From the Heart (45 page)

“At a meeting with Levowitz.”

“Levowitz?” Her attention was caught. “The bureau chief?”

“That's the one.” Thorpe pried off his shoes.

“I didn't know he was in Washington.” The wheels began to turn in her head. Levowitz wouldn't make a trip from New York to D.C. without good cause. “What did he want?”

“Harris McDowell's going to retire at the end of the year. He offered me the spot.”

The news wasn't nearly as surprising as his casualness. Being offered McDowell's job was nothing to take lightly. Exposure, power, money. To be considered capable of stepping into McDowell's shoes was no idle compliment. It was an accolade.

Liv searched around for something to say, and settled on, “Congratulations.”

“I didn't take it.”

Now she waited a full beat. “What?”

“I didn't take it.” Thorpe pulled off his socks and tossed them in the direction of the hamper. “You're off this weekend—” he began.

“Wait a minute.” Liv sat up straighter. “You turned down the most prestigious position in CNC or any other news organization in the country?”

“You could put it that way if you want.” He lit a cigarette from his second pack that day.

“Why?”

Thorpe blew out a stream of smoke. “I like working the field. I don't want to anchor, at least not in New York. About this weekend, Olivia.”

“You're a strange man, Thorpe.” She settled back against
the pillows. She couldn't quite figure him out. “A very strange man. Most reporters would kill for the job.”

“I'm not most reporters.”

“No,” she said slowly, considering. “No, you're not. You'd make a good anchor.”

“Well.” He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “That's quite a compliment from you. Want some company?”

“Thorpe, I'm in bed.”

“If that's an invitation, I accept.”

Unable to do otherwise, she laughed. “No, it's not. I haven't had a conversation like this since high school.”

“We can go out and neck in the back seat of my car.”

“No thanks, Thorpe.” Relaxed, she snuggled down into the pillows. When was the last time, she wondered, that she had had a foolish conversation in the middle of the night? “If you only called to say good night . . .”

“Actually, I called about tomorrow afternoon.”

“What about it?” Liv yawned and closed her eyes.

“I've got two tickets for opening game.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to follow the socks.

“Opening game of what?”

“Good God, Liv, baseball. Orioles against the Red Sox.”

He sounded so sincerely shocked by her ignorance, she smiled. “Dick Andrews handles sports.”

“Broaden your outlook,” he advised. “I'll pick you up at twelve-thirty.”

“Thorpe,” she began, “I'm not going out with you.”

“It's not a seduction, Liv; that comes later. It's a ball game. Hot dogs and beer. It's an American tradition.”

Liv turned off the light and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. “I don't think I'm making myself clear,” she murmured.

“Try it again tomorrow. Palmer's pitching.”

“That's very exciting, I'm sure, but—”

“Twelve-thirty,” he repeated. “We want to get there early enough to find a parking place.”

Sleepy, she yawned again and let herself drift. It was probably simpler to agree. What harm could it do? Besides, she'd never been to a ball game.

“You're not going to wear one of those hats, are you?”

He grinned. “No, I leave that to the players.”

“Twelve-thirty. Good night, Thorpe.”

“Good night, Carmichael.”

She was smiling as she hung up. Just before she drifted into sleep, she realized her headache had disappeared.

M
emorial Stadium was packed when they arrived. Liv was to learn that Baltimore was very enthusiastic about their Orioles. There were not, as she had presupposed, only men wearing fielders' caps and clutching beers in the stands. She saw women, children, young girls, college students, white- and blue-collar workers. There must be something to it, she concluded, to draw out so many people.

“Third base dugout,” Thorpe told her, gesturing down the concrete steps.

“What?”

“That's where we're sitting,” he explained. “Behind the third base dugout. Come on.” Taking her arm, he propelled her down. She frowned out at the field, trying to put together what she knew of the sport with the white lines, brown dirt and grass.

“Know anything about baseball?” Thorpe asked her.

Liv thought a moment, then smiled at him. “Three strikes and you're out.”

He laughed and took his seat. “You'll get a crash course today. Want a beer?”

“Is it un-American to have a Coke instead?” While he signaled a roving concessionaire, Liv leaned against the railing in front of her and studied the field. “It seems simple enough,” she commented. “If this is third base here, then that's first and second.” She gestured out. “They throw the
ball, the other guy smacks it and then runs around the bases before someone catches it.”

“A simplistic analysis of the thinking man's sport.” Thorpe handed her the Coke.

“What's there to think about?” she asked before she sipped.

“Strike zones, batting averages, force-outs, double play balls, switch hitters, wind velocity, ERAs, batting lineup, bull pen quality—”

“All right.” She stopped him in midstream. “Maybe I do need that crash course.”

“Have you ever seen a game?” Thorpe leaned back with his beer.

“Snatches on the monitor during a sportscast.” She glanced around the stadium again.

The sun was bright and warm, the air cool. She could smell beer and roasted peanuts and hot dogs. From somewhere behind them, a man and woman were already arguing over the game that was yet to be played. There was a feeling of involvement she had completely missed in her occasional glimpses of a ball game on the television screen.

“This is a different perspective.” She studied the scoreboard. Its initials and numbers told her little. “So, when does it start?” Liv turned to face Thorpe, to find him studying her. “What is it?” The unblinking stare made her uncomfortable. The distance she had planned on hadn't worked. Now she began to wonder if the casual friendliness she had decided upon would fare any better.

“I've told you. You have a fantastic face,” he returned easily.

“You weren't looking at my face,” Liv countered. “You were looking into my head.”

He smiled and ran a finger down her fringe of bangs. “A man should understand the woman he's going to marry.”

Her brows drew together. “Thorpe—”

Her intended lecture was cut off by the blast from the organ and the roar of the crowd.

“Opening ceremonies,” Thorpe told her, and draped his arm behind her chair.

Liv subsided.
Just humor him,
she cautioned herself. The
man is obviously unstable. She settled back to watch the hoopla of the season's start.

By the end of the first inning, Liv was lost, and completely fascinated. “No one got any points,” she complained, and crunched a piece of ice between her teeth.

Thorpe lit a cigarette. “Best game I've ever seen was in L.A., Dodgers and Reds. Twelve innings, one to nothing, Dodgers.”

“One point in twelve innings?” Liv lifted a brow as the next batter stepped into the box. “They must have been lousy teams.”

Thorpe glanced at her a moment, saw she was perfectly serious, then burst out laughing. “I'll buy you a hot dog, Carmichael.”

The batter dropped a short single into left field, and she grabbed Thorpe's arm. “Oh, look, he hit one!”

“That's the wrong team, Liv,” Thorpe pointed out wryly. “We're rooting for the other guys.”

She accepted the hot dog and peeled off a corner on the packet of mustard. “Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, watching as she squeezed the mustard on generously. “The Orioles are from Baltimore. The Red Sox are from Boston.”

“I like Boston.” Liv took a healthy bite of the hot dog as Palmer whipped a mean curve by the next batter. “Shouldn't he have swung at that one?”

“Don't like Boston too loudly in this section,” Thorpe advised. The crowd roared as the batter grounded into a double play.

“Why didn't the man on first just stay where he was?” she demanded, gesturing with her hot dog.

Thorpe kissed her, surprising her with a full mouth. “I think it's time for that crash course.”

By the bottom of the fifth, Liv was catching on to the basics. She'd taken to leaning over the rail as if to get a closer view. The score was tied at three to three, and she was too involved to be surprised her adrenaline was pumping. In her excitement, she had forgotten Thorpe was a lunatic. Her shield was slipping.

“So, if they catch the ball in foul territory before it hits the ground, it's still an out.”

“You catch on fast.”

“Don't be a smart aleck, Thorpe. Why are they changing pitchers?”

“Because he's given up two runs this inning and he's behind on this batter. He's lost his stuff.”

She leaned her chin on the rail as the relief pitcher took the mound to warm up. “What stuff?”

“His speed, his rhythm.” He liked the way she was absorbed in what was happening on the field. “He isn't getting his change-up over, and his slider isn't working.”

She gave Thorpe a narrow look. “Are you trying to confuse me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“How long have you been coming to games?”

“My mother took me to my first when I was five. Washington had the Senators then.”

“Washington still has plenty of senators.”

“They were a ball team, Liv.”

“Oh.” Again, she rested her chin on the rail. He grinned at her profile. “Your mother took you? I would have thought baseball a father-son sort of thing.”

“My father wasn't around. He wasn't much on kids and responsibilities.”

“I'm sorry.” She turned her head to look at him. “I didn't mean to pry.”

“It's no secret.” He shrugged. “I wasn't traumatized. My mother was a terrific lady.”

Liv looked out to the field again. Strange, she mused, she hadn't thought of Thorpe as ever being a child, with a family, growing up. She tried to picture it. Her vision of him had been limited to a tough, hard-line reporter with a gift for biting exposés. Thinking of him with a childhood, perhaps a difficult one, altered the view. There were entirely too many facets of him. She had to remind herself she didn't want to explore them.

But—what had he been like as a boy? How much had the early years influenced the way he was today?

There was sensitivity in him. The rose—the damn rose.
Liv thought of it with a sigh. It made it difficult to remember that distance was necessary. And his sexuality. He knew how to arouse a woman, even a reluctant one. Arrogance, yes, but he was so blatantly at ease with it, the trait was somehow admirable. And his skill in his profession couldn't be faulted. She couldn't term him power or money hungry—not when he had casually refused a position most reporters would slit throats for.

I'd better be careful, she decided. I'm dangerously close to liking him.

Thorpe watched her profile, observing the play of emotions over her face. When she forgot her guards, he reflected, she was clear as glass. “What are you thinking?” he murmured, and cupped the back of her neck with his hand.

“No comment,” Liv returned, but couldn't bring herself to discourage the familiarity. She couldn't find the will to push it away. “Look, they're ready to start again.”

“The count's still three and one,” Thorpe explained. “The runner on second's charged to the first pitcher. If he scores, it goes against him, not the relief.”

“That seems fair,” Liv commented as the batter knocked a foul tip straight at her. In automatic reflex, she reached up to protect her face and snagged the ball. As she looked down at it, stunned, the impact stung her palms.

“Nice catch,” Thorpe congratulated, grinning at her astonished face.

“I caught it,” she said in sudden realization, then gripped the ball tighter. “Do I have to give it back?”

“It's all yours, Carmichael.”

She turned it over, rather pleased with herself. “How about that,” she murmured, then suddenly giggled.

It was the first time he had heard the young, carefree sound from her. It made her seem seventeen. He had to check the urge to pull her against him and just hold her. She had never appealed to him more than she did at that moment, with the sun full on her face and a baseball clutched in her hands. Love for her was abruptly and unexpectedly painful.

He lost track of the game. It was Liv whose head shot up at the hard crack of ball on bat. Her eyes grew wide as she
jumped from her seat with the rest of the stadium. She grabbed Thorpe's arm, dragging him with her.

“Oh, look! It's going all the way over the fence! That's a home run, isn't it? A home run, Thorpe!”

“Yeah.” He watched the ball drop over the green barricade. “Home run. First one of the year.”

“Oh, it was beautiful.” She was caught in the loud blast of celebration music, the cheers of the crowd. Liv turned, giving Thorpe a quick, spontaneous kiss. It was over before she could be surprised by her own action, but he pulled her back for a deeper, lingering one. The shouts went on around her, lost in the fast, rocketing beat of her heart. She gave him pressure for pressure, taste for taste.

“Could be,” Thorpe murmured as he drew his lips an inch from hers, “there'll be a whole volley of long balls.”

Breathless, Liv eased out of his arms. In them, she lost everything but need. “I think one's enough,” she managed. Because her legs weren't as steady as they might have been, she sat back down. She was closer to the edge than she had realized. It was time to take a few steps back. “Are you going to buy me another hot dog?” she demanded, and smiled at him. She ignored the tingling that still brushed along her skin. “I'm starving.”

The rest of the game was a shrewd defensive battle. Liv had difficulty keeping her attention focused. She was too aware of Thorpe, too aware of the pulsing needs he had aroused, could arouse, so easily. She saw his hands and was reminded of the rough palms. She saw his arms and remembered there were muscles that could make her feel soft and safe. Liv didn't want to be soft. It made it too easy to be hurt. She didn't want to rely on anyone for safety again. It was too easy to be disappointed. She saw his mouth and knew how well it seduced. She told herself that to be seduced was to be weak and vulnerable. His eyes were intelligent, shrewd, saw too much. The more he saw, the greater the risk that he could gain an emotional hold on her.

She had allowed herself to be involved before. She still bore the scars. For years she had lived on the belief that the only way for her to keep her serenity was by withdrawal. She was coming to realize that Thorpe could change this. For the
first time, she understood that she was afraid of him—of what he could come to mean to her.

Friendship, she reminded herself. That was all there was going to be. Just simple friendship. She spent the last two innings convincing herself it was possible.

“So we won.” Liv checked out the final score on the board. “Five to three.” She rubbed the foul ball between both palms.

“It's
we
now, huh?” Thorpe grinned and tugged on her hair. “I thought you liked Boston.”

Liv leaned back in her seat and propped her feet on the rail as the crowd began to file out of the stands. “That was before I understood the intricacies of the game. You know, it's amazing how deceptive television can be. It's faster, more intense than I thought. Do you come often?”

He watched as she passed the ball from hand to hand and studied the field. “Are you fishing?”

“Just a casual question, Thorpe,” she said coolly.

“Whenever I can,” he answered, still smiling. “I'll take you to a night game next. It has a whole different feel.”

“I didn't say—”

“T.C.!”

They both looked up as a man worked his way through the aisles toward them. He was short and stocky, with stone gray hair and a lived-in face. It was lined and pitted, with a square jaw and crooked nose. Thorpe rose to accept a bear hug.

“Boss, how are you?”

“Can't complain, no, can't complain.” He drew back far enough to study Thorpe's face. “Good God, you look good, boy.” With a meaty hand, he slapped Thorpe on the back. “Still watch you every night on the TV giving those politicians hell. You always were a sassy young pup.”

Liv remained seated and watched the exchange in silence. She was fascinated to hear Thorpe referred to as a boy and a young pup. Thorpe was a good half foot taller than the man who grinned up at him.

“Someone has to keep them straight. Right, Boss?”

“You bet your—” Boss stopped himself and glanced down at Liv. He cleared his throat. “Gonna introduce me to your lady, or are you afraid I'll steal her away from you?”

“Liv, this old schemer is Boss Kawaoski, the best catcher ever to harass an umpire. Boss, Olivia Carmichael.”

“Why sure!” Liv's hand was captured in the gnarled, broad one. “The lady on the news. You're even prettier face to face.”

“Thank you.” He was beaming at her out of eyes that seemed a trifle myopic.

“Careful, Liv.” Thorpe slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Boss has a reputation as a lady-killer.”