True Bliss (5 page)

He winked at Ron, swept up the press release, and headed for William's office. "You'll love the house, Ron. Olympic-size pool. Sauna. Full weight room. The works."

Ron's carefully assumed air of umbrage softened.

"William," Sebastian called as he slipped through the doorway. "My sister and her friend are exhausted from their trip. Make sure—"

"Leave it to me, Mr. Plato," William said, cutting Sebastian off. Already on his feet, the secretary moved between his employer and the scene in the inner office. In a low voice William said, "Don't give this another thought. You have another appointment, don't you?"

"Yes," Sebastian said, pleasantly amazed at William's smooth authority. The guy liked challenge! Sebastian liked people who liked challenge. "Yes, you're right. I have another appointment."

Beater, the "ugly front-office statement," levered his part Do-berman, part English sheepdog body off the polished slate and fell in at his master's heel.

Finally closed inside his private elevator, Sebastian allowed himself to soak up a few moments of blissful peace before reaching into Nose's envelope and extracting the contents.

He scanned the first sheet of paper, his gaze shifting rapidly over essential facts. Thirty-two. Owner-director of Hole Point, a

colony for artists in any medium. Former professor in the Women's Studies Department at the University of Washington. Undergraduate degree from Georgetown. Master's, Georgetown. Doctorate, Harvard.

The elevator came to a gentle stop and the doors to the foyer of the building slid silently open. Sebastian nodded to the doorman and walked outside into a hot, airless afternoon. He preferred to drive himself, in his vehicle of choice—a black Ford pickup. The current model stood at the curb. When Beater had lumbered into the back, Sebastian got into the cab, started the engine and turned on the air-conditioning.

A second sheet of paper contained, in black-and-white terms, the facts he'd hoped would be confirmed. Unmarried. Unmarried now, and never married before.

Euphoria might be inappropriate under the circumstances, but he felt it anyway—until he remembered Maryan.

Why had she chosen today to show up?

Sonuvabitch! Something had to give with her. The drugs and booze, the sex—always with much younger men, the tantrums that grew wilder. She needed to go into a treatment center— another treatment center.

He slammed the steering wheel. Last time she'd promised she wouldn't backslide. And he'd been fool enough to believe it.

Later. Today was too important to louse up with Maryan's sick obsessions.

Beneath the second sheet of paper lay a photograph.

Bliss.

Sebastian's gut smacked together. This was the first time he'd seen her as anything but the serious-faced seventeen-year-old in the snapshots he locked in a fireproof safe wherever his present home happened to be.

Red-brown hair, parted slightly off-center, fell sleek and straight, to curve toward a pointed chin. The face was a little thinner than he remembered, but he did remember it—perfectly.

He glanced away, through the side window, at a group of teenage advertisements for Banana Republic. The kids laughed

as they crossed the street, tossed their expensively cut hair, rugged on the sleeves of cotton sweaters tied about their waists.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years ago he'd been a teenager—almost twenty it was true, but still a teenager.

The woman in the picture stared at him with beautiful, honest, dark-blue eyes. Her lips were parted, just a little, in a faint smile. Turned from the camera slightly, her expression showed a hint of self-consciousness. He rested a forefinger on the mouth, outlined the jaw, and got the fleeting impression he felt her soft warmth. And his belly grew even tighter, so tight his next breath wasn't easy.

Successful, smart men who had outrun a past that would finish many, kept on running. They didn't turn back and risk opening old wounds that had healed too many years ago to open on their own. Fresh wounds could only be deliberately inflicted now.

He slid the papers back into the envelope, but left the photograph on top and set them all on the seat beside him.

Just a friendly visit. A friendly visit from an old friend who was newly returned to the area. Sebastian checked his wing mirror and maneuvered into the flow of traffic. They were both grown-ups now. More than grown-ups. They'd lived a lot of years and traveled a lot of miles—they were different people entirely. Surely she'd be glad to see him.

His shirt stuck to his back. For God's sake, he'd never managed to put her out of his mind and now he intended to try to force some sort of reunion. He intended to get her to pick up what he'd walked away from fifteen years ago.

Maybe this was some sort of slow-moving senility. Or a crazed fixation.

He turned a corner onto NE 8th Street and drove west.

Hell, he wasn't a maniac with an obsession. Unless not being able to fall out of love with a woman was a manic obsession.

If she'd forgotten him, she'd have married, wouldn't she?

Shoot, he was a bad joke. A man who could make himself believe he'd remained the love of a woman's life even after he'd betrayed her.

So she could tell him to get lost. No big deal. All he'd have to do was figure out what to do about the millions he'd spent setting up shop while he catered to his delusion.

A light turned red ahead and he applied the brakes.

Maturity had made her more beautiful. Still quiet—he could tell that by the tilt of her head, the shyness in her eyes—but lovely.

They could love again. Or at least, try. He could tell her how it had all happened, explain the desperation that had driven him away from her when he'd wanted, more than anything, to be with her forever.

He stopped Zoya's damned press release from sliding onto the floor and read the brief announcement: "Women of Today (WOT), headed by activist Prue O'Leary, has declared its intention to force the new Bellevue branch of Raptor Vision to back out of its proposed Washington State venture. In response to questioning, O'Leary states that a committee is preparing a public expose of the New York based conglomerate's modeling and talent agencies. The committee will be spearheaded by respected local academic and patron of the arts, Bliss Winters."

No coherent thoughts formed.

From somewhere, horns blared.

It was a joke. The timing couldn't work out like this. It was Zoya's idea of a joke.

Zoya didn't joke, didn't know how. Until today, Zoya had never even heard of Bliss Winters.

Two

"If we start now," Polly Crow said, pointing at her sister with a flour-caked rolling pin, "we can avoid all kinds of silly stuff later on."

Fabiola Crow, Polly's twin, flipped her long, blond mane. "I don't care. I'm not trekking all over this place dropping bricks in toilet tanks."

It was going to be a long, hot summer.

Bliss rolled her chair away from the computer where she was trying to work on her accounts. She looked across the kitchen table into the unblinking, brown eyes of Spike, the Crows' shaggy, oversized mutt. Bliss wiggled her eyebrows. The dog's response was to bare her teeth in what the twins insisted was a smile. Its effect on Bliss was invariably an urge to hide any bare skin.

"Bliss," Fabiola said, posing dramatically—Fabiola aspired to being an actress and a model. "Bliss, are you listening to me?"

"Always," Bliss said, deadpan. As referee-in-chief to the Crows she listened a lot.

"She wants me to go around the Point stuffing bricks in all the cabin toilets to cut down on water usage."

Polly hummed the alto part of the "Hallelujah Chorus," pausing to conduct episodes of silence for the intervening parts. Cook, and a marvelous cook for those residents of Hole Point who chose to take meals at the main lodge, Polly also sang in small clubs around Seattle.

"We definitely need to curb expenses," Bliss said.

"Cut the utilities," Polly told her promptly. "Conserve water and we'll be doing our part to help with the shortage. And we'll save money."

"There isn't a shortage yet," Fabiola said loudly. "But ten bricks in ten loos won't stop one from coming."

Polly banged the rolling pin down. "That's exactly the attitude that's landed this country in the kind of mess we're going to leave for our children to inherit." She smacked her hands together, sending flour in all directions. "People like you who insist they can't make a difference. Using everything up. Not a bit of consideration for the mess the next generation's going to be faced with. And, we've got to cut expenses at the Point. Bliss just said so."

Spike reared onto her back legs, rested her front paws and long muzzle on the table, and curled her top lip.

Bliss curled her top lip in response.

Spike growled.

"Polly doesn't give a rat's ass about saving money," Fabiola said, smoothing skimpy denim shorts over shapely hips. "She's turned into a rabid conservationist."

"Speaking of rabid," Bliss said mildly. "Could you please get this animal's head off the table? The health department would close us down."

Polly picked up where she'd paused in the "Hallelujah Chorus," finished with a flourish, and segued into a gum-numbing rendition of "America the Beautiful."

"She wants us to recycle bath water," Fabiola said. The only housekeeper in history—Bliss was certain—with two-inch-long crimson nails, Fabiola made the word "recycle" sound like a disease.

Bliss ignored the argument that had been waged for several days. Relief must be imminent. The Crow sisters would soon move on to a new dispute.

Bliss said, "Cutting utilities isn't going to do it, I'm afraid." If she had time she'd panic about the state of finances at Hole Point. "Insisting people pay rent on time might be more useful."

"Now you're talking," Fabiola said. She slapped down a pile

of clean sheets and hitched a long, slender, tanned thigh on the edge of the table. "Affordable doesn't mean free, Bliss. This joint is sagging at the seams and it's because there are a lot of so-called artistes in residence who think the world should support them."

"Oh, we shouldn't be that harsh," Bliss said. "My mission here is to provide people with a peaceful, inexpensive place to pursue their talent. Those talents are a gift to the world and they're less and less revered."

"Excuse me while I puke," Fabiola said, rolling her eyes. "Of course we mustn't risk interrupting the flow of genius by mentioning anything as vulgar as money. Perish the thought that the odd commercial enterprise might be useful and pay the rent. Hole Point is a refuge for these people. You make it possible for them to do whatever they're doing, but you're giving up everything for it. That's not right. You've helped Pol and me by not charging us rent at all, but we do try to pay back."

"This place would fall down without you two," Bliss said, considering Spike's potential reaction to a teensy poke of a toe under the table. "You more than pay your way. And you're right. I'm going to have to be firm and talk to the others—some of the others—about being timely with their payments."

"Good." Fabiola grinned her approval. "And we've got to look into filling up the rest of the cabins. This is the lowest occupancy we've had."

Bliss murmured agreement. "True. But it's summer and we have to expect some turnover. And it takes time to check new people out. The wrong tenant can upset things for everyone. We've already proved that."

"Boy, have we?" A red nail claimed Fabiola's attention. "That Lennox Rood is a piece of work. God's good gift to women, or so he thinks. Certainly expected you to throw yourself into his arms. Shows we never should bend the rules and let men in. Men cause trouble every time."

"Let's leave Lennox out of this," Bliss said. "He's not so bad. He made some wrong assumptions. Anyone can do that." And

she'd rather not think about fighting off good old Lennox when he'd decided to wow her with his sexual creativity.

Fabiola watched Bliss speculatively.

"Yes, they can," Bliss said. "We all imagine things sometimes."

"Sure. I bet you always imagine it's a great idea to hide in someone's shower. Naked."

"Oh, Fab!"

Fabiola ignored the protest in Bliss's tone. "Surprise!" With a finger on top of her head, Fabiola wiggled and twirled. "Hop in here for a wet wall job, you lucky woman."

"You're terrible." Bliss shook her head and laughed. "It was awful."

"It was horrible," Polly said. "I heard you scream."

"I was shocked," Bliss protested, still giggling. "He looked so silly. And so mad when—when I laughed."

"Uh-huh. I still say it's a good thing you weren't alone here the way good old Lennox thought you were." Fabiola never gave up a point easily.

"Good thing," Polly agreed, sliding a berry pie into the oven. She ran water into the large mixing bowl she'd used, and washed her hands before washing the bowl.

"No reason you can't save that for the coffee when you've finished cleaning the bowl," Fabiola remarked. "Waste not, want not."

"I have a son," Polly said grimly. "I don't want my Bobby blaming me because he's going to be deprived of the natural joys he's got a right to."

"For crying out loud!" Fabiola threw wide her arms. "Bobby's only five, and / don't have any children—thank God."

"Your children thank him, too."

"Polly, you can be so—"

"What are you going to say to Prue?" Polly asked, turning her back on her sister. "She called three times this morning."

"Nothing," Bliss said shortly, but her stomach clenched so hard she opened her mouth to breathe. Life as the daughter of

difficult parents had taught her to avoid issues too hurtful to confront. "I'll deal with Prue later."

"We read the piece in the paper," Polly said. Wiping her hands, she moved to her sister's side. "We didn't know you were on some committee."

"I'm not." Prue had violated every confidence Bliss entrusted to her. "What they printed is a mistake."

Fabiola set the linens on a counter and pulled a chair up to the table. "It says you're the chairperson."

Dragging another chair, Polly approached.."We think it's very interesting. All this corruption stuff."