From the Heart (46 page)

“Ah, sh—” He cleared his throat quickly again, and Liv struggled with a grin. “Shoot,” he modified. “Wouldn't do to have my missus hear you talk that way. What'd you think of the game, T.C. ?”

“Palmer's still dishing it out.” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “It looks like the Birds have a tight team this year.”

“Lots of new blood,” Boss added, glancing wistfully out at the field. “The young left fielder has a mean bat.”

“So did you, Boss.” Thorpe looked back at Liv. “Boss carried a .324 average the year he retired.”

Not completely certain of the meaning, Liv tried a safer angle. “Did you play for the Orioles, Mr. Kawaoski?”

“Just Boss, miss. I played for the Senators. That was twenty years ago.” He shook his head at the passage of time. “This one used to hang around the clubhouse making a nuisance of himself.” Jerking a thumb at Thorpe, he grinned. “Wanted to be a third baseman in those days.”

“Did he?” Liv gave Thorpe a thoughtful look. Somehow, she had never considered him wanting to be anything but what he was.

“Wasn't so good with a bat,” Boss reminisced. “But he had a great pair of hands.”

“I still do,” Thorpe said dryly, and gave Liv a broad smile which she ignored. “How are things going at the store, Boss?”

“Just fine. My wife's running it today. She didn't want me to miss opening game.” He ran a hand along his squared chin. “Can't say I argued with her much. She'll be sorry she missed you. Alice still lights a candle for you every Sunday.”

“Give her my best.” Thorpe crushed the cigarette under his heel. “This is Liv's first game.”

“Well, no fooling.” Boss's attention was switched as
Thorpe had intended. Liv noted the move and filed it. Boss glanced at the baseball still clutched in her hand. “Caught yourself a foul too, first time out.”

“Beginner's luck,” she admitted, and held it out to him. “Would you sign it for me? I've never met a real ballplayer before.”

Slowly, Boss turned the ball over in his hand. “Been a long time since I put my name on one of these.” He took the pen Liv offered. “A long time,” he repeated softly. He signed his name carefully around the curve of the ball.

“Thank you, Boss.” Liv took the ball back from him.

“Thank
you.
Almost makes me feel like I could still pick a man off of second. I'll tell Alice I saw you.” He gave Thorpe a final thump on the shoulder. “And the pretty news lady,” he added. “Come by the store.”

“First chance I get, Boss.” Thorpe watched him move through the thinning crowd and up the steps. “That was a very nice thing you did,” he murmured to Liv. “You're a perceptive woman.”

Liv glanced down at the signature on the ball. “It must be hard to give up a career, a way of life, thirty years before most people have to. Was he very good?”

“Better than some.” Thorpe shrugged. “That hardly matters. He loved the game, and the playing of it.” Sweepers were already pushing their brooms through the narrow aisles, and Thorpe took her arm to lead her up the steps. “All the kids loved him. He never minded being hounded or catching a few pitches after a game.”

“Why does his wife light a candle for you on Sundays?” She had told herself she wouldn't ask, that it was none of her business. The words were out before she could prevent them.

“She's Catholic.”

Liv let that pass a moment as they walked toward the parking lot. “Don't you want to tell me?” she asked at length.

He jingled the keys impatiently in his pocket, then drew them out. “They run a small, independent sporting goods store in Northeast. A few years ago, they were having some trouble. Inflation, taxes, the building needed some repairs.” He unlocked Liv's side of the door, but she didn't get in, only stood and watched him.

“And?”

“Twenty years ago ballplayers, average ballplayers like Boss, didn't make a lot of money. He didn't have much saved.”

“I see.” Liv slipped into the car as Thorpe rounded the hood. Leaning over, she unlocked the handle for him. “So, you lent him money.”

“I made an investment,” Thorpe corrected as he shut the door. “I didn't offer a loan.”

Liv watched him as he started the ignition. She could see he didn't like her touching on this aspect of his life. She persisted. It was simply a reporter's habit, she told herself, to press for details. “Because you knew he wouldn't accept a loan. Or that if he did, it would put a dent in his pride.”

Thorpe let the car idle and turned to her. “That's a lot of supposition on a very brief encounter.”

“You just told me I was perceptive,” she pointed out. “What's the matter, Thorpe?” A smile tugged at her mouth. “Don't you like people finding out you can be a nice guy?”

“Then you're expected to be nice,” he told her. “I don't make a habit of it.”

“Oh, yes.” She was still amused, and the smile grew. “Your image. Tough, unsentimental, pragmatic.”

He kissed her firmly, impatiently. Her surprise spun into longing. She felt his fingers tighten on her skin, and she opened for him. If it was a mistake, she had to make it. If it was madness, she'd find sanity later. In that moment, she only wanted to renew the pleasure he could give her.

His mouth was enough—enough to satisfy the slowly growing hunger. It wasn't the time to question why he was the one, the only one, who was able to crack the shield she had erected. She wanted only to experience again, to feel again.

His heart beat against hers, lightly, quickly, making her understand the hunger was mutual. She was wanted—desired. What would it be like to make love with him? What would it be like to feel his skin against hers? To have his hands touch her? But no—she couldn't let herself imagine. She couldn't stop herself from imagining.

He let his lips wander to the crest of her cheekbone, then on to her temple. “I'd like to continue this someplace more
private. I want to touch you, Liv.” His mouth came back to hers, hot, possessive. “All of you. I don't want an audience.” He drew back until his eyes locked on hers. He saw desire, and his own clawed at him. “Come home with me.”

Her heartbeat was echoing in her head, fast and furious. For the first time in years, it would have been so simple to say yes. She wanted him, shockingly. It overwhelmed her. How had it happened so quickly? If someone had suggested a month before that she would be tempted to make love with Thorpe, she would have laughed. Now, it didn't seem ludicrous at all. It seemed natural. It frightened her. Liv drew out of his arms and ran a hand through her hair. She needed some room, some time.

“No. No, I'm not ready for this.” She told herself to take a deep breath, and did so carefully. “Thorpe, you make me nervous.”

“Good.” He fought back a powerful surge of need and leaned back. “I wouldn't want to bore you.”

She managed a husky laugh. “You don't bore me. I don't know exactly what my feelings are toward you. I'm not even sure you're quite stable. This—this delusion you have about getting married . . .”

“I'm going to remind you of this conversation on our first anniversary.” He put the car in first. If he was driving, he might keep himself from touching her again. Thorpe was discovering he wasn't as patient as he had thought.

“Thorpe, that's ridiculous.”

“Think of what it's going to do for the ratings.”

She wondered how he could be likable one minute, desirable the next, and then infuriating. Liv was torn between laughing and beating her head against the windshield in frustration.

“Okay, Thorpe,” she began, opting for patience as he joined a stream of traffic. “I'm going to make this crystal clear in the simplest terms I can. I am not going to marry you. Ever.”

“Wanna bet?” he countered smoothly. He shot her a grin. “I've got fifty says you will.”

“Do you seriously expect me to bet on something like that?”

“No sporting blood.” He shook his head. “I'm disappointed, Carmichael.”

Liv narrowed her eyes. “Make it a hundred, Thorpe. I'll give you two-to-one odds.”

He grinned again and cruised through a yellow light. “You're on.”

P
rime Minister Summerfield's death was unexpected. The fatal stroke which ended the British official's life left his country saddened. It sent the world press into a fever of preparation. There were special reports to air, recaps of Summerfield's forty-year career in British government to assemble, reactions to gather from the heads of other countries. How would the death of one man affect the balance of power in the world?

Two days after the prime minister's death was announced, the president was in
Air Force One,
crossing the Atlantic to attend the funeral. Thorpe was with him.

As press reporter, it would be his job to stick by the president, as close as a reporter was allowed, then share his information with the other news people who took the same journey on the press plane. He had a crew, pooled from the networks, ready to film any pertinent business on the flight. The cameraman, lighting and sound technicians were settled in the rear of the plane with their equipment close at hand. Their colleagues and backups were following on the press plane. In the forward portion of
Air Force One
were the president, first lady, and their entourages—secretaries, secret service, advisors. The mood was subdued.

Behind Thorpe, members of the pool crew played a quiet game of poker. Even the swearing was low key. On most
trips, he would have joined them, whiled away the hours with a few hands, a few stories . . . but he had a lot on his mind.

The job itself would keep him occupied on the plane ride. He had research and information to put together and pick apart, a loose script to outline for the day of the funeral. Then, in London, it would be up to him to keep close to the president—watch for reactions, wait for a quote. The desire to be in the field and report his own stories had been the major element in his refusal of the anchor job in New York.

Thorpe would take what tidbits he could glean from the press secretary and use his own talents for observation and assimilation not only to give his own report, but to feed information to his colleagues.

Though the assignment was a plum, he almost wished it had been handed to Carlyle or Dickson, correspondents from the competing networks. He was on
Air Force One.
Liv was on the press plane.

She had kept her distance from him during the past few days, and Thorpe had given her room. He'd had little choice with the pressures of a top news story taking up his time. Yet the same story had brought them both, with frustrating consistency, to the same locations.

She'd been cool, he recalled, each time they had run into each other—at the White House gates, at the Capitol, at the British embassy. There had been no hint of the woman he had seen eating hot dogs and cheering over a home run. The ease with which she distanced him was more frustrating than he liked to admit. Even to himself. Impatience was dangerous, he knew. But his was growing.

She wasn't indifferent to him, he thought, as he scowled out of the window. A bit of turbulence made the plane tremble slightly as he pulled out a cigarette. No matter what she said, or how she acted, she couldn't erase the way she responded to him. There was hunger, and no matter how she struggled against it, the hunger won whenever he held her in his arms. Thorpe was willing to settle for that. For now.

“Three kings!” Thorpe heard the muttered expletive from the seat behind him. “Hey, T.C., let me deal you in before this guy cleans us all out.”

As he started to agree, Thorpe saw the president slip inside his office with his secretary and speech writer.

“Later,” he said absently, and rose.

 

When was the last time I went to England? Liv wondered. As she thought back, she remembered the summer she had been sixteen. She had traveled with her parents and her sister in first class. She had been allowed to nibble caviar and Melinda had been given champagne. The trip had been Melinda's eighteenth birthday present.

Liv remembered how her sister had chattered endlessly about the parties she would go to, the balls, the teas, the theaters. Clothes had been discussed unceasingly until her father had buried himself behind a copy of the
Wall Street Journal.
Too young for balls, ambivalent about dresses, Liv had been bored to distraction. The caviar, an unwise sampling of her sister's champagne and air turbulence had proven an unfortunate combination. She'd been ill—to her sister's disgust, her mother's surprise and her father's impatience. For the rest of the journey she had been looked after by a flight attendant.

Twelve years ago, Liv thought with a sigh. Things had certainly changed. No champagne and caviar on this trip. Unlike
Air Force One,
the press plane was both crowded and noisy. The card games here were less restrained. Reporters and crew from Washington stations roamed up and down the aisles, gambled, argued, slept—finding ways to ease the tedium of a long plane flight. Still there was an air of anticipation, of energy. The Big Story.

Liv busied herself with working on notes while two correspondents across the aisle speculated on the political ramifications of Summerfield's death. He'd been a reserved, almost bookish member of Britain's Conservative party. Yet underneath, Liv mused as she scribbled down her thoughts, there'd been a fine edge of steel. He hadn't been a man to be tampered with, or intimidated by tricky diplomatic maneuvers. She made notations on three potentially volatile situations he had handled during his term as prime minister, and other legislative triumphs, small and large, during his government career.

Liv had done quite a bit of research during the past two days, boning up on parliamentary procedure and Summerfield in particular. She had needed a firm handle on British politics in order to convince Carl to send her on the story. His argument that Washington politics were her forte had been only the first stumbling block. Thorpe, as usual, had been a larger one. Pressing down hard on her pencil with this thought, Liv snapped off the point.

Thorpe was going to England. Thorpe had been assigned as the president's press reporter. Thorpe would be traveling on
Air Force One
with the presidential entourage and the crew pooled from the various networks. WWBW could use Thorpe's feed without dipping into the budget for the funds to send a reporter and crew of their own.

It had taken Liv an hour of calm, lucid reasoning, and a further hour of determined arguing, to change Carl's mind. Afterward, she had been torn between cheering or screaming in frustration.
Thorpe.
Whatever she did, wherever she went, he was always there to make things twice as difficult for her.

And not just professionally.

She couldn't stop thinking about him. During the day, with the countless pressures of the job, he would crop up—either in person or by name. Then she would remember the dance at the embassy, the embrace on the terrace, the laughter at the ball game. At night, when she was alone, he would invade her mind, sneak into her thoughts. No matter what Liv did to prevent it, he would just suddenly
be
there. The way he laughed, the ironic lift of brow, the hard, rough hands. And worse, much worse, there were times she was certain she could taste his mouth on hers. That's when the needs would grow out of nowhere—unexpected, vibrant. She was never certain whether to be angry or terrified.

He had no right to bother her this way, she thought furiously as she groped in her briefcase for another pencil. He had no right to upset the order of her life.
And that bet.
Liv closed her eyes on a sigh of frustration. How had she ever allowed him to annoy her into making that ridiculous bet?

Marriage! Could he possibly be unbalanced enough to think she would seriously consider marriage? With him? What sort of man would waltz up to a woman he knows can
barely tolerate his presence and announce his intention to marry her? A foolish one, Liv decided with a shrug, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Or a very shrewd one. Uncomfortably, Liv felt T.C. Thorpe fell into the latter category.

Of course, it didn't matter how shrewd he was; he couldn't
trick
her into marriage, and she would never be talked into it. So, she was perfectly safe.

Liv stared down at her notes and wondered why she didn't feel that way.

 

“Mike.” Thorpe slipped into the seat beside Press Secretary Donaldson.

“T.C.” Donaldson closed a file folder and gave Thorpe a careful smile. He was a man who looked like someone's kindly uncle: a little plump, beginning to go bald. His mind, however, was sharp and disciplined.

“What have you got to give me?” Thorpe asked him, and settled himself comfortably.

Donaldson raised both brows. “What's there to give?” he countered. “A state funeral, condolences, support, some pomp and ceremony. You'll have a lot of top officials, past and present, rubbing elbows. Royalty too. Good copy, T.C.” He reached in his pocket for his pipe, then slowly began to pack it. “There'll be plenty to fill your time for the next couple of days. You've got the president's itinerary.”

Thorpe watched Donaldson push tobacco into the bowl with his thumb. “He's going to be busy.”

“He's not going to London to sight-see,” Donaldson said dryly.

“None of us are, Mike,” Thorpe reminded him. “All of us have our jobs. I wouldn't want to think you were making mine tougher by holding back on me.”

“Holding back, T.C. ?” Donaldson gave a quick laugh. “Even if I did, you usually manage to ferret out enough to get by.”

“I notice there's a couple extra secret service aboard,” Thorpe put in casually.

Donaldson went right on filling his pipe. “First lady's aboard, too.”

“I counted her men, too.” Thorpe waited a moment before going on. “The funeral of a man like Summerfield brings diplomats from all over the world.” He paused, accepting coffee from the flight attendant while Donaldson eyed him over a lighted match. “Representatives from every country in the UN, and a few more. It promises to be quite a turnout.”

“Depressing business, funerals,” Donaldson commented.

“Mmm. Depressing,” Thorpe agreed. “And dangerous?”

“All right, T.C., we've known each other too long. What are you fishing for?”

“Vibrations,” Thorpe told him with a cool smile. “Any vibrations of trouble, Donaldson? Any reason the president or any of those other high political officials should be extra careful paying their last respects?”

“What makes you think so?” Donaldson countered.

“An itch,” Thorpe said amiably.

“You'd better scratch it, T.C.,” Donaldson advised. “I've got nothing for you.”

As if considering the matter, Thorpe sipped his coffee. “Summerfield wasn't popular with the IRA.”

Donaldson gave a dry chuckle. “Or the PLO, or a dozen other radical organizations. Is that a news bulletin, T.C. ?”

“Just a comment. Can I get a statement from the president?”

“Pertaining to what?”

“His views on Summerfield's policy with the Irish Republican Army, and thoughts on the new prime minister.”

“The president's views on the IRA are already documented.” Donaldson chewed on the stem of his pipe. “Let's get Summerfield buried before we start on the new P.M.” He shot Thorpe a straight look. “It might not be wise to talk about your hunch, T.C. No use giving people ideas, is there?”

“I only give people the facts,” Thorpe said carefully, and rose. “I want to get some film.”

Donaldson pondered a moment. “I'll arrange it, but no sound. We're going to a funeral. Let's keep this low key.”

“My thoughts exactly. You'll let me know if there are any changes?” Without waiting for an answer, Thorpe wandered back to the card game.

“I want some film as soon as Donaldson clears it,” he
instructed the crew. Glancing down, he noted the cameraman held two pair. “Silent,” he told the sound technician. “You can relax. Get a shot of the first lady working on her needlepoint.” He grinned as the cameraman raised the bet.

“Looking for the homey touch, T.C. ?”

“That's right.” Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “And see if you can get in a pan of the secret service.”

The cameraman cocked his head to shoot Thorpe a look and met the cool stare. “Okay.”

“Call.” The lighting technician tossed in his chips. “What d'ya got you're so proud of?”

“Just a pair of eights,” the cameraman said with a smirk. “And a pair of queens.”

“Full house.” The lighting technician spread his cards. Thorpe went back to his seat with mumbled curses following him.

He had always had an uncanny sense of intuition. The few moments with the press secretary had sharpened it. There was definitely more security on this trip than usual—enough to alert Thorpe.

Terrorism was a common word in the world today. It didn't take heavy thinking to conclude that when you brought heads of state from all over the globe together, political violence was more than a remote possibility.

A bomb threat? An assassination attempt? A kidnapping? Thorpe studied the quiet, three-piece-suited secret service agents. They'd be on the lookout, and so would he. It would be a long three days.

And the nights? he wondered. After the president's safely tucked away out of the reach of the press? He and Liv would stay at the same hotel. With luck—and a little strategy, he added thoughtfully—he could arrange to keep her close for most of the trip. At the moment, Thorpe considered proximity his biggest asset. Proximity, he amended, and determination.

 

Restless, Liv set aside her notes. She was unable to concentrate. She could not get Thorpe off her mind. It didn't help to be aware of how often they were going to be thrown together on this assignment. At least in Washington there were a
number of stories to cover in the course of a day. This time, there would be only one. And Thorpe had the upper hand.