by Laura Taylor
Only then did he give her what she craved. Only then did he unleash the underlying power of his passion. Micah plunged into Bliss, deeply, smoothly, quickly. She felt as though he’d flipped a switch somewhere in her depths. She gasped his name as her body began to tighten. She started to spin out of control. Clinging to him, Bliss realized that the summit she sought was within her grasp.
Her body quaked; her insides clenched spasmodically. She splintered suddenly, a mindless, delirious, protracted kind of pleasure lancing through her until she couldn’t catch her breath. Even as Bliss dissolved around Micah, she heard the moan that escaped him. She inhaled it, making both the sound and the man integral parts of her heart.
She voiced her love for him in a language unique to her undulating body and stroking hands as he sought his own release. He pounded into her until his back arched and his powerful frame tightened like coiled steel.
Bliss clasped him close to her heart, the love she felt for him threatening to consume her. He shuddered violently and succumbed to the jetting force of his climax. After drawing in a ragged breath, Micah slumped atop her.
She held him then, the silence of the night broken only by the muted sounds of rustling palms at the edge of the patio and his labored breathing.
8
Although groggy from sleeping so soundly, Bliss realized she was alone. She opened her eyes, surprised to find herself in her own bed, but also appreciative that Micah had thought to protect her from gossip by the housekeeping staff. As she sat up, she stretched and then glanced at her bedside clock.
Almost noon.
Freeing her legs from the tangle of sheets, Bliss left her bed and headed for the bathroom. She stood under the spray of a warm shower, her body feeling achy but gloriously replete after her night in Micah’s arms. She wondered about his mood and his thoughts this morning as she soaped and rinsed her body. And replaying through her mind the entire time was the sensuality and passion they’d shared until exhaustion had claimed them shortly before dawn.
After drying her hair, Bliss dressed in a silk caftan and sandals before making her way to the kitchen. While she drank a glass of juice, she learned from one of the security personnel that Captain Holbrook had been observed entering her studio a short while earlier. Her surprise eclipsed her thoughts about whether or not he grasped the extent to which their shared night had altered the course of her life.
Bliss left the kitchen, crossed the courtyard, and found the door to her studio wide open. Pausing on the threshold, she gave her eyes a moment to adjust from bright sunlight to the muted lighting of the cavernous, temperature–controlled room that housed the sculptures she’d just completed. She spotted Micah after she blinked a few times.
His powerfully muscled body was clad in his usual beach uniform of shorts, an abbreviated T–shirt, and athletic shoes. She concluded from the towel draped around his neck that he’d gone for a run after carrying her to her room.
Bliss moved soundlessly into the studio’s interior, her gaze captured by the look of concentration on Micah’s face. She watched as he discovered with his fingertips the sweeping lines of the sculpture she’d finished just hours before his arrival at Rowland House—the sensual, life–sized work of a nude reclining in the surf.
The impressionistic theme of the collection’s signature sculpture complemented the other pieces she’d created. Each one now sat atop individual movers’ dollies that had been lined up along one wall in the studio. Soon to be packed off to the New York gallery that handled her shows, she knew that the collection reflected yet another phase of her evolution as an artist.
She continued to observe as Micah lingered over the sculpture of the nude, his fingertips still skimming over its surface. Bliss wondered if she’d captured his imagination with the work. She hoped so, because she wanted him to understand what no one else had ever grasped about her. Her creativity wasn’t just a critical facet of her personality; it was an outlet—her only one until Micah—for her deeply passionate nature.
She heard him exhale heavily. Confused by the dispirited sound, she watched him withdraw his hand, turn away, and extend the walking stick she’d given to him. He moved forward, his facial expression marred by a frown.
Bliss selected that moment to announce her presence. She walked toward him, no longer attempting to muffle the sound of her footsteps on the concrete floor of the studio. Her gaze darted to the bust she’d done of him, which was still situated atop a rotating pedestal in the center of the elongated work space.
She felt uneasy about the outcome if he discovered the piece, explored it, and happened to recognize himself. Although she felt somewhat cowardly, she realized that she wasn’t quite ready to explain to him the complex emotions that had compelled her to fashion his likeness in clay during the preceding weeks.
Micah paused, indicating his awareness that Bliss had joined him. "These are extraordinary."
"Thank you."
"The clay practically breathes. That takes remarkable skill and talent."
Moving forward, she smiled as she came to a halt in front of him. "I’ve never completely understood how it happens, so I trust my instincts, let everything come together, and wind up producing what I see in my mind. Sometimes, I feel more like a conduit for those images than anything else."
"I counted a dozen pieces along the wall."
"A year’s worth of work," Bliss confirmed, still baffled by the hard expression on his face.
"Cyrus has several pieces."
Bliss froze. "He does?"
Micah nodded. "In his office in Washington, and at his home in Virginia."
"I haven’t been to either location in several years."
"He’s obviously an admirer."
"I gave him an early piece, but that was a long time ago." She silently pleaded, talk to me about last night, not about my father.
"He has quite a collection, each piece unique in theme and style. I know, because I’ve seen them. Cyrus refers to them as Elizabeth’s creations."
"My real name," she said, confirming her artistic identity.
"Cyrus cares about you, Bliss."
But do you? "I guess he must, given what you’ve just told me."
"He may not talk about you, but he wouldn’t display your sculptures if he weren’t proud of you."
"Why didn’t he just ask me? He doesn’t have to buy my work."
"Why didn’t you just give them to him?" Micah countered in a voice that sounded as unforgiving as granite.
"I didn’t think he… " She broke off. Was I really going to say I didn’t think my father cared about the person I’ve become? Guilt coursed through her that she’d been so judgmental.
"Maybe you should."
"You’re right. I should think. I’ve made assumptions about him for most of my life, apparently incorrect assumptions."
"It’s worth checking out." Micah turned, his instincts guiding him in such a way that Bliss had the impression he was actually studying the creations lined up along the wall when he glanced back into the depths of her studio. "I didn’t expect all this."
"It’s my work. It’s a part of who I am."
"It’s more than that, Bliss. Touching your sculptures is an intimate experience, almost like taking a stroll across your soul. I felt your passion and your vitality. Each one feels… alive."
She felt relieved that he understood. "I have a show in New York in a few weeks. I’ve spent the last year getting ready for it. The owner of the gallery that handles my work is sending down a special moving team. They’ll crate everything and transport the sculptures so that they’re properly arranged prior to my arrival."
"You’re a very successful artist."
She thought she heard what sounded like distaste in his voice. A part of her resented him for it, but another part needed to understand his reaction. "Yes, but the art world’s a quirky place. Artists can maintain a high profile for years on end, and then they can suddenly fall out of favor with the critics. You have to
decide whom you’re creating for at the outset of your career—the critics, the collectors, or yourself. I’ve always opted for the latter."
Micah moved closer, his expression grim. She glanced once more at the nearby pedestal, and she knew in that instant that she’d captured even the most subtle nuances of his character. The only portion of the sculpture that had required the use of her memory had been his eyes, but she’d never really forgotten the piercing quality of his dark–eyed gaze or the slashing drama of his dense brows. She doubted she ever would.
Bliss reached out to place her palm against his hard chest. She wanted to walk straight into his arms and feel the strength of his embrace, but she resisted the impulse. She sensed that this wasn’t the right time, even though she didn’t understand why.
"You should have told me, Bliss."
Confused by his accusatory tone, she peered up at him. "I did."
"Newsweek and People have done articles about you, for Christ’s sake, although I don’t recall ever seeing a photograph of you."
She shrugged as she withdrew her hand. "I protect my privacy. It’s important to me. And Cyrus is much too high profile to tempt fate. A lot of people know he’s my father, although I doubt there’s much potential that anyone would actually try to kidnap me." Again, she amended silently. "Still, I’m not willing to become anyone’s bargaining chip against him or the White House."
"Has anyone ever tried?" he asked.
His intense tone made her shiver. She already knew enough about Micah to realize he was probably more lethal than anyone would ever guess. And if he cared about someone, she suspected he would be doubly so.
"Bliss?"
"Yes," she admitted, "a long time ago. I was eight years old at the time, and some group or another tried to snatch me at Harrods in London when I was having tea with my mother. Since that incident, Cyrus has not left me undefended. The staff at Rowland House is trained to protect me."
His silence persisted, and she decided to fill it.
"About those magazines… " she began, trying to get them back on topic.
"They’re probably just the tip of the iceberg."
More snarling accusation, which had begun to really annoy her. "Stop it, Micah. You’re not being fair or objective. They routinely do artist profiles, so I’m hardly unique."
He grasped her upper arm with his free hand. "No, Bliss. You are unique. Newsweek and People Magazine only do profiles of the stars, the luminaries who’ve reached the top in their artistic medium."
Bliss frowned. "Am I supposed to apologize for being successful? You’re a legend in Naval Intelligence, and you certainly don’t feel the need to apologize."
"I’m not asking for an apology."
"Then what do you want from me?"
"Nothing." He freed her. "Nothing at all."
Startled, she stepped back a pace and pressed her hands together. "Micah, talk to me. Tell me what this is really about."
"You’re way out of my league, lady."
"That’s crazy. I’m the woman who just spent the night in your bed, the woman who made love with you until we both nearly collapsed, so quit treating me like a stranger you just met on the street."
"You’re more than… "
"I’m a woman, and you’re a man," she cut in. "You happen to be a man with a vision problem, but I defy you to find a single person on this planet who isn’t dealing with one problem or another right this minute. You’ve even helped me to zero in on one of my problems, for heaven’s sake. You’ve made me realize I haven’t figured out how to have a relationship with my own father, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to jump off the nearest cliff. You’ve shown me that I need to work on rebuilding the trust I once had in him and to stop walling him off emotionally. Micah, we are all flawed, each and every one of us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t care about each other, or love… "
"You don’t understand."
"Obviously!" Belligerence and frustration flared within her. "After last night, I thought… "
He broke in. "I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Bliss. You’re a remarkable woman, but… "
Shock ricocheted through her as he spoke. She felt as though he’d just slammed a fist into her chest in order to still the beating of her heart. "You’re sorry about last night?" she whispered.
She abruptly turned away from him, unwilling to lose control of her emotions, but he stayed within range, grabbing her shoulder with his free hand and jerking her back to stand in front of him. She felt his fingers dig into her flesh.
And then she remembered the way in which he’d touched her and the force of his passion. Had that only been a few hours ago? Now, his touch felt cold, even angry. She wrenched free of him.
"I’m not sorry. I couldn’t be sorry in a million years."
"Well, I’m not either," she said.
He reached for her again, but she dodged his hands this time.
"Calm down."
"Don’t give me orders."
"Fine. Have it your way."
He stepped back. Her heart nearly stopped beating again. She studied him, desperate to understand his motives.
"Micah, why are you being so stiff–necked about my work? Why are you trying to destroy us?"
"I’m being realistic. And there isn’t any us." His grip on the walking stick tightened, and his chin rose. "My parents are equal partners."
Be patient with him, her emotions urged.
"Most married people are if they have a good relationship," she reminded him gently.
"They aren’t dependent on each other."
"How can you say that? People who love are always dependent and vulnerable. That’s part of loving and trusting another person." The expression on his face told her he’d already made up his mind, though. She feared that nothing she said would make a dent in his attitude, but she needed to try. "Didn’t you tell me your father has serious health problems, and that your mother’s a nurse?"
"They’re still equals in all the ways that count."
"So are we, Micah."
"He’s not a burden," he muttered in a low voice she almost didn’t hear.
"Well, neither are you, if that’s what you’re implying."
"I’m not implying. I’m stating the obvious, and I’m being realistic, for both our sakes."
"You’re being a total jerk," she snapped, unable to control her temper any longer. "Put aside your ego for a moment, and give me one example of when you think I’ve treated you like a burden."
"You haven’t. I don’t blame you for the way I feel."
"We’re equals. We have been since the moment you arrived at Rowland House. The only person who doesn’t seem to realize it is you. For God’s sake, Micah, trust yourself." She lowered her voice. "And trust us, because you’ll be making a mockery of last night and what we feel for each other if you don’t."
He shook his head, moved past her, and strode out of her studio, the walking stick extended before him. He skillfully navigated the crushed shell pathway that bisected the courtyard and led back to the mansion. Bliss stared after him, too shocked to move as she watched him disappear from sight.
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."
