From the Heart (51 page)

She made a vague gesture with her shoulders. “Of course; but for now, I'm happy where I am. Carl's the best news director I've ever worked with.”

Thorpe grinned. “He does have a tendency to become emotional.”

Liv lifted a brow as she toyed with the last of her spaghetti. “Particularly when some hotshot from upstairs steals a story. I had to step on the toes of one of your associates after the mayor's press conference this afternoon.”

“Is that so? Which one?”

“Thompson. The one with the big ears and flashy ties.”

“A flattering description.”

“Accurate,” Liv countered, but a smile tugged at her lips. “In any case, I'd gone to a lot of trouble to set up a quick interview after the conference. He tried to cash in on it.”

“You set him straight, I'm sure.”

Liv let the smile form. It rather pleased her to recall how she had dispatched the enterprising Thompson. “As a matter of fact, I did. I told him to do his own legwork or they'd find him hung by his tie in the basement of the Rayburn Building.” She paused consideringly. “I think he believed me.”

Thorpe looked into the cool blue eyes. “I think I do too. Why didn't you just sic your cameraman on him?”

Liv grinned and scooped up the last of her spaghetti. “I didn't want a vulgar scene in front of the mayor.”

“Want some more?” He gestured toward her empty plate. Liv sat back with a sigh. “You've got to be kidding.”

“Dessert?”

Her eyes widened. “You didn't really make dessert?”

Leaning forward, Thorpe tipped more Burgundy into her glass. “Drink your wine,” he suggested. “I'll be right back.”

He took the plates away with him. Liv gave a moment's thought to giving him a hand, then sat back. She was too content to move. It was foolish to deny she enjoyed his company. Liked talking to him. Arguing with him. She had nearly forgotten how stimulating an argument could be. He made her feel alive, vital. She didn't quite feel safe with him, and even that was exciting.

Liv glanced up as she heard him come back. At the sight of
the dish of strawberries and cream he carried, she gave a low sound of pleasure.

“They look marvelous! How did you get your hands on strawberries that size this early in the season?”

“A reporter never reveals his sources.”

She sighed as he set the dish on the table. “They look wonderful, Thorpe, but I don't think I can manage it.”

“Try one,” he insisted, dipping a berry into the fresh whipped cream.

“Just one,” she agreed, and obligingly opened her mouth as he started to feed it to her. He smeared the cream along her cheek. “Thorpe!” Liv said on a laugh, and reached for her napkin.

“Sorry.” He laid his hand on top of hers, preventing her from lifting the napkin. “I'll get it.” Cupping her neck with his other hand, he slowly, lightly began to nibble the cream from her cheek.

Liv's laughter stilled. She didn't move, couldn't protest. Her mind and body were locked in the shock of sensation. Her skin seemed alive only where his tongue glided over it.

“Good?” he murmured, passing his lips over hers.

Liv said nothing. Her eyes were locked on his. Thorpe watched her steadily as he read the stunned passion in her eyes.

Slowly, he dipped a second berry and offered it. “Another?”

Liv shook her head, swallowing as she watched his teeth slice through the berry. Rising, she stepped down into the living room. She had to be on her feet to think, she told herself. In a moment, she would feel perfectly normal again. The trembling would stop—the heat would cool. A startled gasp escaped her when Thorpe turned her into his arms.

“I thought you'd like to dance,” he murmured.

“Dance.” She melted into his arms. “There isn't any music.” But she was moving with him, and her head was already resting on his shoulder.

“Can't you hear it?” Her scent was teasing his senses. Her breasts yielded softly as he drew her closer.

She sighed and closed her eyes. The candlelight flickered against her lids. Her limbs felt heavy, much too comfortably
so. She leaned on Thorpe. She tried to tell herself she had had too much to drink. That was what she was feeling. But she knew it was a lie. When his lips passed over her ear, she sighed again and shuddered.

I should go, she told herself. I should leave now, right now. Her fingers wandered into his hair. It's madness to stay. A slow, kindling longing was building as his body moved against hers. His hand slid up her spine and down again to settle at her waist. When she felt his lips on her neck, she gave a low sound, drugged in pleasure.

“I can't stay,” she murmured, but made no effort to move from his arms.

“No,” he agreed, as his mouth made a leisurely journey to hers.

“I should go.” Her lips sought his.

“Yes.” He slipped his tongue between her parted lips to touch hers. Liv felt her bones dissolve and her head spin.

“I have to leave.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Gently, he lowered the zipper at the back of her dress. She made a muffled sound as his hands ran over the thin chemise.

“I'm not going to get involved with you, Thorpe.” Her mouth was moist and heated as he explored it.

“I know; you've told me.”

Her dress slid to the floor.

She pressed closer and let his mouth find hers again. She was drowning, but the water was so warm, so soft. The need for him was sleepy, growing as he moved his hands over her. She was a prisoner of his touch—a touch that was gentle. She made no protest when he lifted her into his arms.

Moonlight filtered into the bedroom, shadowed light, softly white. Liv nearly broke through the surface.

“Thorpe—”

Then he kissed her again. Lost, longing, she clung to him as he lowered her to the bed. He undressed her slowly, with soft kisses and caresses. The words he murmured were quiet, stroking her nerves, arousing her body.

When his back was bare, Liv ran her hand over it. There was hard strength. She wanted him to be strong. Needed for
him to be. He lowered the chemise to her waist, following the trail of his hands with his mouth.

Desire changed from dreamy to desperate in a flash. Liv moaned and pressed him closer until his mouth was hungry at her breast. Her movements under him were no longer languid, her hands no longer timid. She arched to help him strip the thin garment from her. He ran his hands up the inside of her thighs, and she felt a rush of heat engulf her. She crested on a moan, but he slid his fingers over and inside her, driving her up again.

She dug her nails into his shoulders. Nothing, no one, had ever made her feel like this—mindless, aching, glowing. Liv wanted him to take her, but he had other pleasures to give.

His tongue glided down her torso, flicking over the curve of her waist until she knew she would go mad. Wandering, he moved lower still, until on a strangled gasp, she peaked again.

Her responsiveness overwhelmed him, taking him beyond his own desire. He wanted her to experience every drop of pleasure he could give. She was sensitive to every touch, every thought. Though the moonlight gave her skin a marble hue, it felt like liquid fire under his hands. Need for her vibrated through him. Each time she moaned his name or reached for him, the shock of it rocketed straight through him. Desire pulsated from her—for him. That alone took him to the edge of reason.

His mouth crushed down on hers, and Liv answered the demand ravenously. All restraint had fled; all barriers were broken. She knew only a desperate need for fulfillment and the one man who could give it to her. She opened for him, then guided him inside of her.

Her gasp was muffled against his shoulder. She felt the muscles tense and ripple against her mouth as he took her beyond what she remembered, past what she had dreamed of. She gave herself up completely and went with him.

Thorpe lay wrapped round her, holding on to the warmth. For him, the world had whittled down to the bed—to the woman. Even in the dark he could see her, each curve of her body, each plane of her face. In all of his memory, he had never felt so involved, so totally united. Her skin was smooth against his, her nipples still taut as her breasts pressed against
his chest. Her breathing was leveling slowly. He had known there was passion under her strict control, but he hadn't guessed the depth of it or what its effect on him would be. He was vulnerable, almost defenseless for the first time in his life.

Liv felt the intensity of passion drain into contentment. She had never experienced that sort of abandonment. Had that been missing all of her life? She was almost afraid to find the answer and what it would mean. One basic truth was that he had made her feel like a woman again, complete. The taste of him still lingered on her lips and tongue. She didn't want to lose it, or the warm security she now held nestled in her arms.

But who was Thorpe? she wondered. Who was he who had drawn from her what she had been unable, or unwilling, to give any man for more than five years.

“I promised myself this wouldn't happen,” she murmured, and buried her face against his neck.

Her words forced Thorpe out of his dreamy state. “Regrets?” he asked carefully, and waited what seemed a lifetime for the answer.

“No.” Liv gave a long sigh. “No regrets.” She tilted her face back. “I never expected to be here with you, like this. But I don't regret it.”

He relaxed again and held her closer. The soft, serious words stirred him. “Olivia, you're such a complicated woman.”

“Am I?” She smiled a little and closed her eyes. “I've never thought so. Too simple perhaps, and singleminded, but not complicated.”

“I've been working on sorting you out for a year and a half,” he returned. “It isn't an easy job.”

“Don't try.” She let her hand roam over his shoulder again. She liked the feel of muscle, knowing he could control it into gentleness. “Thorpe, have you had many lovers?”

He gave a muffled laugh. “That's a delicate question to ask at the moment, Carmichael.”

“I wasn't going to ask for names and numbers,” she countered, sighing as his hand moved down her back. “It's just that I haven't really. I'm not very good at it.”

“Good at what?” he asked absently. His casual explorations were teasing his own need for her.

She felt awkward suddenly, and searched for a phrase. “At—ah—pleasing a partner.”

The movement of his hand stopped, and he drew back to study her face in the darkness. “Are you joking?”

“Well, no.” She was embarrassed now. If she hadn't been so relaxed, she would never have put herself into such a position. She fumbled on. “I know I'm not very—exciting in bed, but—”

“Who the hell put that into your head?”

The sharp annoyance surprised her.
My husband
trembled on the edge of her mind. “It's just something I've known—”

He swore ripely and stopped her. “Do you think I was pretending just now?”

“No.” She was confused suddenly, and unsure of herself. “Were you?”

He was angry, almost unreasonably so. Rolling, he pinned her beneath him. “I wanted you, from the first moment I saw your face. Did you know that?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. A fresh surge of passion raced through her at the press of his body, the grip of his hands.

“You're so cool, so aloof, and I could see all those whispers of heat. I wanted you like this, naked in my bed.”

His mouth crushed down on hers, bruisingly, furiously. Her lips were eager for his, accepting the anger, the demand, matching the hunger.

“I wanted to strip away the layers,” he muttered. He moved his hands over her until she was writhing mindlessly. “I was going to have you—melt all that ice.” His hand slipped between her thighs and she arched, yearning for him. “But there wasn't any ice, any need for games when I held you. If you didn't please another man, it was his fault. His loss. Remember it.”

She was on fire. Her hands touched, searched, stroked on their own power while her mouth roamed his neck. She could feel his pulse go wild under her tongue. She pulled at him, dragging his mouth back to hers. The taste—his taste. She was desperate for it. He trembled with her.

Then the kiss was savage, staggering her with the knowledge that she had taken him beyond the civilized. This was no
pretense. He was totally lost in her—in what they made together. She felt it, marveled at it, then swirled into a mist where no thoughts could penetrate.

She was limp, utterly spent, her breath and body shuddering. His weight was on her fully, and his back was damp under her hands. There was no measuring the time they lay there, replete in each other.

“I suppose you're right.” His voice was dark and husky. “That wasn't very exciting.”

Liv didn't think she had the energy to laugh, but it bubbled inside her, warm and comfortable. She didn't know how he knew exactly the right thing to say, but she accepted it. It was a novel and wonderful sensation, to laugh in bed. He lifted his head and grinned at her.

“Idiot,” he said softly, and kissed her. Shifting, he gathered her to his side. She was asleep in moments and lay still. He held her.

T
he alarm clock went off with a shrill. Automatically, Liv reached over to shut off the blast and rolled into Thorpe. Her eyes shot open. Disoriented, groggy, she stared into his eyes while the bell continued to peal. Part of her mind registered the shadow of beard on his chin, the sleepy heaviness of his eyes as they looked into hers.

I slept with him, she remembered. Made love with him and slept the night in his bed. The knowledge registered slowly. She could feel a trace of astonishment in the full light of day, but though she searched and wondered, there were still no regrets. She had been given passion, gentleness, caring. How could there be regrets?

Thorpe reached behind him and snapped off the alarm. Silence was abrupt and complete. Saying nothing, he gathered Liv against him. He had seen the dazed surprise in her face, then the gradual understanding and acceptance. He found it amusing, and strangely endearing. This wasn't a woman who made it a habit of waking up in a man's bed.

The quiet morning cuddle was a new sensation, and Liv drifted with it. Undemanding intimacy. Tangled with him, she explored it sleepily. She wasn't certain what she was feeling. What emotion was this? Contentment? Happiness? Simple pleasure at being close enough to touch and be touched?

Something had changed. Doors had opened. She wasn't sure whether she or Thorpe had turned the lock, but it had
been done. His breath was warm on her cheek, his arms lightly possessive around her. She was no longer alone. Did she want to be? She felt the pressure of his body against her. Yesterday she had been certain that solitude was the answer for her. But now . . .

She had made love with him. Shared herself. Taken from him. Liv wasn't a casual person. Intimacy was no small gesture for her. Intimacy meant commitment. To her, the two had always, would always, walk hand in hand. And yet, she had promised herself there would be no more commitments in her life, no more one-to-one relationships. There was too much in her past to remind her of the risks. He was becoming too important. She was becoming too vulnerable. It was much too easy to stay where she was, wrapped tight, held close. If she stayed too long, she might forget how quickly disillusionment came.

She shifted, wanting to break the bond before it became too strong. “I have to get up. I have to be in by nine-thirty.”

Still silent, Thorpe brought her back to him. His mouth closed gently over hers. She was so soft, so warm. And her scent still lingered. He'd waited long, too long, to wake beside her. Now he wanted to enjoy the moment. He wanted to see how she looked in the morning, fresh from sleep, her eyes still heavy. He had slept beside her, awakened beside her. He didn't intend to be without her again.

Liv responded to the gentleness and the lazy arousal. For a moment she could pretend there was no outside world that demanded their involvement and no past to inhibit her. There was only the two of them. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was still night and they had hours left to hold each other. But time was passing. The sun was a pale yellow light through the windows.

“We have to get up,” she murmured, almost wishing he would contradict her.

“Mmm.” He shifted his head slightly to see the clock. “Apparently,” he agreed, and settled for a last nuzzle of her throat. “I don't suppose your conscience would allow you to come down with a sudden case of laryngitis or a convenient fever?”

“Would yours?” she countered.

He laughed and kissed her. “At the moment, I have no conscience.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Easing away from him, she sat up, automatically pressing the sheet to her breast. “I'm going to need a robe.”

“Pity.” With a groan he rolled away from her and rose. “I'll supply you with a robe. And breakfast,” he added as he padded to the closet. “If you handle the coffee.”

She was a little stunned to see him stand naked in front of the closet. Straightening her shoulders, she told herself not to be a fool. She had just spent the night with him. His body was no secret to her now. But to see him, Liv thought, as he pulled out the first robe for himself. He was magnificently built—hard, lean, with broad sinewy shoulders and a long torso. She had indeed often thought he seemed streamlined in his clothes. Without them, he appeared more the athlete.

“Okay?” He pulled out a short, kimono-style robe in blue terry and turned to her.

She had lost what he had been saying. Her eyes lifted to the amusement in his. “What? I'm sorry.”

“Can you make coffee, Liv?” He grinned as he held out the robe.

“Have you got a jar and a spoon?”

He looked pained. “Are you joking?”

“I was afraid you wouldn't. I'll manage, I suppose,” she told him doubtfully, and slipped her arms into the robe.

“The percolator's on the counter; coffee's on the second shelf over the stove,” he instructed as he swung into the bath. “See what you can do.”

She wrinkled her nose as he shut the door, then rose from the bed.

In the kitchen, she found things precisely where he had told her. She ran water and measured coffee. Just barely, she could hear the sound of the shower running.

She found it an odd sensation to be poking around in his kitchen, naked under his robe.
I'm having an affair,
she thought. She held the top of the percolator aloft a moment, staring into space. She had made love with Thorpe, had spent the night in his bed, and was now preparing coffee in his
kitchen. In his robe, she reminded herself, running a hand down the lapel.

With a quick shake of her head, she fit the lid on top of the pot. For goodness' sake, I'm twenty-eight years old. I've been married and divorced. I'm a professional woman who's been on her own for years. Why shouldn't I have an affair? People do every day. It's a part of life. It's very simple—even casual. To make anything else out of it is foolish. We're two adults who just spent the night together. That's all there is to it.

Even as she ran the last of these cool, sensible words in her head, Thorpe came into the room. Liv turned to say something mildly sarcastic about the coffee and found herself folded into his arms.

His mouth touched hers softly at first, twice. The third time, they lingered and grew hungry. She lifted her arms to bring him closer. Everything she had just told herself was forgotten. His hair was still damp as her fingers combed through it. The scent of soap and shaving lotion brushed at her senses. Everything seemed new and fresh, like a first romance.

His hands rested at the sides of her breasts, then lowered to her hips. It wasn't a desperate kiss, but a strong one. It brought echoes of the night back to her. Thorpe drew back a little to look at her.

“I like you this way,” he murmured. “Barefoot, in a robe several sizes too big for you, with your hair a little mussed.” He lifted a hand to it and disordered it further. “I'll be able to picture you this way when I watch the cool Ms. Carmichael deliver the news.”

“Fortunately for the ratings, the viewers won't.”

“Their loss.”

“Not everyone appreciates the rumpled, just-out-of-bed look, Thorpe.” The coffee was perking frantically, and she drew out of his arms. There were mugs suspended from hooks under the cabinets. Liv slipped two off and poured.

“But then I appreciate the calm, sleekly groomed look too,” he pointed out, offering her a small carton of cream for her coffee. “Actually, I haven't found anything about you that doesn't appeal to me.”

Liv laughed and glanced up at him. “Are you always so agreeable before your coffee, Thorpe?” She handed him a
mug. “I'd better shower while you drink this. It might sour your mood.” He started to lift it to his lips, and she placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Remember, before you drink it, you did promise to fix me breakfast.”

She left him, taking her own mug with her.

Thorpe glanced back down at his coffee, then sipped doubtfully. It wasn't quite as bad as she had prophesied. Obviously, he thought, as he drank again, the kitchen wasn't her area. It was his, he concluded philosophically, and went to the refrigerator. He could hear the shower running. He liked knowing she was close—only a few rooms away. He took out a slab of bacon and heated a pan.

Thorpe wasn't a man to delude himself. They had made love—they would make love again—but Liv's feelings were not as defined as his. It was uncomfortable to find himself in the position of caring deeply for someone who didn't return the same depth of emotion. She could, he told himself as the bacon sizzled. She was fighting it. He was too confident a man to consider he might lose in the end.

Even in the bright sunlight of the kitchen he could remember her open giving of the night before—her initial hesitation, the gradual change to aggression and passion. Whatever she said, she was a complex woman, full of hidden corners and contradictions. He wouldn't have it any other way. Since he had fallen in love, he preferred it to be with a woman who had a few eddies and currents. Fate might have bound him to a tamer type.

Olivia Carmichael was the woman for him, and he was the man for her. He might have to be patient until he convinced her, but convince her he would. Thorpe smiled as he cracked an egg into a bowl.

 

As it had the night before, the scent coming from the kitchen drew Liv irresistibly. Standing in the doorway, she stared at the platter Thorpe was piling with bacon, golden eggs and lightly browned toast.

“Thorpe,” she said, inhaling deeply, “you're amazing.”

“You just noticed?” he countered. “Grab a couple plates,” he ordered, jerking his head toward the proper cabinet. “Let's eat before it gets cold.”

Liv did as he bade, plucking up the flatware as well before she followed. “I have to admit,” she said as she took her chair at the table, “that I'm in deep awe of anyone who can fix a meal and consistently have everything ready at the same time.”

“What do you eat at home?”

“As little as possible.” She began to help herself from the platter. “Mostly I use all those little boxes that say ‘Complete Meal Inside.' Sometimes there really is.”

“Liv, do you have any idea what sort of things they put inside those little boxes?”

“Please, Thorpe.” She shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Not while I'm eating.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Didn't you ever learn to cook?”

Liv lifted a shoulder. She remembered the meals she had fixed during her marriage. They had usually been hurried—dinners put together before she had dashed on to the evening shift at the station, a quick something after classes. She had cooked adequately, even well on sporadic occasions. But there had been so little time and so many obligations. She skipped back over that to give him the answer.

“When I was growing up, my mother didn't consider it important. In fact,” she added after finishing off a slice of bacon, “she didn't care to hear about the few times I poked into the kitchen to see what was going on. That wasn't our territory.”

Thorpe buttered a slice of toast and considered how remarkably diverse their backgrounds had been. He and his mother had been close, both from necessity and out of love. Liv and hers had been distant, perhaps from a simple lack of understanding.

“Do you go back to Connecticut often?”

“No.”

There was a signal in the one word.
Don't press too close.
Thorpe recognized it and detoured.

“How's your schedule today?”

“Packed. The first lady's dedicating that children's center at eleven. Dell's due into National at one, though I doubt we'll be able to get near him, and I have another stakeout at
the school board this afternoon.” She finished off the rest of her eggs. “I'm scheduled to tape another promo. The general manager's nervous about the ratings.”

“Aren't they all.” He glanced at her empty plate. “Well, at least you're fortified.”

“If that's your subtle way of saying I stuffed myself, I'll overlook it.” Rising, Liv began to gather the plates. “Since you cooked it, I'll wash up while you dress.”

“Very democratic.”

She kept her eyes on the plates and platters. “I'll need to go back to my apartment to change before I go in. I'll take a cab.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Unsure of her moves, Liv lifted the stack of plates. “It's silly for you to drive halfway across town, out of your way. It would be simpler—”

He stopped her by taking the stack of plates out of her hands and setting them back on the table. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he studied her face. It was in his eyes again—the searching, the depth of intensity that was inescapable.

“Liv, last night meant something to me. Being with you means something to me.” He could see the quick flicker of emotions as she digested his words. “No cabs.”

“No cabs,” she agreed, then slipped her arms around him to hold him tightly. The gesture surprised him, moved him. Liv closed her eyes and held on. She had been afraid he would agree without a second thought. The sensible part of herself had told her it would be best—keep it light, keep it sophisticated. Take a cab and see you later. But her heart wanted more. And her heart was beginning to outweigh everything else.

“Will you wait for me tonight?” he murmured into her hair. “Until after my broadcast?”

She tilted her face to his. “Yes.” As his mouth touched hers, she thought fleetingly that the ground she was treading on might be dangerous; but she hadn't felt so alive in years.

 

It was five thirty-two when Thorpe stood in the control room and watched Liv through the window. He paid scant attention
to her report on a robbery at a local chain store, or to the technical aspects of television that went on around him. She had, quite simply, been on his mind all day. He'd wanted to see her again before it was his turn in front of the camera.