From the Heart (52 page)

“Punch up camera one,” Carl ordered from his seat in front of the wall of monitors. She was there too, reproduced eight times in the black-and-white preview monitors and the live color ones. Her voice came through in stereo from the speakers. At his left, an engineer worked at the sound board.

“Camera two.”

Brian's image replaced Liv's on the live monitor. At Carl's next order, the graphics were punched up to flash behind him.

“Thirty seconds to commercial.”

Brian continued smoothly to the cut.

Carl drew hard on a cigarette and shot a glance over his shoulder at Thorpe. “See you around here more now than when you worked here,” he commented.

“I've more incentive,” he answered easily.

Carl studied Liv's image in the monitor and gave a grunt of agreement. He'd always liked Thorpe as a man, respected him as a reporter. He wished that he had been able to keep him on staff. Carl gave a sigh and crushed out the cigarette. He doubted he'd keep Carmichael more than a couple of years. He'd been around too long to expect anything different.

“Thirty seconds.”

Thorpe looked back through the window. Liv was talking to Brian. She laughed at something and shook her head. Was it his imagination or did she seem more relaxed, more free? It would be well over an hour before he could touch her again.

Camera one was focused on her, and on cue she began the next segment of the broadcast. Thorpe left the control room with her voice still echoing in his mind.

With the show over, Liv went back to the newsroom. She had weighed the pros and cons of going upstairs to meet Thorpe, and had decided that to wait for him in her own territory would generate less speculation—and less gossip. She was not ready to put her personal life on display.

She missed him. The fact had surprised her, but there was no denying it. Her day had been hectic, at moments frantic,
but somehow he had hovered on the edges of her thoughts throughout it.

Keeping to her desk, she began to go over her next day's schedule. Her eyes drifted again and again to the clock. Why, when the day had flown by, did one hour seem to be an eternity?

“This lady looks like she wants a cup of coffee.”

Glancing up, Liv smiled at Bob and held out a hand. “I always knew you had great perception.”

“I'd rather be irresistibly sexy,” he commented, and sat on the corner of her desk.

“Of course you are.” Her eyes laughed at him over the rim of the plastic cup. “I constantly have to restrain myself!”

“Yeah?” He grinned at her. “Can I tell my wife?”

“I'll leave that up to your own discretion.”

“I worked with Prye today.” Bob sighed into his coffee cup. “You know the little thirty-second stand-up he did in front of the Kennedy Center.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Liv knew what was coming, and settled back in her chair.

“Fourteen takes. You wouldn't believe how many times that guy can blow a line. He got irked when I asked him if he wanted us to make up some idiot cards for him. We should have more respect for the talent.” He snorted, and gulped down more coffee. “He wouldn't know talent if it walked up and chewed on his ankle.”

Liv opted to play the diplomat. She was well aware that Prye had a running battle with the crews. “The stand-up came across very well.”

“Lucky for him he doesn't have to go live. If I had my choice,” he said, and winked at her, “I wouldn't work with anyone who didn't have great legs. You know”—he cocked his head to study her—“you look different.”

She lifted a brow. Could it be that a night of love and freedom had left some noticeable change? “If you're trying to save yourself from Prye tomorrow,” she said lightly, “I've already talked to the desk about having you work with me.”

He grinned again. “Thanks, but I'd rather have a wild weekend in Acapulco.”

“Acapulco,” she repeated, pretending to consider it.

“We could use your expense account.”

“Liv's already occupied this weekend,” Thorpe said mildly. Both Bob and Liv turned to look at him. He glanced down at her, then back at the cameraman. “She's going to be rowing.”

“No kidding?” The information seemed to give Bob more reason to grin. “I guess I'll have to settle for Sunday dinner at my in-laws.” He rose and, giving Liv a brief salute, left them.

“Thorpe.” He had her arm and was already propelling her through the room. “I haven't made any plans for the weekend.”

“I have,” he returned amiably. “And you're included.”

“I have this small idiosyncrasy,” she told him when they stepped outside. “About having a voice in my own plans.”

“I'm flexible.” He opened the car door for her, leaned on it and smiled. “If you'd rather go to Acapulco, I can arrange it.”

It was difficult to feel annoyed when he was smiling at her. She let out a small huff of a sigh. “I might consider rowing,” she said, and gave in to the urge to touch his mouth with hers. “If you man the oars.”

S
o much could change in a week. Liv could almost forget what it was like to be alone—truly alone. The nights no longer held absolute silence. She could almost forget what it was like to have no one but herself to depend upon. There was someone in her life again. She no longer attempted to reason out how he had gotten there.

She was growing to rely on Thorpe's companionship. She was growing to enjoy the pleasures of intimacy. Simply, she was growing to need Thorpe.

As the days passed, she found she looked forward not only to their conversations, but even to their arguments. He stimulated her, forced her to think fast if she wanted to hold her own. Intellectually, they complemented each other. There were times, she knew, he sharpened his wit on her, just as she did on him.

His strength was important to her. There was something rock solid about him. She had once looked for the solidity in someone else and had been disappointed. She wasn't looking for protection. She had been through too much to doubt her own ability to deal with whatever life tossed at her. When you had gone through the worst and survived, nothing could ever hurt you in quite the same way again. But if she chose a partner, a companion, a lover, he had to have strength.

She was still cautious. There were still guards over her emotions. But they were growing weaker.

* * *

As he had promised, Thorpe took her to a night ball game.

“I'm telling you, he should look for another profession,” she stated as she stuck the key in the lock of her door. She brooded over the faults of the plate umpire as she shrugged out of her jacket. “Don't they have to go to school or something before they become umpires?”

“Or something,” Thorpe agreed, not even trying to hide a grin. Liv had been indignant over the umpire's calls during the entire drive home.

“Well,” she concluded, “he must have gotten dreadful marks. I wouldn't be surprised if he's a nasty person who kicks his dog.”

“A sentiment probably shared by a number of ballplayers.” Thorpe slipped out of his jacket and tossed it to join hers. “Maybe it's time you took over the sportscast, Liv.”

She gave him an arch look. “I might do very well,” she returned. “After a few more games, I could probably report a play by play as well as I do a filibuster. Would you like a brandy?”

“Fine.” He smiled at her back as she fixed the drinks. “Leaving the play by play aside for the moment and concentrating on filibusters, what do you think of Donahue's chances?”

“Slim,” Liv responded, and turned back with two snifters.

“I talked to him today.” Taking the brandy from her, Thorpe drew Liv down on the couch beside him. “Right before he went onto the floor. He's brown-bagging it. He must have had five ham sandwiches and a half a dozen doughnuts.”

Liv laughed. “Well, at least he won't go hungry. That should give him the stamina to keep his filibuster going—if his voice holds out.”

“He's determined,” Thorpe commented. “He told me he's going to outlast and outtalk every one of his opponents. If force of will and ham on rye can do it, Donahue's got it made.” Liv settled back against his shoulder, and his arm automatically encircled her. “The gallery was packed for most of the day.”

“We did some man-on-the-streets,” Liv murmured, sleepy
now with contentment. “Most people were there from pure curiosity rather than any interest in the issue. But a full gallery and a filibuster make good press. That might keep Donahue going a few days longer.”

“He made it through day five.”

“I'd like to see him win.” She sighed. How had she ever been comfortable without his arm around her? “I know it's unrealistic, and the bill will pass eventually, but still . . .”

He listened to her slow, quiet voice. There was a parallel between Donahue and himself, he thought. Thorpe had launched his own filibuster with Liv. He was just as determined as the senator to win a full victory. It wasn't enough just to be able to hold her. He wanted, needed, a lifetime. How much longer was it going to take? There were times when the need for caution frustrated him to the point of anger.

He set down his drink, and then hers. Liv lifted her face for the kiss, but it was not as she had expected. His mouth was fierce. She was pressed back against the cushions of the sofa with his body fitted to hers. He tugged at her clothes impatiently. This was something new. Always, there had been a thread of control in his lovemaking, as if he compensated for the difference in their physical strengths with gentleness. Now, she felt the urgency as he pushed open her blouse to find her.

His mouth was locked on hers, so that she couldn't speak, or even moan, as he stripped off her jeans. She fumbled with his sweater, wanting to be flesh to flesh, but the press of their bodies together hampered her. With a low, savage oath, Thorpe stripped it off himself, pulling it over his head, then letting it fall to the floor.

His mouth was suddenly everywhere—tasting, ravishing. She was pliant, fluid under his touch. She flowed wherever he took her, rising and falling to his whim. There was a wildness in him she had only glimpsed before.

He took her on the couch as if it had been years since their last joining. The desperation went on and on until she knew there could be no more either of them could want or give. Then he was pulling her to the floor with him, heating her again while her body was still humming.

She moaned his name once, half in protest, half in disbelief, as her passion mounted again.

“More,” was all he said before his mouth took hers.

His hands were as avid as they had been at the first touch, and her body as receptive. There was in her now an overwhelming need to possess, to be possessed. No longer was she only guided. Her hands sought him, found him, while her mouth clung hot and fast to his.

She was shuddering without being aware of it. She heard only his labored breath in her ear when she wrapped around him. Need and fulfillment seemed to burst within her at once. Then she was once more pliant, once more limp. This time, Thorpe lay beside her and let his body rest.

Yet he couldn't prevent himself from touching her still. Her skin drew him, and the curve where waist flared to hip. His hands were gentle now. He kissed the slope of her shoulder, the delicate line of her jaw. He heard her sigh as she moved closer to him.

As fiercely as passion had whipped through him before, now love ached inside him.

“I love you.” He felt her immediate stillness and realized he had spoken aloud. Cupping her chin in his hand, he lifted her face to his. “I love you,” he said again. He hadn't meant to tell her in exactly this way, but now that it had been done, he kept his eyes on hers. He wanted her to understand he meant what he said.

She heard the words, saw them repeated in his eyes. Something moved inside of her like a tug-of-war, toward him and away. “No.” She shook her head and the word was weak. “No, don't. I don't want you to.”

“You don't have any choice.” The statement was calmer than his mood. Her answer, and the anxiety in her eyes, cut at him. “And, it seems, neither do I.”

“No.” Pushing away, she sat up to cradle her head in her hands. Old doubts, old fears, old resolutions crowded at her. Pressure was squeezing her in a tight fist. “I can't . . . . You can't.”

Love—that dangerous, dangerous word that left you naked and senseless. Accepting it was a risk, giving it a disaster. How could she let herself be caught in the web again?

Thorpe took her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her response left him hurt and angry. The pale, miserable look on her face only added to it. “But I do love you,” he said curtly. “Not wanting me to doesn't change it. I love you, have loved you for quite some time. If you'd bothered to look, you'd have seen that.”

“Thorpe, please . . .” She could only shake her head. How could she explain to him? What did she want to explain? She wanted him to hold her until she could think clearly again. Love. How did it feel to know she was loved? If she could have a few moments. If her heart would stop pounding.

“I'm not interested in only having your body, Olivia.” She could hear the temper and frustration in his voice. She stiffened against it. No, she would not be pressured. She would not be maneuvered. She was still in charge of her own life. He could feel the change. His fingers tightened on her skin in impotent fury.

“What do you want?”

“A great deal more,” he said deliberately, “than you're willing to give me. Trust, I suppose, would be a good start.”

“I can't give you any more than I have.” She wanted to tremble, to weep, to cling to him. She kept her eyes level. “I don't love you. I don't want you to love me.”

Neither knew the extent of pain their words caused the other. She saw only a flare in his eyes that made her realize how strictly he controlled his own violence. If he had had less of a grip on himself, she felt certain he would have struck her for the cold dispassion of her words. She almost wished he would. At the moment, she would have gladly exchanged physical pain for the emotional one.

Slowly, he released her. He hadn't known he could be hurt like this. In silence, he dressed. He knew he had to leave quickly, before he did something he would detest himself for. She wouldn't drive him to that. Not by rejection, or her damn coolness or anything else. He'd leave her to herself, since that's what she wanted. The sooner she was out of his sight, the sooner he could work on forgetting her. He cursed himself for being a fool even as he shut the door behind him.

The sound of it closing brought Liv's head around. For a full minute, she stared at the panel. The silence welled up
around her. Curling into a ball, she lay on the rug and wept for both of them.

 

The normal routine of a day was like an obstacle course. Getting up, dressing, driving through rush hour traffic. To Liv, it all seemed larger, more complicated than it ever had before. In a morning crammed with appointments, she went through the hours with a combination of nervous energy and dull fatigue. Her thoughts could never be completely centered on her objective when Thorpe was always just around the edges. She had begun to taste happiness again, and now . . .

Everything had happened so fast. Liv hadn't expected him to love her. She knew enough of him, understood enough of him to be certain he wasn't a man to love lightly. His energy and power would be bound up in it. When a man like Thorpe loved a woman, she was loved completely. Perhaps that was what frightened her most.

Yet, what she felt now as she finished up an interview wasn't fear; it was emptiness. Before Thorpe had become a part of her life, she had accepted the emptiness. The void had been filled, as nearly as possible, with her work and her ambition. It was no longer enough. During the morning, a dozen things happened that she found herself wanting to share with him. Years had passed without her feeling the need to share with anyone, and now it was inescapable. But she had pushed him away.

What should she do now? How could she make him understand that while part of her wanted to love him, to be loved by him, another part was like a rabbit under a gun. Frozen. Terrified.

How could she expect him to understand? she asked herself as she mechanically negotiated through afternoon traffic. She was no longer sure she understood herself. Put it on hold for a while, she advised herself. Have lunch with Mrs. Ditmyer, relax, and then try to think fresh again.

Hoping she could take her own advice, Liv pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant. It was the perfect way to take her mind off things, she decided. Part business, part social. A glimpse at her watch told her she was barely five
minutes late. Nothing major. It wouldn't do to keep Myra Ditmyer waiting long.

I like her, Liv thought as she entered the restaurant. She's so . . . alive. Greg was lucky to have her for an aunt, for all her matchmaking tendencies. Liv could only wish the cards had dealt her a similar relative. A woman like that would be sturdy as a boulder when the world crumbled under your feet.

Liv shook away the thought. There was also the matter of her position in Washington political and social circles. Since Myra had taken it into her head to notice her, Liv might as well take advantage of the side benefits.

“Mrs. Ditmyer's table,” she told the maître d'.

“Ms. Carmichael?” He smiled when she inclined her head. “This way please.” Liv followed him, amused. As a Carmichael she recognized deferential treatment. As a presswoman, she had learned not to expect it.

“Olivia!” Myra greeted her as though they were the fastest of friends. “How charming you look. And how lovely it is to have men staring again. Even if they're only speculating whether I'm your mother or your maiden aunt from Albuquerque.”

Liv was laughing even as the maître d' assisted her into her chair.

“Mrs. Ditmyer, I knew having lunch with you would be the high point of my day.”

“What a sweet thing to say.” She beamed, pleased with herself. “Paul, do see about some sherry for Ms. Carmichael.”

“Of course, Mrs. Ditmyer.” The maître d' bowed away from the table.

“Now then.” Myra folded her hands on the table expectantly. “You must tell what wonderfully exciting things you've been doing. I'm sure running around reporting on political corruption and world-shaking events must keep you forever in a spin.”

Liv laughed. It was impossible not to be relaxed and exhilarated simultaneously in the woman's company. “It seems a crime to disappoint you, Mrs. Ditmyer, but most of the time I spend waiting at airports or outside the gate at the White House. Or,” she added with an apologetic grin, “on the telephone finding out where I'm going to wait next.”

“Oh, my dear, you mustn't burst my bubble.” Myra sipped her own glass of sherry. “I'm perfectly content if you make something up, just so it's exciting. And call me Myra; I've decided we're going to get along famously.”