From the Heart (49 page)

“Really?” Thorpe gave her a lewd grin.

“Fictional,” she stated.

“I'd like to read them . . . just for educational purposes.”

“Not a chance.” She glanced up as the crowd at the bar grew noisier. “What did you do in your misspent youth, Thorpe?”

“I had a paper route.” He cast a casual glance over his shoulder at two men who were arguing over a game of darts.

“Ah, always the journalist.”

“And chased girls.”

“That goes without saying.” Liv watched the dart players come nose to nose over their disagreements. Customers at the bar began cheerfully choosing sides. Thorpe reached for his wallet. “We're not leaving?” she asked as he pulled out bills.

“Things are going to get rowdy in a minute.”

“I know.” She grinned. “I want to watch. Do you want the guy in the hat or the one with the moustache?”

“Liv,” he began patiently, “when's the last time you were in on a barroom brawl?”

“Don't be stuffy, Thorpe. I'm betting on the guy in the hat. He's smaller, but he's wiry.” Even as she spoke, the man with the moustache threw the first punch. With a sigh of resignation, Thorpe leaned back. She'd be safer in the corner at this point.

Those at the bar turned to watch, holding their drinks as they shouted encouragement. Liv winced as her man took a jab in the stomach. Throughout the pub, customers began to
pull out bills as they wagered on the outcome. The bartender continued to dry glasses. The two men came together in a furious hug, then toppled to the floor to wrestle.

Thorpe watched them roll around on the floor. A chair was knocked over, and a man with a glass of ale set it upright, sliding it out of range. He settled on it to root for the man of his choice. There were shouts of encouragement and advice.

It appeared Liv's prediction was a sound one, Thorpe decided. The man with the hat was slippery as an eel. He had his bigger adversary in a headlock, demanding that he give. With a face reddened with frustration and lack of air, he did.

“Want another drink?” Thorpe asked Liv as things quieted down again.

“Hmm?” She brought her attention back to him, then grinned at his dry expression. “Thorpe, don't you think this is the sort of thing that makes good copy?”

“If you're going to comment on a prizefight,” he agreed, but smiled. “You surprise me, Olivia.”

“Why, because I didn't scream and cover my eyes?” Laughing, she signaled the waitress herself. “Thorpe, they didn't do any more than give themselves a few bruises and something to talk about. The newsroom's more violent every day before deadline.”

“You're a tough lady, Carmichael,” he said, toasting her.

Pleased, she touched her glass to his. “Why, thank you, Thorpe.”

It was late when they walked back outside. Liv heard the hour strike one. Stubbornly, the drizzle continued to fall. Lights reflected in shallow puddles and glimmered hazily through the misting rain. Though the air was chilled, the wine had warmed Liv, so that she felt glowing and wide awake.

“Do you know,” she said as they walked slowly through Soho, “the first time I was in London I went to monuments and museums, teas and theaters. I feel as though I've seen more tonight than I did in that entire week.” When he took her hand in his, she made no objection. There was something natural about walking with him in the early hours of the morning in a misting rain. “When I left the hotel tonight I was tired, depressed.” She moved her shoulders. “Restless. I'm glad you found me.”

“I wanted to be with you,” he said simply.

Cautiously, Liv skirted around his statement. “I'm glad we're getting back in the middle of the weekend,” she continued. “An assignment like this drains you, especially when you get a surprise like we had this morning.”

“Not much of a surprise, really,” he commented.

Liv looked up sharply. “Do you mean you were expecting something like that to happen?”

“Let's say I had a hunch.”

“Well, you might have shared it with the rest of us,” she said with a sound of exasperation. “After all, you were the press reporter.”

“And as such, I'm required to share information and facts, not hunches.” He grinned as she frowned up at him. “You should have been able to put two and two together for yourself, Carmichael. You have raindrops on your lashes.”

“Don't change the subject.”

“And every trace of your makeup's been washed away.”

“Thorpe—”

“Your hair's wet.”

With a sigh, Liv gave up.

“Tired?” he asked as they walked into the lobby of the hotel.

“No.” She laughed. “Lord knows I should be.”

“Want to go to the lounge for a nightcap?”

“Not if I want a clear head in the morning.” She headed for the elevator instead. “I have to check in with Scotland Yard before we leave. Any connections there you want to share, Thorpe?”

Smiling, he pushed the button for their floor. “You'll have to dig up your own.”

“I thought your turf was Washington.”

“When I'm there,” he agreed, and steered her into the corridor.

“You do have a connection,” she said suspiciously.

“I didn't say that. In any case, the London correspondent will take the story from here.”

Knowing she faced a dead end, Liv slipped her key into the lock. “That's unfortunately true. I hate not being able to follow up on it.” She turned to smile at him. “Thanks for the company.”

Without speaking, he lifted her hand to his lips. When the tremor shot down from her fingertips, she started to pull away, but he kept her hand firmly in his. He turned her palm up to plant another lingering kiss.

“Thorpe.” Liv backed away, but her hand was still held fast in his. “We agreed to be friends.”

His eyes were fixed on hers. The husky quality of her voice stroked along his skin. “It's tomorrow, Liv,” he said quietly. “I didn't make any promises about tomorrow.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the door, and pushed her gently in. He let go of her only to close the door behind them.

She was in his arms again. Slowly, he ran his fingertips up the slim column of her neck. With his eyes on hers, he traced the shape of her ear, her cheekbones, then her lips. They trembled open at his touch as if she would speak. But no words came. With the same slow care, he took his mouth on the journey his fingers had completed. Light, butterfly kisses roamed over her neck and face, teased her mouth. He used neither pressure nor demand, but let her own needs hold her prisoner.

When he slipped his hands under her sweater, she made no attempt to stop him. Barely touching her, he ran the back of his fingers up her sides, then down again. He felt her quiver. Still, he deepened the kiss only slightly, a gentle exploration of the moist recesses of her mouth, a tender meeting of tongues.

Liv didn't resist him. It was as if she were too steeped in a conflict of her own making to reach for him or to push him away. Her breasts were firm and taut in his hands. The rough scrape of his palm against her sensitive skin brought a moan of pleasure from her.

Somehow instinct warned him she should be treated as an innocent—with care, with patience. Yet all the while his desire for her increased. Her trembling excited him, but he needed more. He needed her to touch him, to ask for him. The passion was there; he had tasted it before. He wanted it now. His mouth pressed down on hers, drawing it, coaxing it. She was fighting herself more than him. Her breathing was
ragged, her body pliant, but there was still a thin wall he had not yet broken through.

Slowly, he unhooked her slacks, and with a groan, let his fingers reach for her. Soft—the incredible softness of her took him to the edge of control. For a moment she pressed against him convulsively. Life seemed to shoot into her entire body. Under his, her mouth was suddenly avid and demanding. Then she was pulling away, backing against the door. She shook her head frantically.

“No. No, don't do this.”

“Liv.” Pushed to the limit, Thorpe brought her back into his arms. “I won't hurt you. What are you afraid of?”

It was too close, much too close. Her voice sharpened in defense. “I'm not afraid of anything. I want you to go; I want you to leave me alone.”

With his temper straining, his grip on her tightened. “The hell you do.”

His mouth came down hard on hers as fury and frustration seeped through. Even as she tried to protest, her lips were answering his.

“Now look at me,” he demanded roughly, drawing her back by the shoulders. “Look at me and tell me you don't want me.”

She opened her mouth to tell him but the lie wouldn't come. She could only stand and stare at him. All of her courage deserted her. She was totally without defense.

“Damn you, Liv,” Thorpe muttered abruptly. Pushing her aside, he slammed out of the door.

W
hen Liv walked into WWBW on Monday morning, her thoughts were calm. She had spent the remainder of her weekend assessing her relationship with Thorpe.
Relationship
was not quite the word she liked to use. It implied something personal.
Situation
was a better choice.

She had firmly decided against complications. It was true that she had found him more appealing, more enjoyable than she had thought she would. More fun. She had never considered Thorpe in the context of fun. He was an entertaining companion. And there was a quiet streak of kindness in him, which softened her.

Liv was a cautious woman; circumstances had made her so. But she was honest with herself. She knew the cool, controlled Olivia Carmichael who delivered the five-thirty news was only part of the whole woman. A great deal of herself had been in storage. She had put it there for her own survival. It was true that Thorpe had begun to pick the lock, but the years had given her strength. If she wanted to keep herself shut off, she would. It was that simple. Or so she had convinced herself.

Involvement didn't always follow a physical attraction. She had no intention of becoming involved with Thorpe. They would still work closely now and again, and perhaps she would even consider seeing him socially on occasion. Perhaps it was time to start picking up the pieces of her
personal life. She couldn't mourn forever. But—she would not put herself into a position again where things could get out of hand with Thorpe. He wasn't a man to underestimate.

She had made a miscalculation when she had allowed her pride to push her into the ridiculous wager. A man like Thorpe, she mused, would only be all the more determined to have his way for the sheer devil of it. She should have simply ignored his fanciful statements about marriage.

The memory of his pleased, confident smile when she had accepted the bet still haunted her. He had looked too much like a cat who knew how to open the birdcage door.

But I'm not a canary, she reminded herself as she walked into the newsroom. And I'm not afraid of cats.

The newsroom was as it usually was. Noisy. Phones rang incessantly. Only the wall of television screens was silent. Interns bustled everywhere—college students learning the trade—running errands. The assistant director argued with a field reporter over the edited length of a segment. A crew headed out of the door with equipment and coffee cups.

“How many kittens?” she heard a reporter ask into a phone. “She had them
where
?”

“Liv.” The assignment editor hailed her with an upraised hand. “The mayor's holding a press conference at two.” He stuck out a piece of paper as he breezed by.

“Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose at it. That might give her the time she needed to make the two million phone calls on her list.

“Who wants a kitten?” She heard the plea as she moved through the room. “My cat just had ten of them in the kitchen sink. My wife's going crazy.”

“Hey, Liv.” Brian caught her arm as she passed his desk. “I took two phone calls for you already this morning.”

“Really?” She gave his jacket a critical glance. “New suit?”

“Yeah.” He pulled a bit at the pearl-gray lapels. “What do you think?”

“Devastating,” she said, knowing how Brian worried about his on-the-air image. He could agonize over the shade of his tie. “About the phone calls?”

“I was a little worried about the fit in the shoulders.” He
shifted them experimentally. “The first one was from Mrs. Ditmyer's secretary. Something about setting up a lunch date. The second was from a character named Dutch Siedel. Said he had a tip for you.”

“Really?” Liv frowned thoughtfully. Dutch was the one dependable source she had on Capitol Hill. He was a page with visions of a hot political career.

“Who do you know named Dutch?”

Liv gave Brian a guileless smile. “He's my bookie,” she said smoothly, and started to walk away.

“Full of surprises, aren't you?” Brian commented. “Who's the dude who keeps sending you flowers?”

That stopped her. “What?”

Brian smiled and examined his nails. “There's a fresh white rose on your desk, just like the one last week. The little intern with the frizzy hair said it came from upstairs.” He shot her a teasing look. “There's been a lot of buzzing about Thorpe's visit to the studio last week. Collaborating on a big story?”

“We're not collaborating on anything.” Liv spun on her heel and stalked to her desk.

There it was—white and innocent with its petals gently closed. She had a mad urge to crush it in her hand.

“Nobody ever sends me flowers.”

Liv turned and glared at the woman typing at the desk behind her.

“You must have hooked a romantic.” She sighed. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky me,” Liv muttered. What was the man trying to do to her? It occurred to Liv that the room had become suspiciously quiet. A quick sweep of her eyes caught several speculative glances and too many grins. Furious, she swooped up the rose, vase and all, and plunked it down on the other reporter's desk.

“Here,” she said with a broad gesture. “You can have it.” She stormed out of the room. It was time, she decided, as she heard the scattered laughter behind her, to lay down the ground rules.

Liv was out of the elevator in a flash when it stopped on Thorpe's floor. Still seething, she came to a halt at the receptionist's desk.

“Is he in?” she demanded.

“Who?”

“Thorpe.”

“Well, yes, he is, but he has an appointment with the chief of staff in twenty minutes. Ms. Carmichael!” She stared in exasperation at Liv's retreating back. “Oh well,” she murmured, and went back to her typewriter.

“Look,” Liv began before the door had slammed shut behind her. “This has got to stop.”

Thorpe lifted a brow and set down the pen he'd been writing with. “All right.”

Her teeth clamped together at his amiable answer. “You know what I mean.”

“No.” He gestured to a chair. “But I'm sure you're going to tell me. Have a seat.”

“This rose business,” she continued, ignoring the chair and advancing to the desk. “It's embarrassing, Thorpe. You're doing it on purpose.”

“Roses embarrass you?” He smiled at her, infuriatingly. “What about carnations?”

“Will you stop!” She leaned her palms on the desk much as she had done the first time she had stormed his office. “You might fool the brass with that crooked smile and choirboy look, but not me. You know just what you're doing. It's driving me crazy!” She paused a moment for breath, and he leaned back. “You know what a rumor factory this place is. Before noon, the entire newsroom is going to think I'm involved with you.”

“So?”

“I'm
not
involved with you. I never have been and I never will be involved with you. I don't want my associates thinking otherwise.”

Thorpe picked up the pen and tapped on the desk top. “Do you think being involved with me damages your credibility?”

“That has nothing to do with it.” She snatched the pen out of his hand and tossed it across the room. “I'm
not
involved with you.”

“The hell you aren't,” he countered smoothly. “Wake up, Liv.”

“Listen—”

“No, you listen.” He rose and came around the desk. She straightened to face him. “You were kissing me two days ago.”

“That has nothing—”

“Shut up,” he said mildly. “I know what you felt, and you're a fool if you think you can pretend otherwise.”

“I'm not pretending anything.”

“No?” He lifted his shoulder a bit, as if he thought little of her statement. “In any case, sending you a rose is hardly comparable to groping in the editing room during a coffee break. If you want something tangible to be offended about, I can oblige you.” He pulled her into his arms. For the first time, Liv noticed the glint of anger in his eyes. She refused to struggle. It would be humiliating because he was stronger. She tilted her chin and glared back at him.

“I don't imagine you have to put much effort into being offensive, Thorpe.”

“Not a bit,” he agreed. “I'm rather pressed for time right now, or I'd demonstrate. We can hash this out over dinner tonight.”

“I'm not having dinner with you tonight.”

“I'll pick you up at seven-thirty,” he said as he released her and picked up his jacket.

“No.”

“I can't make it before seven-fifteen.” He kissed her quickly. “If we have things to say to each other, they should be said in private, don't you think?”

He had a point. And her mouth was still warm from his. “You'll listen to what I have to say?” she asked cautiously.

“Of course.” He smiled and brushed her lips again, lightly.

She stepped back. “And you'll behave reasonably?”

“Naturally.” He slipped on his jacket. She was wary of his easy agreement, but could hardly argue with it. “I've got to go. I'll walk you to the elevator.”

“All right.” As she walked with him, Liv wondered if she had won or lost the argument. A draw, she decided, was the best she could make of it.

 

Thorpe hesitated outside of Liv's apartment. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. He wasn't accustomed to rejection,
particularly rejection from a woman. He had always had success both in his personal and professional life. The professional success he had worked for. Hard. Success in his private life had always come easily. He hadn't had to devote endless hours to research, endless miles to legwork to lure a woman into his arms, into his bed.

When he had been in his early twenties, pounding Washington pavements, making contacts, reporting on faulty sewage systems, he had had his share of desirable women. Some might have said more than his share. Later, when he had done an eighteen-month stint abroad, covering the delicate and explosive Middle East, there had still been women. And as his name had become more well known, his face more widely recognized, his choices had become varied.

He knew he had only to pick up his phone and dial to insure himself an evening's companionship. He knew scores of women—interesting women, beautiful women, famous women. He had come a long way from the boy who had hung around the old Senators' clubhouse.

Still, two things had remained the same. He was determined to be the best in his field, and when he wanted something, he went after it. Thorpe thrust his hands in his pockets a moment and frowned at Liv's door. Was that why he was here? he wondered.

But it wasn't as simple as that. Even standing there alone, he could conjure up her face, her voice, her scent. There had never been another woman in his life he could see so clearly when he was alone. There hadn't been another woman who could make him ache at the thought of waiting. She was a challenge, yes, and Thorpe thrived on a challenge. But that wasn't why he was there. He loved her. He wanted her. And, he was determined he was going to have her. He pressed the doorbell and waited.

Liv had her coat over her arm when she opened the door. She had no intention of letting him in. If she was going to be with him, she preferred a restaurant where there would be no danger of making the mistake she had already made too many times.

“I'm ready,” she said in her most distant tone.

“So I see.” He didn't move as she shut the door at her back.
She was forced to push him out of her way or stand still. She stood still. He must have come straight from his broadcast, though Liv had no intention of admitting to him that she had watched it. He had removed his tie, however, and had loosened the first few buttons of his shirt. He looked as relaxed as she was tense.

“You're still mad.” He smiled, knowing he was baiting her but unable to resist. He wasn't certain which expression he liked better: the grave sincerity in her eyes during a broadcast, or the controlled annoyance he so often saw when she looked at him.

Liv wasn't angry, but nervous—and furious with herself for being susceptible to him. She could already feel herself unbending to that smile.

“I thought we were going to thrash this out over dinner, Thorpe, not in the hall of my apartment building.”

“Hungry?”

She didn't want to smile, but her lips betrayed her. “Yes.”

“Like Italian food?” he asked, taking her hand as they moved toward the elevator.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She gave a slight tug to release her hand, but he ignored it. “Good. I know a little place where the spaghetti is fantastic.”

“Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the little place. Liv frowned at the high white building. “What are we doing here?”

“Having dinner.” Thorpe parked the car, then leaned over to unlatch her door. She slid out and waited for him.

“They don't have an Italian restaurant in the Watergate.”

“No.” Thorpe took her hand again and led her toward the front doors.

Her suspicions began to peak. “You said we were going to an Italian restaurant.”

“No, I said we were having spaghetti.” After crossing the lobby, Thorpe punched an elevator button.

Liv gave him a narrow look. “Where?”

He guided her into the elevator. “In my apartment.”

“Oh, no.” She felt panic as the car began its climb. “I agreed to have dinner with you so we could talk, but I—”

“It's hard to talk seriously in a noisy restaurant, don't you think?” he said easily as the doors opened. “And I have a feeling you have a lot to say.” Unlocking his door, he gestured her inside.

“Yes, I do, but . . .” The thick, aromatic scent of spiced sauce drifted to her. She crossed the threshold. “Who cooked the spaghetti?”

“I did.” Thorpe slipped the jacket from her shoulders, then shrugged out of his own.