’re spooky, lady. Very spooky."

  "No, I’m just me, and I never apologize for being myself. Do you?" Bliss challenged.

  "Hell, no!"

  "Then we’re standing on a level playing field, aren’t we?" When he didn’t answer, she filled the ensuing silence. "I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Micah."

  "You’ll just talk me to death, is that it?"

  Bliss laughed. "Probably," she conceded.

  He discovered that he liked the sound of her laughter. It was warm and rich, hinting at a vitality of spirit that he suddenly envied. Almost without thought, he released her hands and lifted his fingertips to the edges of her lips.

  Making out the uplift of her lingering smile, Micah felt a sudden burst of apprehension. He didn’t want to like anything about Bliss Rowland. He already desired her with a hunger he hadn’t felt for any woman in years, and that was bad enough. He also feared becoming her personal cause, a charity case she felt compelled to adopt because of his connection to her father. He feared, as well, becoming dependent on her.

  "Micah…"

  "I don’t want to like you," he said bluntly, his hands falling to his sides before he lowered himself back into the chair. His frustration with the situation doused his desire like a bucket of water poured over a campfire. "And I’ll be damned if I’ll depend on you. I don’t need or want a nursemaid."

  Bliss walked around him to stand behind his chair. She soothed him by massaging his rigid shoulders. "Of course, you don’t want to like me. It’s extremely risky, because if you like me, you’ll have to trust me."

  "Why?" he demanded. "Why do this? Why become involved in my life? Why put yourself through this? You don’t owe me crap."

  "And I
don’t pity you, either," she snapped.

  He grabbed her wrists, trapping her and forcing her to hover at an odd angle behind him. "Everyone has an agenda, Bliss Rowland. What’s yours?"

  He interpreted her sigh as a sign of patience stretched to the limit, and he suddenly experienced a perverse need to push her until he found her breaking point.

  "Do you assign motives to every person you meet?" she asked.

  "Absolutely. In my business, it’s the only way you stay alive."

  "I suppose that’s true." She sighed. "You are a man of character, strength, and purpose, Micah Holbrook, which is why your work in Naval Intelligence is respected by men like my father. And your success or failure in your current situation is largely dependent on your willingness to accept a challenge."

  "Now you sound like him," said Micah, his voice like an endless stretch of gravel road.

  Bliss flinched. Micah felt the sharp movement as it winnowed through her slender frame.

  "For the record, I’m nothing like Cyrus," she said. "I just want to help you."

  He jerked on her wrists. "Try again, damn it!"

  "You’re hurting me."

  Stung by her comment, he instantly freed her.

  She straightened and moved to his side. "The household staff has instructions not to deliver any meal trays to your suite without my permission. You have three options. Come with me now, find the kitchen yourself, or go hungry. It’s your choice."

  "God damn you!" he shouted.

  She slipped a circular object, heavy and cool to the touch, into his open palm. Micah closed his hand around it, his curiosity piqued despite his frustration with her mulish determination to bend him to her will.

  "You’re holding a pocket watch. Press the stem at the top to open it. It needs to be re–wound once a day."

  "I… cannot… see." He ground out the words through clenched teeth.

  "Don’t be obtuse, Micah. It doesn’t suit you." Bliss walked away, but she paused in the doorway to the patio. "Last chance for the evening meal."