From the Heart (42 page)

Liv moaned when his mouth went to her throat. She wanted to be touched, and heard herself telling him, then pressed against him as he caressed her breast through the thin layers of silk. She pulled his mouth back to hers.

She was starving and took from him what she had so long denied herself. She craved the intimacy of his tongue against hers, the feel of his hands roaming her body. There was strength there, and need. A need for her. And he made her need him with an intensity that frightened her. She couldn't allow herself to need anyone again. The risks were too great, the punishment too severe.

“No.” Liv pushed against him in sudden panic. “No,” she said again, and managed to draw back, if not away. His hands stayed firm on her shoulders. She could see the raw desire in his eyes, knew it must be mirrored in her own.

“No what?” His voice was rough, half-angry, half-aroused. He hadn't expected the brutal degree of passion she had brought out in him.

“You have to go.” Liv pulled out of his hold and stood. She needed distance, needed to stand on her feet. Thorpe rose more slowly.

“I want you.” It was a simple statement, almost flat, as he fought against the throbbing that beat inside him. “You want me.”

It would have been absurd to deny it. Liv took a deep breath. “Yes, but I don't
want
to want you.” She let the breath out again. “I won't.”

Thorpe felt his control snap. He grabbed her and pulled her
against him. He saw her eyes widen as the pupils dilated. “The hell you won't,” he said quietly. He released her again so quickly that she nearly tumbled back onto the sofa. He stuck his hands in his pockets to keep them off her.

“This isn't the end of it, Carmichael,” he warned before he turned for the door. “It's just the beginning.”

He let the door swing closed behind him as he headed for the elevator. He needed a drink.

“T
he tape on the school board meeting's still being edited.” Liv glanced briefly at the clock before she sat down to review the script for the evening broadcast. I'd have more time, she thought fleetingly, if I hadn't had to do those teases.

“Know what the story count is tonight?” Brian stripped the wrapper from a chocolate bar and sat on Liv's desk.

“Hmm?”

“Eighteen.” He took a generous bite. “We're packing them in. The general manager's frantic because we slipped a couple notches in the ratings. I heard he wants to change the tone of the weather forecast. Go for the chuckles. Maybe he'll hire a comedy writer.”

“Or put on a ventriloquist and a magic act,” Liv mumbled. Gimmicks annoyed her. Even as she spoke to Brian, she was running over her timing on the stories she would soon read on the air. “The next thing you know, we'll have the weather being given by a guy in a clown suit standing on one leg and juggling plates.”

“Maybe we need the comic relief.” Brian balled the candy wrapper and pitched it into Liv's wastebasket. “Lead story's the rape in the supermarket parking lot.”

“So I see.” She was skimming the copy, one eye on it, the other on the clock, with her attention divided between the script and her colleague. It was a skill most reporters developed early.

“Marilee did a spooky little stand-up out there. I just saw the tape.” He swallowed the last of the chocolate. “My wife shops there. Damn.”

“Everything in here tonight's grim.” Liv glanced up, running a hand over the back of her neck. “Wholesale prices are up six percent; unemployment's following suit. Two robberies in Northeast and an arson in Anne Arundel County to add to the rape. Lovely.”

“Like I said, maybe we need that comic relief.”

“I want to see daffodils,” she said suddenly. Weariness settled over her all at once. Was it the tone of the news? she wondered. Surely by now she was immune to it. Was it something else? Something had been nagging inside her for the last few days. Something she couldn't quite pinpoint. It had kept her awake long after Thorpe had left her apartment the night before.

Brian studied her a moment. He'd noticed the faint shadows under her eyes that morning. It was past five now, and they were deeper. “Is it something you'd like to talk about?”

Liv opened her mouth, surprised by the question. She shut it again. There was nothing she could say.

“I know something's been eating at you lately.” He leaned a bit closer so other ears wouldn't overhear his words. “Look, why don't you come to dinner tonight? I'll call Kathy and tell her to add a can of water to the soup. Sometimes a few hours with friends helps.”

Liv smiled and squeezed his hand. “That's the nicest invitation I've had in a long time.”

“So don't turn it down.”

“I have to. I've got something lined up tonight.” The offer made her feel better, less isolated. “Can I have a rain check?”

“Sure.” He rose, but Liv took his hand before he moved away.

“Brian, thanks.” She tightened the grip a moment when he started to shrug it off. “I mean it.”

“You're welcome.” He pulled her to her feet. “It's nearly airtime. You'd better haul yourself into makeup and have them do something about those shadows under your eyes.”

Liv lifted her fingers to them automatically. “That bad?”

“Bad enough.”

With a quiet oath, Liv walked off to follow Brian's advice. The last thing she needed was to appear haggard on the air. It would be her luck to go on looking as if she hadn't slept, and then have Thorpe catch her broadcast.

 

So I haven't been sleeping well, Liv thought as she took her place on the set. It hasn't anything to do with Thorpe. I've just been a bit restless lately. And I was at the southwest gate of the White House at eight o'clock this morning waiting to catch comments from cabinet officials. I'm a bit tired. It has nothing to do with the night of the embassy party . . . or what happened later.

Liv clipped on her mike, then flipped through the script one last time. Timing was important as story was piled on top of story.

She'd been working too hard. That's what she told herself. The last few days had been particularly hectic—that was all. T.C. Thorpe had been the last thing on her mind. There'd been the aftermath of Dell's appointment, then that mess at the school board to cover. She frowned down at the script and told herself she hadn't given a thought to her last meeting with Thorpe. It hadn't crossed her mind since it happened. Not once. Only a thousand times.

Swearing silently, she heard the thirty-second cue. She straightened in her chair and glanced up. Thorpe stood in the back of the studio. He was watching her steadily, eyes level as he leaned back against the heavy doors.

Fifteen seconds.

What is he doing here? Liv felt her throat go dry. Ridiculous, she told herself, and tore her eyes away from his to the camera.

Ten seconds.

The monitor was flashing the opening, an aerial view of the city.

Five seconds. Four, three, two, one. Cue.

“Good evening, this is Olivia Carmichael.” Her voice was cool and precise. It amazed her that her palms were damp. She read off the lead story, then never glanced toward the rear
of the studio as they went to tape for the reporter's stand-up on location.

The cameras switched between Liv and Brian, keeping the pace brisk. She gave her report on the school board meeting without missing a beat, though she could feel the physical pressure of Thorpe's eyes on her face.

She gave the depressing news on the wholesale price index. To her knowledge, Thorpe never came to the studio before or during a broadcast. Why wasn't he upstairs where he belonged, polishing his own words of wisdom?

There was a buildup of tension at the base of her neck, which increased when they broke for commercial. Liv knew, without glancing over, that he was coming toward her.

“Nice style, Liv,” Thorpe commented. “Sharp, cool and clean.”

“Thank you.” The sportscaster settled into his chair at the end of the table.

“Going to the Ditmyer card party tonight?”

There was nothing he didn't know, she decided, and folded her hands over her copy. “Yes.”

“Want a lift?”

Now she met his eyes directly. “Are you going?”

“I'll pick you up at seven-thirty. We'll grab some dinner first.”

“No.”

He leaned a bit closer. “I can arrange for you to be my partner tonight.”

“You'll lose,” she told him. She had never known a set of commercials to take so long.

“No,” he corrected, and smiled. “I don't intend to lose.” He kissed her quickly, casually, before she could prevent it, then sauntered away.

Thirty seconds.

She scowled as the doors swung behind his back. Without turning, she could feel the speculative gazes on her. Thorpe had successfully set the ball rolling. And the tongues wagging.

Ten seconds.

Fuming, she vowed to make him pay for it.

Cue.

* * *

Liv arrived at the Ditmyers' promptly at eight. Bridge wasn't the inducement. She could remember the dry, stuffy card parties her mother had given when she was growing up. Liv remembered Myra's flashy red lipstick and careless gossip from the powder room at the embassy. She pressed the doorbell and smiled. She didn't think Myra Ditmyer gave stuffy parties. And, she reminded herself, how often does a reporter get invited to the home of a justice of the Supreme Court? Unless, of course, the reporter's name was T.C. Thorpe.

Liv frowned, then quickly smoothed out her features as the door opened.

Though it was a maid who led Liv inside, Myra herself came bustling down the hall seconds later. It was obvious, Liv thought, smiling to herself, that Myra was a woman who didn't like to miss anything.

“Olivia.” Myra clasped both of her hands warmly. “So glad you could come. I like having beautiful women around. I was one myself once.”

As she talked, she was pulling Liv with her down the hall. “I watched your newscast. You're good.”

“Thank you.”

Myra propelled Liv into a large drawing room. “You must meet Herbert,” she went on. “I reminded him of the tea with your parents, and your torn dress, but he didn't remember. Herbert's mind is filled with weighty matters. He often misses details.”

But you don't, Liv decided as she was pulled through the room at top speed. It was spacious, accented with splashes of vivid color and ornately patterned wallpaper. Liv decided the room suited her hostess perfectly.

“Herbert.” Myra snatched her husband away from a conversation without a moment's hesitation. “You must meet lovely Ms. Carmichael. She does the newscast on . . . What is the name of that station, dear?”

“WWBW.” Liv extended her hand to Justice Ditmyer. “We're the Washington affiliate of CNC.”

“All those initials,” Myra commented with a cluck of her
tongue. “It would be simpler if they just gave it a name. Isn't she beautiful, Herbert?”

“Yes, indeed.” The justice smiled with the handshake. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Carmichael.”

He was a small and, Liv thought, curiously unimposing man without the black robes of his office. His face was lean and lined. He looked like someone's grandfather rather than one of the top judiciary leaders of the country. The skin of his hand was soft and thin with age. He lacked the vitality of his wife, possessing instead a quiet stability.

“Myra tells me we met briefly, a number of years ago.”

“A great number of years ago, Justice Ditmyer,” Liv agreed. “I disgraced myself, I believe, so we're both to be forgiven for not remembering.”

“And she hardly resembles that little wildcat who burst into tea that afternoon,” Myra put in. She was eyeing Liv with her good-natured shrewdness. “How does your mother feel about your career in television?”

“She wishes I'd chosen something less public,” Liv astonished herself by saying. It wasn't like her to be so frank with strangers. Myra Ditmyer, she decided, would have made a terrific interviewer.

“Ah, well, parents are so hard to please, aren't they?” Myra brushed it off with a smile and a pat on Liv's hand. “My children find me terribly difficult, don't they, Herbert?”

“So they tell me.”

“All nicely married now,” she continued, overlooking her husband's dry response. “So I've time to work on my nephew. Nice boy—a lawyer. He lives in Chicago. I believe I mentioned him.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ditmyer.” Liv heard the justice sigh, and tried not to echo with one of her own.

“He's here on business for a few days. I do want you to meet him.” Myra scanned the room quickly, then her eyes lit. “Yes, there he is. Greg!” She lifted her voice, and her hand in a signal. “Greg, come over here a moment. I have a lovely girl for you to meet.”

“She can't help it,” Justice Ditmyer said in an aside to Liv. “A dyed-in-the-wool busybody.”

“Romantic,” Myra corrected. “Greg, you must meet Olivia. She's a newscaster.”

Liv turned to meet the nephew, and stared. An avalanche of memories crashed down on her. If any words had formed in her brain, she wouldn't have been able to speak them.

Greg stared back, equally stunned. “Livvy?” He reached out a hand to touch hers, as if to reassure himself she was real. “Is it really you?”

She wasn't certain what she felt. Surprise, yes, but she couldn't separate pleasure from anxiety. The past, it seemed, refused to stay buried. “Greg.” She hoped her face wasn't as pale as her voice.

“This is incredible!” He smiled now and pulled her against him for a hug. “Absolutely incredible. What has it been? Five years?”

“It appears you two know each other already,” Myra said wryly.

“Livvy and I were in college together.” Greg drew her away to take a long look. “My God, you're more beautiful than ever. It doesn't seem possible.” He lifted his hand with the privilege of an old friend and touched her hair. “You've cut it.” He glanced at his aunt. “It used to be down to her waist, straight as a dime. Every woman in Harvard envied Livvy her hair.” He turned back to her. “Still, this suits you—very chic.”

There were a hundred questions jumbled in her head, but she couldn't bring herself to ask them. He looked almost the same, hardly older, though the beard he had sported in college had been trimmed down to a moustache. It suited him, sandy blond like his hair, and gave his almost boyish face an air of experience. His eyes were as friendly as ever, and his smile as enthusiastic. Five years seemed to evaporate in an instant.

“Oh, Greg, it's good to see you again.” This time it was she who hugged him. It didn't matter that college was a million years behind her. It mattered only that he was there for her to touch and hold on to—someone she had known in happier times. And in sadder ones.

“I'm going to steal her from you for a few minutes, Aunt Myra.” Greg gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before taking Liv's hand. “We've got some catching up to do.”

“Well, well.” Myra beamed as she watched them walk away. “That worked out better than I planned.” She glanced over and lifted a brow. “T.C. just came in.” Myra smiled and ran her tongue over her teeth. “I think I'll have a word with him.”

“Now, Myra.” Justice Ditmyer laid a restraining hand on her arm. “Don't go stirring up trouble.”

“Herb.” She patted the hand before she drew away from it. “Don't spoil my fun.”

Greg led Liv through a pair of corridors and into the solarium. “I just can't believe it. Running into you like this. It's fantastic.”

“When we were in college, I didn't know you had such illustrious relatives.”

“I didn't want comparisons,” he told her. The moonlight was dim, and because he wanted to see her, Greg switched on a low light. “Living up to family expectations can be traumatic.”