Heartbreaker (The Warriors) Page 12

  "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.

  9

  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 bottl
e 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.

  Bliss managed to relax enough to answer several questions put to her by her father about her upcoming New York show. She wondered if he was trying to distract her from worrying about Micah. Without appearing to break stride as she listened to her father, she noted in quiet asides to Micah the arrangement of the food on his plate with each course served by the wait–staff.

  Mellow–sounding music by a popular Saint Thomas dance band drifted around them. Bliss had always considered the bands’ sound uniquely sensual and very appropriate for the lovers who frequented the Lagoon. As her gaze strayed to Micah when he responded to a remark from Cyrus, she didn’t know that her love for him glowed in the brilliant blue of her almond–shaped eyes.

  Cyrus filled the few conversational lapses that occurred as they dined. He responded with unusual animation whenever Bliss asked a question. She felt a growing gratitude for his obvious willingness to make the evening a positive experience for Micah, even though she couldn’t completely conceal her amazement that he managed the task with such ease.

  This, she realized, was a side of her father that she’d rarely seen during his infrequent visits since her parents’ divorce. She decided, without any resentment, that his fondness for Micah now allowed him to display the amiable personality normally hidden beneath layers of professional preoccupation.

  Micah concentrated on his meal, although he tasted little of what he consumed. After finishing his food and placing his silverware on the outside rim of his plate, he stiffened. His head tilted to one side when he heard unfamiliar footsteps on the hardwood floor at least three or four yards from their table.

  Instincts too ingrained to ignore alerted him to the presence of an individual other than a member of the restaurant staff or the protection detail. "Cyrus, behind you." Micah spoke tersely, startling Bliss with his abrupt comment and drawing a smile from his former boss.

  "It’s Hamilton, son, the new Secret Service fellow I told you about this afternoon." Cyrus glanced at Bliss, a satisfied, pride–filled smile on his face. "Hamilton has heavy feet."

  Confused, she repeated, "Heavy feet?"

  Cyrus chuckled. "Micah always notices things that everyone else seems to miss. He kept me out of harm’s way once when he realized that a man disguised in a U.S. Army uniform was actually a Middle East terrorist on a suicide mission meant to take out our entire diplomatic team. All because the fellow had an uneven gait and his shoes made the wrong sound when he walked across a corridor in the embassy."

  Micah shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with Cyrus’s praise. He knew that if a life–threatening situation occurred now, he’d be virtually useless to the man. In order to keep Cyrus from speaking at length about abilities now eclipsed by probable blindness, he said, "The leather soles of American–made shoes have a distinctive sound. I imagine it has something to do with the density of the leather. Military men tend to walk in a certain way, and there’s rarely any hesitation in their stride when they’re on familiar terrain."

  Hamilton, a pale young man with a damp upper lip, a nervous manner, and darting eyes, leaned down next to Cyrus. "Excuse me, sir. You have a call from the White House. I have a secure satellite phone ready for your use in the manager’s office."

  Cyrus excused himself from the table with obvious reluctance. "This may take some time. Why don’t you two go ahead and order dessert?"

  "I’m impressed," Bliss admitted once Cyrus and Hamilton departed the dining room.

  "Don’t be. It was my job for over fifteen years." He fell silent as their waiter served coffee and snifters of cognac.

  "You still do it very well," she observed, her voice subdued but firm.

  He flinched. Then, he carefully located his coffee cup and saucer. He said nothing in response to her remark. Instead, he placed his palm about an inch above the rim of the cup, as Bliss had taught him to do order to test the degree of heat in a hot beverage.

  "Wait on the coffee," he suggested, not even aware of the proprietary tone of his voice as he spoke to Bliss. "It won’t be drinkable for a few minutes."

  "You’re doing fine this evening," she said.

  "You’re not," Micah returned bluntly. "You sound like a rubber band that’s been stretched too tight. I expect you to snap any time now."

  She glared at him. "Don’t hold your breath."

  He half–smiled. "Who’s doing the best job of making you uncomfortable, me or Cyrus?"

  "I am not uncomfortable."

  He gripped his coffee cup with both hands. "Don’t lie to me, Bliss."

  "My father has been remarkably relaxed and charming this evening, so I haven’t any complaints about his behavior. You, on the other hand, are a pride–filled ass with an ego the size of Manhattan."

  He knew he should have been accustomed to he
r directness by now, but it still startled him. "I did what needed to be done. Someday, you’ll thank me."

  "You’re the one who’s lying to himself. And you might eventually believe what you’re saying, but I never will. I told you once before… cowardice does not suit you… not one damn bit."

  "God damn it, Bliss."

  "Let me know when you’re ready to talk about what’s happened between us. Until then, change the subject or I’m leaving."

  A full minute passed in silence.

  Micah finally observed, "The band’s pretty good. Is there a dance floor?"

  "Of course."

  "Is it crowded?"

  Bliss stared at him, unable to believe her ears. "What did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  "No."

  "No, what?"

  Micah, however, was thinking that, if they were going to dance, he didn’t want to risk crashing into people, especially people he did not know. Although he doubted the wisdom of trying to navigate a dance floor without being able to see his surroundings, he realized that he would risk almost any humiliation in order to hold Bliss in his arms again.

  No matter what he’d said to her earlier, he still wanted her.

  She said, "No, it’s not crowded. There are only two couples out there. There’s plenty of space, but it isn’t necessary. You don’t need to prove anything to me."

  Micah frowned, but he pushed up to his feet and extended his hand in her direction. "Let’s try it then, if you don’t mind a mashed toe or two."

  Her fragrance, which he inhaled as she slowly stood and moved closer to him, stimulated every sense he owned. He clamped down on his response to her, but the muscles in his body tremored with suppressed tension.

  The feel of her slender fingers as she slid her hand into his eased his anxiety about making a fool of himself under the gaze of strangers, but only fractionally. He remembered too well what her evocative touch had done to him the previous night.

  Micah adapted his long–legged stride to Bliss’s shorter one, and they made it to the dance floor without incident. When she turned and slipped into his arms, she unknowingly reminded him of a conclusion he’d reached about her the night before.