Heartbreaker (The Warriors) (18 page)

She trembled, her desire and her senses revitalized so completely by the throbbing force inside her that she nearly screamed her pleasure. Wrapping her arms and legs around Micah, she returned his passion, driven by the love that blazed like a wildfire in her heart and soul.

He thrust deeply, repeatedly, relentlessly, shocking her when he aroused her to a sensually volatile state in a matter of seconds. Her heart raced. Her body seemed to clench and unclench like a silken fist as Micah pushed the limits of both their bodies.

They slammed against each other, almost like adversaries, a passionate craving that seethed with sensual violence, a brand of need that spurred them forward as they searched together for a shared summit of pure pleasure.

Bliss unraveled around him, so suddenly and so completely that she devastated Micah’s control.

They drove each other beyond the brink, and then they tumbled together into the ultimate sensual abyss. The stormy emotions flowing between them colored the joy of their merged bodies and battered hearts with desperation even as they sought and found the pinnacle of a joint release.

She wept his name and her love for him as her climax rippled inside her and sent her careening into space.

He hoarsely cried out her name as his release thundered through him, his seed jetting into her steamy depths as his hips pistoned into her.

Clinging to each other, and stunned by what had just taken place, they collapsed into a sweaty tangle of limbs in the center of the bed.

Although breathing with great effort, Bliss refused to censor herself any longer. "I love you, Micah."

He gathered her against his heart, too overcome by the impact of her declaration and by the vulnerability he heard in her soft voice to speak at all.

He held her while she dozed, aware that if he voiced the emotions churning within his own heart, he risked making their parting all the more painful.

He loved her. What man wouldn’t? She was the fantasy every man had of a life partner, the one woman capable of fierce loyalty and great compassion. And love. Lord, this remarkable woman knew how to love, he realized. She gave unstintingly, never holding back, not even when wounded by a hurtful remark or a cruel attitude.

Micah silently cursed the Fate that had sentenced him to a life without his vision. His surgeon had warned him that, even if his sight was partially restored by the surgery, it would very likely be just a temporary reprieve. No guarantees of how long it might last.

In the best case scenario described by the surgeons, he would be sentenced to live with the constant threat of waking up one morning and finding himself blind for life. He refused to subject Bliss to that dark reality.

As she stirred to wakefulness beside him, her lips traveled warmly along the side of his neck. He held her close, sensing that she still didn’t fully understand the depth of his determination not to become dependent on her. He loved her too much to ever use her as a substitute for his lack of vision. She would wind up hating him, and he couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.

He also believed in his heart that she deserved much more from the man who loved her. He had no intention of cheating her of the chance to find a deserving partner, even if the thought of another man claiming her as his own made him physically ill.

"Penny," she whispered as she raised up to peer at him a short while later.

Micah shook his head, the emotions that coursed through him closing his throat and making it too difficult to speak. Instead, he drew her atop his body, loving the way she curled herself over him until he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

He wanted her again. Correction, he needed her—and he meant to have her.

"You want me," she whispered, her hands snaking around his neck and her lips so close to his lips he could almost taste her.

"Mind reader," he accused.

She smiled. "I won’t tell if you won’t."

Micah forced himself to focus on the reality they faced, even as she squirmed closer and captured his sex between her thighs. He gripped her hips, stilling her movement.

"What’s wrong, Micah?"

Christ, woman, you know me too well.
He shook his head. "Nothing’s wrong. It’s just that there’s something I’ve meant to say to you in recent days, and I want to say it now."

"I’m listening."

"You’ve helped me in more ways than I can ever repay, Bliss, and I want you to know that your efforts haven’t been wasted. I won’t forget what you’ve taught me, nor will I ever forget you."

Something hot splashed on his chest. Other hot tears followed. He alone had caused her tears, and he loathed himself for complicating her life and causing her pain.

He cradled her head between his hands, skimming his thumbs across her damp cheeks. "Don’t cry, baby. I want you to remember me with a smile. We’ve been a hell of a team, haven’t we?" He felt her nod before he wrapped his arms around her. "Tell me what you’re thinking."

"I believe in you, Micah… and I love you."

The strain he heard in her voice nearly shattered his heart. He took her mouth, all of his emotions channeled into the tender joining of their lips and the mating of their tongues. He spoke to her of his love with this single intimacy, rather than with words. He didn’t know the words to tell her that leaving her would be the most difficult thing he would ever do in his life.

"We have only a few hours left," Bliss reminded him several minutes later. "I don’t want to waste them."

"We won’t waste a single minute."

They didn’t.

** ** **

Bliss and Micah indulged in a hurried shared shower shortly before dawn. Micah shaved and dressed, and then he gathered up his belongings and shoved them into his luggage. Bliss entered her own suite via the patio and slipped into a light summer shift. She didn’t bother with make–up or shoes.

Before he opened the door of his suite, Micah drew her into his arms and simply held her for a lingering moment. When he stepped back from her, he clasped her hand. "It’s time."

She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, so she simply said, "I know." 

They abandoned any expectation of privacy as they departed his suite. For her part, Bliss resolved not to say good–bye to Micah. As if sensing her desire to avoid those words, Micah didn’t speak as they made their way down the long hallway.

The whomp–whomp sound of helicopter blades from the aircraft positioned on the sweeping lawn that stretched between the mansion and the turquoise Caribbean waters greeted them as they emerged into the foyer. Security personnel hovered both inside and outside, but with their usual discretion.

Cyrus waited for them. Carrying his briefcase, he looked like his usual dapper self.

Bliss knew her father saw the anguish in her eyes. She felt relieved that he said nothing about it. Instead, he warmly hugged her, promised to call her by the end of the day, and left her alone with Micah.

Micah, wearing sunglasses, a polo shirt, slacks, deck shoes, and the grimmest expression she’d ever seen on his face, gripped her hand. He did not embrace her, though, and the first fissure appeared in her otherwise tightly held self–control.

"Be well, Bliss."

"You, too," she whispered.

She stood in the open doorway, numb and disbelieving as she watched the two men stride across the lawn and board the helicopter as the dawn pinkened the sky. Bliss closed the front doors of the mansion before the helicopter lifted off, deliberately and quite symbolically cutting herself off from the entire world.

** ** **

Bliss did not weep. Neither did she see or speak to another person for the next week. She simply had no strength for either endeavor. She dragged herself through the motions of living, eating, bathing, or sleeping when the need arose. It was all she could manage.

The woman who managed the New York gallery that handled the exhibitions and sales of her sculptures finally ended Bliss’s self–imposed isolation. Unable to reach her client by phone, she arrived on Saint Thomas, a moving crew in tow.

Bliss stepped back into the world of the living that day. She felt like a candidate for the walking–wounded brigade, flinching at loud sounds and shunning conversations that weren’t absolutely necessary. She even resented the brilliant sunshine that bathed the Saint Thomas landscape.

Forced once again to function as a gracious hostess, she grudgingly worked with the moving crew, entertained the gallery owner, and put the finishing touches on the bust of Micah, which she now realized had been properly named
The Heartbreaker
. Although she doubted the wisdom of her decision, she reluctantly agreed, after being bullied by the gallery manager, to have the bust displayed with her latest collection—but with the understanding that it was not and would never be for sale.

Bliss intended to keep the sculpture, if only as a tangible reminder of the manner in which a man’s pride could devastate the dreams of the woman who loved him.

Flashbulbs winked, champagne corks popped, and the rich and famous chatted, their animated expressions making them look almost like caricatures of themselves.

Art critics roamed the sprawling tri–level gallery in Manhattan like hungry predators in search of prey, their inability to conceal their awe at Elizabeth Rowland’s latest creative triumph obvious to any onlooker.

A costly array of fragrances scented the air. The glitter of designer attire and the sparkle of jewels boggled the mind. Limousines continued to pull up to the curb in front of the gallery, spilling additional guests onto the red carpet that led to the front doors of the building before the drivers eased back onto the crowded thoroughfare.

Bliss felt as though she’d been trapped in a room filled with well–heeled, screeching hyenas as the decibel level steadily rose. She escaped the chaos in favor of the landing of the staircase that overlooked the main floor of the gallery. There, she noted with pleasure and no small amount of shock the SOLD signs affixed to nearly all of the pieces in her collection.

She needed a moment apart from the crush of people who’d come to view her sculptures. After two hours spent coping with their questions and effusive praise, Bliss felt exhausted.

Relief flooded her as she thought about the return flight she’d booked to Saint Thomas for the next morning. Bliss wanted to go home. Although she knew she looked composed in her elegant black crepe cocktail sheath, she still felt emotionally fragmented and physically depleted by the stress of the previous six weeks.

Her anguish over losing Micah was a constant dull ache that never went away. She took it to bed with her each night, and she woke up with it each morning. It colored her view of the world, casting it into a monochromatic haze. She saw no point in pretending to herself that she didn’t need more time to heal. She did, and she intended to take the time—once she returned to the privacy of her home.

Cyrus knew the truth, because he’d cared enough to ask. She’d confessed during one particular phone conversation, one of many they’d shared during the preceding weeks, that Micah’s rejection had hurt her as deeply as the loss of her mother. Although Cyrus admitted that he couldn’t offer her a solution, he’d listened with paternal love. He also continued to counsel patience, with herself and with Micah. She believed that he had her best interests at heart, and she tried to follow his advice.

Bliss spotted Cyrus and his security detail as they stepped into the gallery. She smiled, her delight genuine that he’d finally arrived. It was the first opening night he’d ever attended, although his invitations had always been messenger–delivered by the gallery manager.

She watched the security detail clear a path through the crowd. Once Cyrus neared her location, she descended the stairs to greet her father.

After a warm embrace, he drew her off to the side, his arm sliding around her shoulders as they stepped into an alcove that provided a modicum of privacy. "You look splendid, but still a little pale."

"I’ll be fine, Dad. The last few weeks have been a circus, but I’m going home in the morning."

"To start another collection, or to get some rest?"

"At first, mostly rest, then a little bit of both, I hope, even though I haven’t even thought about what I’ll do next. I feel as though my life’s in a state of flux."

He glanced past her, his eyes widening when someone or something across the room caught his attention.

Bliss followed his gaze. Her smile slipped, and then it disappeared altogether. She paled even more.

She stared at Micah, who stood in front of one of her more erotic sculptures. She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. Clad in a dark suit that shouted the name of European men’s clothier, a crisp white shirt, and a dark silk tie, he looked composed and elegant.

He could also see, she realized, shock roaring through her like a tornado. He wore gold–rimmed aviator–style glasses, which gave him an arrogantly sexy look.

Swaying suddenly, she felt torn between her happiness for Micah that his vision had been restored and her anger with herself for allowing him to put her through such hell.

Cyrus frowned and gripped her upper arm. Stepping into her line of sight, he deliberately blocked her view of Micah. "Steady, young lady."

She blinked and focused all of her attention on her father. She thought he looked guilty, and she suspected she knew why.

"Micah’s still doing battle with his pride, so try to be patient enough to let him come to you when he’s ready."

Her voice barely above a whisper, she asked, "Did you invite him?"

"Would you object if I had?"

"I’m not sure." She exhaled, determined to regain control of herself. "I didn’t send him an invitation. And before you defend him, you should know that I have no intention of begging the man to pay attention to me."

"Begging’s not your style, Bliss. It never will be, and I certainly wouldn’t suggest that you acquire the skill. You’re a proud woman, just as Micah is a proud man."

"His pride’s like an albatross around his neck," she muttered. "At least I use mine to keep my standards high."