Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (15 page)

Nearly blinded by the tears that filled her eyes, she approached the clay bust of Micah, slipped her arms around it, and hugged the unyielding surface. She wept, but only briefly. Her anger with the situation, and with Micah, resurfaced.

Bliss didn’t linger in her studio. Instead of letting herself completely unravel, she decided to follow Micah. She doubted that he would feel inclined to talk, but she suddenly didn’t care. He could damn well listen to what she had to say, because they couldn’t leave things the way they were. Too much had happened between them during the preceding weeks.

And what about last night? My God, it had been everything she’d ever dreamed of sharing with him. And she knew in her heart that Micah had savored every single moment, too. She reasoned that, no matter how much inner conflict he felt about the possible success or failure of his eye surgery, he needed to be reminded that running away solved nothing.

She didn’t expect a commitment or a declaration of love from him. It was too soon, and it might never happen. But she meant to persuade him to at least keep an open mind about their relationship and his future.

Making her way to his suite, Bliss realized that if she didn’t fight for them now, she might never again have the chance. She knocked on his door, and then she pushed open the door to his suite without waiting for an invitation.

She paused when she saw him. He stood in the doorway that led out to their shared private patio. Bliss felt a flash of despair as she remembered that their intimacy had begun on that same patio.

"I’m not accustomed to people walking out on me in the middle of a conversation," she began.

Micah stiffened. When he didn’t bother to respond to her remark, Bliss closed the space that separated them. Standing before him, she glanced up at his profile and registered the glacial expression on his face. She felt momentarily taken aback by the cold look, but she intended to confront him. First, though, she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

"Shall we try again, Micah? I think we need to talk."

"There’s no point. There’s nothing more to say."

"You’re turning your back on what we shared last night. It was a beginning, not some meaningless one–night stand. Making love with you meant the world to me, and I’m certain you placed a high value on it, too."

He leaned back against the doorframe, but his facial expression remained empty of emotion. "Last night was a mistake. It won’t ever happen again."

She stared at him for several moments while she gathered her wits and found a way to compartmentalize, if only for a short time, the hurt he’d just inflicted. "I’ve never been called a mistake before, Micah. It’s a new experience for me, and I’m not quite sure how to handle it."

He swore under his breath. "That’s not what I said, and you know it."

"I know you feel at a disadvantage, and I know you’re still angry about the possibility that you may never see again, but I also know how I felt when we made love. And I definitely remember what it felt like each time you climaxed inside of me. Micah, we captured the very essence of life and hope when we held each other." Bliss paused to swallow against the emotion clogging her throat and threatening to swamp her. "I felt more than simple lust last night, and I’d swear you did too."

"Don’t do this, Bliss." His voice sounded guttural, but his expression remained stone cold.

"Don’t do what, Micah? Don’t remember last night? Don’t have feelings? Don’t care about you? Don’t want you? Don’t bother to remind you of how incredible we were together, because then you’ll have to find a way past your damnable pride and think of someone other than yourself for a change? Don’t think about the fact that I trusted you?" She heard the strident sound of her voice and deliberately softened it. "Don’t fall in love with you?"

He turned away, his shoulder brushing against her as he moved. "Don’t punish either one of us with what might have been. Just get past it. You’ll forget me once I’m gone."

"Explain to me how I could have misjudged you so completely," she challenged as she grabbed his shoulder and forced him to stop. Reckless emotions displaced her compassion.

"There’s nothing to explain, Bliss. The simple truth is that you deserve a hell of a lot more than I can ever offer you."

"What do I deserve?" she demanded. "Explain it to me."

"A real partner. Not a man who’d be dependent on you to be his eyes."

"Pride. Your pride. Yet again." She bit out the words, and the bitterness of them lingered on her lips. "Damn you, Micah. If I were a nurse or a teacher or a secretary, would you still feel the same way?"

He hesitated. "Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters, so answer the question."

He exhaled. The sound seemed weighted down by what Bliss thought might be emotional fatigue. Although his silence wore on her nerves, she found enough patience to wait for his reply.

"Probably. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know. How can I know? You aren’t any of those things. You’re a celebrated sculptor. The sky’s the limit for you in the art world, and no one should be allowed to stand in your way."

"How incredibly small–minded of you. You’re actually penalizing me because I’ve made a name for myself, and the international art world considers me a success."

"Don’t twist my words, Bliss. You know what I’m saying."

"No, I don’t think I do. Why don’t you spell it out for me? I’m feeling particularly stupid right now, and that’s probably because I’m so furious with you."

"Listen to me," he ordered sharply. "Last night was a fantasy, not the beginning of anything remotely meaningful. My life’s a wash–out. I may never see again. I can’t offer you anything other than sex. If that’s enough, then say so, and we’ll figure out things from there."

"Sex? You’re offering me stud service, is that it? How very generous of you!" She felt rage and pain coalesce in her heart until the combination of negative emotions threatened to strangle her. "You know, I’m starting to feel like the fool who receives the joke prize at a gift exchange. You gave me joy and hope and love last night, but now you’re taking it all back, aren’t you?"

"Get out of here, Bliss. And for the record, I’m not offering you a damn thing, not even sex." He shoved his fingers through his pale hair, then brought his hand to his side and closed it into a fist. "I meant what I said earlier. What happened last night was a mistake, and it will not happen again, so please leave me alone. There’s nothing left to say."

"I cannot believe this is happening to us," she whispered, all the fight and fury suddenly draining out of her.

"Believe it, and just get on with your life."

Bliss somehow managed to make her way to her own suite. Sinking down onto the edge of her bed, she covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth.

She couldn’t cry, even though she wanted to. Nor could she resummon her anger with Micah, although she wished she could. She felt too drained and too numb for even the most straightforward emotions.

Stretched out atop her bed, she hugged her pillow. Bliss drifted with her thoughts and her memories of the previous night, periodically dozing as she tried to pull herself back together.

** ** **

A series of sharp knocks roused her from her lethargy later that afternoon. Bliss forced herself to her feet and swiped at her wrinkled clothes.

Stumbling to the door, she pulled it open. She expected to find a member of the household staff in the hallway. Stunned by the identity of the person who stood before her, she gaped at her unexpected visitor.

"You look like hell. Are you ill?" Cyrus Rowland demanded.

Too surprised to respond, Bliss moved out of her father’s way as he strode into her suite, glanced around, and then walked to the French doors to push them open. "Are you trying to smother yourself in this heat?"

"Dad… this is a surprise." Understatement, her brain observed.

"What in the hell is going on with you two? Micah’s behaving like snake–bitten jackass, and you look like you’ve just endured a forced march. I thought you said things were going well down here when we talked a few days ago."

She stiffened, but she kept her voice level as she spoke. "We’ve had a tough day, Dad. There’s really no need to go into it right now. Things… " She cleared her throat and lied. "… things will be fine."

He nodded. "Good. I need to make some calls, so I’ll be in the library for a few hours. We’ll have cocktails at six, then supper at the Lagoon at seven–thirty. Micah’s joining us."

Her father paused in front of her. Bliss detected a hint of hesitancy in his manner, which surprised her. Although she didn’t understand the curious look on his face, she felt a sense of resignation when he made no move to embrace her. Given the chance, she knew she would have sold her soul for a hug from him at that particular moment.

"You look pale." His hazel eyes narrowed and his voice sounded unexpectedly subdued as he scanned her features with a probing gaze. "Take better care of yourself in the future."

He didn’t wait for a reply. Bliss started after him as he strode out of her suite and down the hallway. She paused two steps later, her scrambled brain trying to digest his unannounced presence and his orchestration of the coming evening.

She sighed, the heavy sound an accurate reflection of the defeat she felt. She’d lost control of her life, and she’d given her heart to a man who’d rejected it. She wondered if she’d ever be able to reclaim her life or her heart.

Closing her bedroom door, Bliss pondered the wisdom of spending an evening with Micah and her father. As she stood beneath the shower a short while later, she concluded that a weekend in hell would be less stressful. She loved them both, although in vastly different ways, but neither one seemed to want
her
in his life.

Once again, Bliss recognized her role as an outsider. She felt like one, and she silently cursed the two men who’d made her feel this way.

You’re the only person who can change things
, a voice in her head remarked.

How? she wondered.

The voice didn’t supply an answer.

Bliss exited the limo last. The security contingent remained alert but non–intrusive, as was their habit when guarding her father and his companions. She appreciated their restraint and competence.

The restaurant owner, a man she’d known since childhood, greeted them with enthusiasm. After embracing Bliss and shaking hands with Cyrus and Micah, he escorted them inside to their table.

Bliss knew they drew the attention of the other diners, but most were considerate local people—people who knew Cyrus Rowland by reputation and never seemed to begrudge him the presence of a protection detail. That evening proved to be no different.

Cyrus chatted easily once they were seated, pausing to order a bottle of wine that Bliss recalled as his favorite from a California vintner, who also happened to be a longtime personal friend.

She met his gaze, the barest hint of a smile on her face.

"You look lovely tonight, Bliss, very much like your mother when she was your age."

Clad in an elegant dress of cream satin, Bliss concealed her surprise at his comment. "Thank you."

She glanced at Micah, who sat stiffly in his chair. Reaching out, she slipped his water glass to a position above his knife and spoon. She nearly jumped from her chair when his hand darted out and captured her wrist.

"The same position as at home?" he asked in a low, tension–filled tone.

She stared at him.
Home?
His use of the word shocked her, especially since he often treated the Rowland House estate like a prison compound. "That’s right." She eased free of his hard grasp, clasped his hand, and squeezed gently. "It’s exactly the same, Micah."

He retreated to a somewhat less tense silence.

Cyrus carried the conversation, peppering it with amusing anecdotes about his most recent travels to Europe and the Middle East on behalf of the president.

Although she listened and responded to her father’s remarks, Bliss empathized with Micah’s heightened state of anxiety. This was his first meal in a restaurant as a sightless man. His distress, although hidden behind an expressionless façade, revived her instinctive compassion. She set aside her frustration with him and made a low–key effort to smooth his way at the dinner table.

"I’ve always enjoyed the menu here," she remarked once the headwaiter presented the wine selection to Cyrus for his inspection. "The chef is excellent, even though he apparently runs the kitchen like a tyrant. From what I understand, he trained and worked in Paris. I can’t ever decide what to order, the crab–stuffed shrimp, the veal piccata, or the medallions of beef with either a hollandaise or a wine sauce."

She felt the press of her father’s gaze, and she cast a questioningly glance at him. His approving nod caught her by surprise, and she began to wonder about his state of mind. She couldn’t ever recall a time when he’d behaved with such overt approval of her behavior. In truth, she normally felt invisible whenever he was present.

A second waiter arrived shortly after their wine was poured. Bliss half–listened as Micah used the cues she’d given him to order his meal. A few minutes later, her heart swelled with pride when a well–known U.S. politician and his wife stopped by the table to exchange a few words. Micah set aside his napkin, got to his feet, and extended his hand when introduced to the senator and his lady.

If Micah felt less than secure about observing the social amenities, Bliss saw no sign of hesitation or self–doubt in his demeanor. He remained on his feet until the couple departed to rejoin their dinner companions, reclaiming his chair with a confident manner and a physical grace that Bliss had come to appreciate in him. Only when he located his wineglass with shaking fingers did she fully grasp the depth of his inner tension.

She wanted to slip her arms around him and tell him how capably he’d handled what could have been an awkward situation, but she sensed that he already knew it. Although protective of him, she also still felt the sting of his earlier rejection.