by Laura Taylor
She returned her attention to her father. "I don’t even know what to say to him if he comes up to me. I’m torn between punching him and hugging him."
Cyrus chuckled. "Your mother punched me once. I think it happened on our honeymoon. She about knocked me clear into the next week."
"Mother hit you?" Bliss couldn’t hide her disbelief. When her father flushed, she laughed in amazement.
"It wasn’t a fight. We were fooling around. Let’s just say I got in the way of her hand and leave it at that."
"I’m glad you have good memories of Mom."
"You’d be amazed by how many good memories I do have." He sobered. "As for the situation with Micah, why don’t you just listen to what he has to say?"
"He may not even speak to me."
Cyrus raised a bushy eyebrow and scowled at her.
"Alright, I’ll listen," she promised, then defiantly added, "but I’m not promising anything more."
He linked their arms. "How about a guided tour of your collection? From the look of this crowd, you obviously have another success on your hands."
Bliss smiled, grateful for the change of subject. "I’m glad you’re here to share it with me."
On the opposite side of the gallery Micah moved from sculpture to sculpture, his respect and admiration for Bliss’s talent growing with every piece of her art that he viewed. He maintained a discreet distance from Cyrus and Bliss, but he kept them in sight as he skirted the clusters of people milling about in the gallery.
He felt mired in guilt and regret, especially after seeing the shocked dismay in her expression when she’d first spotted him in the crowd. He reminded himself that he was here because he loved her. He wondered, though, if she still cared enough about him to listen to what he needed to say to her.
Wandering down a congested corridor nearly an hour later, Micah paused at the entrance to a high–ceilinged room that housed additional works by other artists. He noticed the life–sized bust as soon as he stepped into the room, his heart speeding up to a double–time march in his chest. Slowly approaching the pedestal that held the sculpture, he glanced down at the brass plaque that read: THE HEARTBREAKER. ELIZABETH ROWLAND. DISPLAY ONLY.
Stunned, Micah stared at the sculptured clay rendering of his chest and head. He saw a new element of her talent in the realism that had influenced her approach to the work, as well as her scrupulous attention to detail and extraordinary memory. The last time she’d seen his eyes, she’d been a seventeen–year–old girl. He saw now the love she’d put into her perception of him, and he realized how greatly he’d failed her.
But most of all, he glimpsed himself through the eyes of a gifted woman who’d said she loved him and believed in him at a time when he hadn’t cared enough to believe in himself. Here was the proof of her love. She’d allowed the art world to see it, but had she intended for him to view it as well? Probably not, since his engraved invitation to the event had come not from Bliss, but from Cyrus. Remorse flooded him, paralyzing him with regret until he regained control over his emotions.
Micah couldn’t walk away from the bust, so he indulged himself and studied it at length. He tried to imagine his future without Bliss. The bleakness of it made him ache inside. And as he stood there and stared at his own image, she inspired him with renewed hope that she might speak with him before she left New York.
He found her with Cyrus and a small group of her father’s cronies from the international diplomatic community. He paused a few feet from where she stood, but he waited for her to decide whether or not to greet him. A ragged sigh escaped him when she finally excused herself and approached him.
"Hello, Micah. Congratulations on the obvious success of your surgery. I’m happy for you."
He nodded, unwilling to reveal the details or the impending realities just yet. Her rigid posture and composed manner worried him, but neither distracted him from reacting to her appearance. "I didn’t expect you to be so beautiful."
She smiled coolly. "What’s that old adage about ‘the eye of the beholder’?" she asked as she looked up at him.
"The package matches the contents, Bliss. I spent enough time around you to know what you’re made of."
"Perhaps."
"We both know I did." He was so hungry for her, he wanted to take her into his arms and carry her off to a private retreat as far away from the rest of the world as possible.
She flinched, but she didn’t back away. Micah stared at her, his gaze hot and possessive. He couldn’t forget the satiny feel of her skin. The memory of touching her, of making love with her had kept him awake night after agonizing night during their weeks apart. He wanted to touch her again, needed to touch her again, but he closed his hands into fists, instead. His instincts told him that she would reject his touch.
He knew that he had no rights over her any longer. He’d abandoned them, all in the name of masculine pride. He watched her tongue dart out to moisten her lips, and he remembered her taste. His senses stirred, and the muscles in his large frame tensed as he tried to tamp down his need. How, he wondered, could he have been so stupid as to walk away from this remarkable woman?
She filled the silence that stretched between them. "I hope you enjoyed the sculptures."
Alarm lanced through him. He sensed her desire to dismiss him after a few minutes of polite conversation. "Can we get together before you leave New York?" he asked.
Bliss stiffened. "I have a flight out to St. Thomas in the morning."
"How about tonight? We need to talk."
"I’m at the Plaza. Why don’t you call me later? I still have to pack, so I’ll be up quite late."
"I’d hoped we could go somewhere for a late supper."
"I’m not hungry, Micah."
"A glass of wine? I know a place near here I think you’d enjoy."
She shook her head. "Why don’t you phone me at the hotel? I’ll let the operator know it’s all right to put your call through, regardless of the time." Bliss backed up a step. "My guests are waiting, so I’ll say goodnight now."
He watched her start to turn away, but he moved quickly and blocked her path without touching her. He felt ostracized and unimportant. Resentment flared to life inside him. "Bliss, I’ve been a complete fool—"
Her chin rose. The blue of her eyes blazed. "You and me both," she said in a tight, dismissive voice. Head held high, she stepped around him and rejoined Cyrus, who frowned in Micah’s direction.
Hands fisted at his sides, Micah turned on his heel and strode out of the gallery. He climbed into the first cab that slid up the curb and glared at the driver until the man asked for his destination.
"The Plaza," he barked.
"Right away, sir."
Thirty minutes later he watched Bliss cross the lobby of the Plaza Hotel.
Alone.
Micah followed her to the elevator. He paused a few feet behind her, waiting for her to glance his way. When she did, shock widened her eyes and leached the color from her cheeks.
The elevator doors opened.
Micah stepped inside after her. He settled against the back wall of the conveyance while Bliss edged to a position near the side wall. He excused her silence, and her palpable anger prompted him to ponder the changes in her attitude. He’d cornered her, and she resented it.
His gaze fell to the pulse that throbbed in the hollow of her throat. He noticed that she grew even more pale as the elevator ascended to the penthouse level.
The doors opened.
Micah caught her wrist as she started to exit the elevator. "Are you alright?"
She tugged free of his hold and absently rubbed her wrist. She saw his concern in the darkness of his eyes, but she didn’t indulge herself with the idea that he really cared how she felt. "I’m fine, but thank you for asking."
"Damn it, Bliss. Cut it out."
"Cut out what?" she demanded.
"This demonstration of good manners."
She swept past him. When she realized that Micah wasn’t behind her,
she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Are you joining me or not?"
He nodded curtly and followed her across the hall. She unlocked the door, the agitated state of her nerves making her hand shake as she swiped the key card, waited for the green light to flash, and then turned the knob.
He followed her into the spacious suite, securing the lock while she shrugged free of her cape and dropped it and her purse on the first chair she passed. She came to a halt when she ran out of floor space. Facing him from the opposite side of the room, her arms crossed beneath her breasts, she stood with her legs parted in a stance that spoke eloquently of her determination not to be bullied by him.
He saw neither warmth nor welcome in her blank facial expression as he strode into the interior of the suite’s living room.
Bliss watched Micah shed his jacket, then loosen his tie and jerk it off before releasing the top three buttons of his shirt. He didn’t bother to sit down. He prowled around the room with the restlessness of a caged animal. She knew he wasn’t even registering the Old World elegance of the penthouse suite.
"Cyrus thought I should listen to whatever it is you have to say."
Micah stopped abruptly. "Even if you don’t want to?"
She ignored his sarcasm. "I’m listening, Micah."
"You’re suspicious of me, aren’t you?"
She heard the shock in his voice, but she refused to let it move her. He had the ability to wound her, and she refused to grant him that kind of power over her again.
"I don’t understand your motive for being here," she admitted.
"This isn’t easy, Bliss. I’m not even sure where to start."
Her gaze traveled to the bar. "Would you like a drink?"
Micah swore, the word so lethal that she backed up a step. She felt the press of a chair cushion against the back of her legs, and gratefully sank down onto it.
"I’ve never seen this side of you before," he observed.
"Self–protective? Wary? Unwilling to allow you to hurt me again?" Her voice sounded controlled as she met his gaze. "Furious with your high–handed behavior?"
He nodded. "All of the above. And probably a few more if I know you as well as I think I do."
She frowned at him, and then she reverted to her gracious–hostess routine. "Did you want a drink, Micah? There’s a nice cognac in the bar."
"I don’t want a damn drink!" he shouted. "Quit pretending to be Emily Post. You’re driving me fucking nuts. You’re talking to the man who knows every intimate detail of your body, not some fool who just fell off the turnip truck."
She balked at his loss of temper and his reference to the intimacy they’d shared. "Don’t you dare swear at me, and don’t you yell at me, either. You don’t have the right to treat me this way."
He squared his shoulders, his eyes blazing with emotions she didn’t understand as he glared at her from his position in the center of the spacious sitting room. "You’re a strong woman, the kind of woman I’ve always wanted in my life."
She relented a little, but then she reminded herself that he hadn’t said that she was the woman he wanted in his life. She longed to say, "I don’t feel strong, Micah. I feel damaged and vulnerable, and I’m frightened about the power you have over me because I love you." But she didn’t. Instead, she admitted, "I feel like I’m in pieces and scattered all over the landscape."
He unclenched his fists, making an obvious effort to calm down. "I knew you were beautiful, but I had no real grasp of just how beautiful."
She felt off–balanced by his change in tactics. "Nice clothes and an effective use of cosmetics. In short, a public image that has damn little to do with the person beneath the fabric and the paint." She shrugged dismissively. "Since my appearance isn’t why you’re here, there’s no real reason to dwell on it."
"I’m ashamed of the way I’ve behaved."
Bliss stared at him. She couldn’t help herself. She believed him. She couldn’t not believe him. The distress etched into his hard–featured face and the tension vibrating through his large body confirmed that he spoke the truth. Still, she didn’t completely let down her guard.
He raked a hand through his thick golden hair. "This is awkward, Bliss."
"I agree."
Unable to stop herself, she let her gaze dip beneath his chin. It lingered briefly at his strong throat, and then snagged on the chest hair visible in the unbuttoned V of his crisp white shirt. He’d lost some of his tan during their weeks apart, but he still looked wonderful. She wanted to hurl herself into his arms and rediscover for herself the warmth and power of his vital body.
"You still look tense and you’re too pale."
She stiffened. "What makes you believe that how I look or feel or think concerns you?"
"It should," he declared. "Hell, it does."
She frowned. "Why? You rejected me, and you didn’t look back. I am not now, nor have I ever been, your responsibility."
"When a man cares about a woman, he wants the best for her. I want what’s best for you. I always have. I thought giving you your freedom was the right thing to do. I didn’t want you to wake up one morning with regrets. I still don’t."
"Really?" She didn’t try to hide her disbelief. "So you just walked out on me, instead. You didn’t bother to ask me what I wanted, because you assumed you knew what was best for me. Micah Holbrook, you’d better damn well think twice before you ever do what’s best for me again. I’m not some little airhead with a short attention span. I’m an adult with values and standards and principles. Is all that garbled thinking of yours the reason you decided to make decisions about my happiness for me? Is that why you let your ego and your damnable pride stand in the way of your own happiness?"
He nodded. "It took me time alone to understand that my ability to see, or not see, was never the real issue."
"What was the issue?" she asked.
She prayed that he’d come to terms with his self–doubt, because she’d never survive it if he lulled her into thinking they had a chance for a relationship and then walked out on her again.
"If I hadn’t let my ego get in the way, I would have understood far sooner the value of loving a woman and being loved by her in return."
Bliss couldn’t sit still any longer. Abandoning her chair, she crossed the room and paused at the bar. She filled a crystal tumbler with ice and poured Perrier over the cubes. When Micah’s hands settled on her shoulders, she jerked in surprise. Her drink slipped out of her hand, the crystal shattering in the bottom of the bar’s sink.
He forced her to turn around, and then held her still with his hands at her waist. "Talk to me. Tell me how you feel."
"Please don’t touch me," she whispered, her insides quivering with response. "It hurts too much to remember that. I don’t… " She blinked back the tears that filled her eyes. "… I don’t want to remember."
"You really don’t want to remember how good we were together?" he asked.
Bliss bowed her head and pressed her fingertips to her temples. His arms slipped around her. She rested her forehead against his chest, but just for a moment. "That’s all I ever seem to do."
"You’re not the only one. It’s constant. I can’t get you out of my mind."
She ducked away from him and made her way to a window that provided an extraordinary view of the city at night. Micah followed her, but he didn’t attempt to touch her again. He stood beside her, his hands jammed into his pockets as he stared at the twinkling lights that stretched for miles before them.
"I’m seeing the world differently now," he said. "I've never had anyone fight for me the way you did, and I didn’t even express the depth of my appreciation. It was a humbling experience to realize that I needed anyone so much. I couldn’t accept the idea of being dependent on you, because I’ve never known how to depend on anyone but myself. I’m not certain I can learn now and not feel compromised by the process."
Bliss felt her control slip. Her anxiety returned full force. She understood now, she re
alized. He was trying to let her down gently, and she was giving him the fight of his life. Still, he persisted, trying to make his point with words like appreciation and dependence.
She felt like an idiot. Exhaling softly, she wanted to change the adversarial tone of their conversation, wanted to make peace with him once and for all, because she couldn’t hate him. She loved Micah too much to reduce her feelings for him to a pile of ashes. She also loved him enough to do what was best for him. That apparently meant letting go of her dreams about sharing a life with him and wishing him well.
Bliss turned to face him. Somehow, she would forgive the pain he’d caused, although she didn’t expect to ever forget him. He obviously couldn’t love her in the way she needed to be loved. Could she find a way to accept an uncomplicated friendship with him? Not now. Perhaps someday, she told herself, but not now.
"Micah, there’s no need to subject yourself to this confession. Perhaps there’ll come a time when we can reclaim the friendship that started our relationship. I hope so, but this isn’t the time. It’s too soon for me. I still hurt too much. I want you in ways that clearly aren’t right for you, and I understand that now. Why don’t we both give ourselves some time to come to terms with what we shared? Let the memories fade. We can keep in touch through Cyrus."
His stricken facial expression baffled her. At the moment, all she wanted to do was rage and sob over the unfairness of the situation. Instead, she said, "It’s late, and I still need to pack."
"I was a fool to think you’d even consider taking me back, wasn’t I?"
She stared at him, certain she’d misunderstood him. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me, Bliss. I love you, but I didn’t want to be a burden, a burden you might learn to hate."
"You were never a burden!" she exclaimed, still not quite able to believe her ears. "Not ever, do you understand? I love you, Micah. Didn’t you believe me when I told you how I felt about you?"
"I wanted to, but I was sure you’d change your mind and decide that what you actually felt for me was empathy or pity, not love."
"I wish I’d realized how torn you were. I was so busy trying to keep my feelings separate from the reason Cyrus sent you to me in the first place, I guess I wasn’t thinking clearly half the time either."
