From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

“Why did you switch to broadcasting?”

  “I liked the faster pace, the sense of reaching people on the spot.”

  She nodded, understanding perfectly. There was a glass of scotch in his hand. Unlike the reporter she had observed, Thorpe drank moderately . . . but smoked too much, she decided. She thought of Carl and his endless chain of cigarettes. “How do you deal with the pressure?”

  He grinned, then surprised her by running a thumb over the pearl in her ear. “I row.”

  “What?” His touch had distracted her. Now she focused fully on his face again.

  “Row,” he repeated. “A boat, on the river. There’s handball when it’s too cold.”

  “Rowing,” Liv mused. That would explain the calloused, worked feeling of his palms.

  “Yes, you know: Go, Yale!”

  She smiled at that—a quick smile that lit her eyes.

  “That’s the first time you’ve done that for me,” he said. “Smiled with your whole face. I think I’m in love.”

  “You’re tougher than that, Thorpe.”

  “A marshmallow,” he corrected, and lifted her hand to his lips.

  Carefully, she removed her hand from his. Her fingertips were tingling. “No marshmallow was responsible for that exposé on misappropriation of funds in the Interior Department last November.”

  “That’s work.” He took a step closer so that their bodies nearly touched. “The man is a pathetic romantic, weakened by candlelight, devastated by a Chopin prelude. A woman could have me for the price of an open fire and a bottle of wine.”

  Liv lifted her glass again. It had to be the wine that was making her feel unsteady. “And thousands have.”

  “You told me not to brag.” He grinned. “And reporting limits your time,”

  Liv was having a difficult time keeping her distance. She shook her head and sighed. “I don’t want to like you, Thorpe. I really don’t.”

  “Don’t rush into anything,” he advised genially.

  “T.C.” The gentleman from Virginia clapped a hand on Thorpe’s shoulder. “I knew I’d find you with an attractive woman.” He ran an appreciative eye over Liv. Senator Wyatt was a few pounds overweight, pink cheeked and jovial. Liv knew he was leading a campaign to kill proposed cuts in education and welfare. She had been fighting to get past his front door for two weeks.

  “Senator.” Thorpe took the heavy-handed greeting genially. “Olivia Carmichael.”

  Liv’s hand was pumped in the best senatorial style. “Well now, I don’t forget faces, and I’ve seen this one. But I’ll swear you’re not one of T.C.’s regulars.”

  Thorpe made a sound that was somewhere between throat clearing and sighing. Liv shot him a glance. “I’m with WWBW, Senator Wyatt. Mr. Thorpe and I are . . . colleagues.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I remember perfectly now. T.C. fancies a different type.” He leaned closer to Liv and winked. “Lots of leg, short on brains.”

  “Is that so?” Liv aimed a thoughtful look at Thorpe.

  “You have great legs, Liv,” Thorpe commented.

  “So I’ve been told.” She turned to Wyatt. “I’d very much like to speak with you, Senator, about your stand on the proposed education cuts. Perhaps you could suggest a more appropriate time?”

  Wyatt hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Call my office Monday morning. You two should be dancing,” he decided, and straightened his dinner jacket with a quick tug. “I’m going to see if I can find any real food at that buffet. Fish eggs and goose liver.” With a grimace, he sauntered away.

  Thorpe took her hand. When Liv glanced up at him, he smiled. “Just taking the senator’s advice,” he explained. Keeping to the edge of the dance floor, he drew her into his arms.

  It was the second time she had been held against him. The second time her body had responded despite herself. Liv went rigid.

  “Don’t you like to dance, Olivia?” he murmured.

  “Yes.” She made an effort to keep her voice cool and even. “Of course.”

  “Then relax.” His hand was light at her waist, his mouth close to her ear. Small thrills trembled along her skin. “When we make love, it won’t be with members of Washington’s brass looking on. I like privacy.”

  Because she had been struggling with the first part of his statement, it took a moment for the second part to penetrate. Liv threw her head back so that their eyes met. “What makes you think—”

  “Not think, know,” he corrected. “Your heart’s racing just as it did when I kissed you outside of O’Riley’s.”

  “It is not,” she denied hotly. “It wasn’t then; it isn’t now. I told you before, Thorpe, I don’t like you.”

  “More recently you said you didn’t want to like me—a totally different thing.” She was so slender. He wanted to press her closer until she melted into him. “I could find out how you feel right now if I kissed you. The federal grapevine would be buzzing about Thorpe and Carmichael fraternizing on neutral ground.”

  “The lead story would be Thorpe’s broken jaw when Carmichael severs diplomatic relations.”

  “You don’t have the hands for packing much of a punch,” he mused. “Anyway, I prefer reporting stories, not being featured in them.”

  Liv drew away when the music ended. “I’m going to check out your theory about the ladies’ room,” she said evenly. Her heart was racing. She detested him for being right.

  Thorpe watched her move away. He suddenly wished the damn party were over so he could have her alone, even for a few minutes. His body still tingled from the brush of hers against it. He had never wanted a woman so badly, nor been as frustratingly certain of the uphill battle he had yet to fight. Taking out a cigarette, he flicked on his lighter and drew deeply.

  He was used to pressure in his work. In truth, he thrived on it. That was his secret. He could go for days on snatches of sleep and still throb with energy. He didn’t need vitamins, just a story. But this was a different sort of pressure—wanting something and knowing it was still out of reach. Not for long, he decided grimly, and drew on the cigarette again. If he had to lay siege to Olivia Carmichael, that’s exactly what he’d do. She wasn’t getting away from him.

  “T.C., you pirate. How are you?”

  Thorpe turned and clasped hands with the Canadian ambassador’s press secretary. Returning the greeting, he reminded himself to relax. A successful siege took time.

  Liv took her time renewing makeup which needed no renewing. She tried, as she dusted powder on her nose, to consider her response to Thorpe logically. Hadn’t she termed him a charismatic man? Even attractive, she admitted reluctantly, in a purely physical, athletic way. That had nothing to do with his being difficult and frustrating.

  “Of course he’s a pompous old bat, but I rather like him.”

  Liv glanced in the glass to see the reflections of two women who entered. One was Congresswoman Amelia Thaxter, a thin, hardworking woman who had a penchant for lost causes and dowdy clothes. Her constituents loved her, proving it by electing her for a second term by a landslide.

  The woman with her, who was speaking, was also fiftyish, but plumper and dressed in elegant gray silk. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Liv took out her compact a second time and listened.

  “You’re more tolerant than I am, Myra.” Amelia sat down and tiredly took out a comb.

  “Rod’s not a bad sort, Amelia.” Myra sat and took out a silver case of flashy red lipstick. “If you’d use a bit of honey, you might find him a help instead of a hindrance.”

  “He’s not concerned with the ecological problems of South Dakota,” Amelia put in. She hadn’t bothered to use the comb, but kept tapping it against the palm of her hand. “No matter what you or I say to him tonight, he’s not going to support me when I put my proposal on the floor Monday.”

  “We’ll see.” Myra slashed on the lipstick.

  Rod, Liv realized as she slipped a thin brush out of her purse, was Roderick Matte, one of the more influential men in Con
gress. If a vote was going to be close, he was the man to sway.

  A pompous old bat, Liv thought, and suppressed a grin. Yes, he was that, as well as his party’s hope for the highest office in Washington in the next election. Or so the rumors went.

  The congresswoman muttered at the comb, then stuck it back in her purse. “He’s a bigoted, narrow-minded pain in the—”

  “My dear,” Myra said sweetly, interrupting her friend’s impassioned speech with a smile for Liv, “that’s a perfectly stunning dress.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Didn’t I see you with T.C. ?” The woman took out a small vial of expensive perfume and used it lavishly.

  “Yes, we came together.” Liv vacillated between identifying herself and keeping silent. She decided it was both wiser and more fair to establish her credentials. “I’m Olivia Carmichael with WWBW.”

  Amelia made a small, unidentifiable sound, but Myra pressed on, undisturbed. “How interesting. I don’t watch the local news, I’m afraid, or much news at all, except for T.C.’s reports. News tends to give Herbert indigestion.”

  Justice Herbert Ditmyer. Liv finally placed the face. Justice Ditmyer’s wife, Myra, a woman with power and influence enough of her own to call Congressman Matte a pompous old bat without fear of repercussions.

  “We’re on at five-thirty, Mrs. Ditmyer,” Olivia told her. “Your husband might find our broadcast easy to digest.”

  Myra laughed, but she was studying Liv carefully. “I know some Carmichaels. Connecticut. You wouldn’t be Tyler’s younger daughter, would you?”

  Liv was used to the nameless term. “Yes, I am.”

  Myra’s face split into a smile. “Isn’t that something. The last time I saw you, you were seven or eight years old. Your mother was giving a proper little tea, and you came into the parlor—a scruffy thing with a rip the size of a fist in your skirt and the buckle off your shoe. I believe you got quite a scold.”

  “I usually did,” Liv agreed, not remembering the particular incident, but others like it.

  “I remember thinking you must have had a great deal more fun that afternoon than the rest of us did.” She gave a gleaming smile. “Your mother gave a stuffy party.”

  “Myra, really.” Amelia took her mind from her pending bill long enough to give a disapproving tsh-tsh.

  “It’s all right, Congresswoman,” Liv said smoothly. “She still does, I believe.”

  “I must say, I would never have recognized you.” Myra rose and brushed off her skirt. “Quite an elegant young woman now. Married?”

  “No.”

  “Are you and T.C . . . . ?” She let the sentence trail off delicately.

  “No,” Liv said positively.

  “Do you play bridge?”

  Liv lifted a brow. “Poorly. I never acquired a taste for it.”

  “My dear, a detestable game, but useful.” She plucked a business card out of her bag and handed it to Liv. “I’m having a card party next week. Call my secretary Monday; she’ll give you the details. I have a nephew I’m rather fond of.”

  “Mrs. Ditmyer—”

  “He won’t bore you—at least not too much,” Myra continued smoothly. “And I think I’m going to like you. My husband will be there,” she added, shrewd enough to dangle tempting bait before the reporter. “He’d love to meet you.”

  “Let’s go back, Myra,” Amelia suggested, wearily rising. “Before you’re up on bribery charges. Good evening, Ms. Carmichael.”

  “Good evening, Congresswoman.”

  Alone, Liv studied the elegant little calling card for a moment, then dropped it into her purse. One didn’t turn up one’s nose at a direct invitation from Myra Ditmyer—even if it included bridge and a nephew.

  Snapping her purse shut, Liv rejoined the party.

  “I was beginning to think you were holding a press conference in there,” Thorpe commented, offering her a fresh glass of wine.

  She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Close.”

  “Want to elaborate?”

  “Does accepting your invitation mean I have to share?” Liv took a careless sip of wine. She was feeling curiously buoyant. Three unexpected contacts in one evening was well worth the trip. “Actually,” she continued, “I believe I’m going to be a blind date at a bridge party.”

  “Date?” Thorpe frowned. He had noted the women who had come out of the powder room before Liv.

  “Yes, date. You know—a man and a woman finding a common interest for a certain number of hours.”

  “Cute. Had enough of this place?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.” Liv took a last sip, then handed him back the glass.

  “We’ll get your coat.” He took her arm and propelled her through the room.

  “I do appreciate your letting me tag along, Thorpe.” Liv reached for her keys as they stepped from the elevator on her floor.

  “Tag along,” he repeated. “That wasn’t included in your definition of a date, was it?”

  “This wasn’t a date.”

  “Still.” Thorpe took the keys from her and slipped one into the lock on the door. “Good manners would buy me a cup of coffee.”

  “Fifty cents would buy you one down the street.”

  “Liv.” Thorpe gave her an offended look that made her smile.

  “All right, manners it is. A cup’s worth.”

  “You’re incredibly generous,” he told her as he opened the door.

  Liv tossed her coat on a chair as she walked to the kitchen. He eyed the coat with a small smile. Now and again, she forgot the carefully created image she had built. Olivia Carmichael would never throw down a coat—much too fastidious. Much too organized. More than ever, Thorpe wanted to know the woman behind the image. There was warmth there, humor, passion—all hidden behind a thin shield. The shield had been raised for a reason. He intended—sooner or later—to find out what it was.

  She liked color, he decided. He’d noted it before in the way she dressed. Now he noted it again in the furnishings of her apartment: a brilliant blue throw pillow, a persimmon-colored bowl. Small signs of fire, he thought, like the quick flare of temper. She banked it, constantly, but it was there.

  “How do you take your coffee?” she called out as he walked to the kitchen.

  “Black.”

  He wandered to the stereo and flipped through records. “Van Cliburn to Billy Joel,” he commented when Liv came back into the room. “Very eclectic.”

  “I like variety,” she answered, and set a tray with two cups and saucers on the coffee table.

  “Do you?” He smiled—a bit, she thought, as if he were enjoying a private joke. Liv began to wish she hadn’t agreed to the cup of coffee. “What do you do for entertainment?” Thorpe walked over and took a seat on the sofa. Liv hesitated a moment, then sat beside him. She could hardly choose a chair across the room.

  “Entertainment?” she repeated, and reached for her coffee.

  “That’s right.” He had noticed the hesitation. It pleased him to know that she wasn’t indifferent toward him. If he made her nervous, it was a beginning. “You know, bowling, stamp collecting.”

  “I haven’t had much time for hobbies lately,” Liv murmured, and sipped at her coffee. She wondered why she had been at ease when she had walked out of the kitchen and was now strung tight. Thorpe lit a cigarette and kept watching her. She struggled against an adolescent urge to move away from him.

  “What have you had time for?”

  “I work,” she said, and moved her shoulders. Why was a simple cup of coffee and conversation making her pulse pound? “That keeps me busy enough.”

  “Sunday afternoons?”

  “What?” She had looked up to meet his eyes before she realized the mistake. His were dark and direct and closer than she had thought.

  “Sunday afternoons,” he repeated. He didn’t touch her. His eyes drifted slowly down to her mouth, then back. “What do you do on Sunday afternoons?”

  Something was kindling i
nside her—something elemental and strong. Liv hadn’t felt the quick tug of desire for years. But he wasn’t touching her, wasn’t making love to her. They were only drinking coffee and talking. She told herself she had had too much wine, and lifted her coffee again.

  “I usually try to catch up on my reading.” She watched a plume of smoke drift by before Thorpe crushed out his cigarette. “Murder mysteries, thrillers.” Her eyes flew up again when Thorpe took the cup from her hand.

  “I’ve always liked solving puzzles,” he murmured. “Digging underneath to find something that’s not on the surface. You’ve very thin skin.” He brushed a knuckle over her cheek. “But I haven’t been able to get beneath it—not yet.”

  She started to draw away. “I don’t want you poking into my mind.”

  “We’ll save that for later, then.” He slid his arms around her. “I want to hold you. When we were dancing, I promised myself I’d hold you again when we were alone.”

  You don’t want him to hold you, her mind insisted. But she didn’t tell him, and didn’t resist as he pressed her closer.

  His eyes flicked briefly to her mouth. “I’ve wanted for days to taste you again.” Lightly, his lips rubbed over hers. “Too long,” he muttered.

  You don’t want him to kiss you, her mind insisted. But she didn’t tell him, and didn’t resist as he crushed her mouth with his.

  Thorpe wasn’t patient this time. The demand seemed to spring up—hot, almost violent. Liv was caught in it, stunned by his lightning passion and her own instant response. She had no time to think, to reason, only to react. Her arms locked around him. Her lips parted.

  Where had the urgency come from? Both of them seemed trapped by it, unable to keep to their planned routes. She couldn’t stop him or herself; he couldn’t adhere to the easy pace he had outlined. Desperation. They both felt it. Need. Outrageous need to taste and touch and belong. He hadn’t known her mouth would become so soft in passion. He wanted to rip the black dress from her and discover her. It was madness. Control was slipping from him too quickly.

  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.