by Nora Roberts
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.”
“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.”
7
Prime 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 pr
ess 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.
