From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  Liv listened, not touching her own lunch as Myra rattled off names of women political figures and the wives of some of Washington’s top brass. This was a great deal more than she had expected. And as she spoke, Myra became more animated with the idea.

  “What fun,” she concluded. “I believe you’ll do a marvelous job of it. I think I’ll make a few phone calls when I get back.”

  “I appreciate it,” Liv began, hardly knowing what to say. “Really I—”

  “Oh, fiddle.” Myra waved away the thanks with her fork. “It sounds a great deal more fun than planning another dinner party. Besides”—she gave Liv another of those blinding smiles—“I fully expect to be interviewed myself.”

  “That is an opportunity I wouldn’t miss for the world,” Liv said sincerely. “Myra,” Liv said, and applied herself to her own salad, “you are amazing.”

  “I do try to be. Now, that’s all the business nicely settled.” She gave a self-satisfied sigh. She liked this girl. Oh, yes, she liked this girl very much. And when Myra Ditmyer made up her mind about someone, it was as firm as one of her husband’s court decisions. “I must tell you, I had no idea when I made that little arrangement about the bridge party that you and Greg knew each other. I love being surprised.”

  “He was a very good friend.” Liv poked at her salad. “Seeing him again was good for me.”

  Myra watched her carefully. “I said I was surprised. But then . . .” She saw Liv’s eyes rise to hers. “It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together. When he was in college, Greg had written me often about Livvy. I remember hoping he was enjoying a nice, sweet romance. He was certainly captivated by her.”

  “Myra, I—”

  “No, no, now, let me finish. Greg was always a faithful correspondent. So refreshing in a young man. He wrote me that his Livvy was involved with his roommate.”

  “It was all so long ago.”

  “My dear.” Myra placed a hand on hers. “I apologize. But Greg was very intimate in his letters. I suppose he needed a sounding board for his feelings. They were quite real to him at the time. He was desperately in love with you, and as close to Doug as a man can be to another. Being in the middle was difficult for him, and perhaps because I was removed, he talked to me through his letters. He told me everything.”

  The look, the press of the hand, told Liv that Myra was being literal. There must be nothing about those years that she didn’t know. Liv stared at her helplessly.

  “Now, dear, have some more wine. I don’t mean to upset you. We all learn to cope, don’t we,” she went on in an easy voice as Liv obeyed her. “To live with loss and pain and disappointment. One can’t have lived to my age and not have run the gamut. It must have been dreadful for you. You probably thought you’d never live through it.”

  “No,” Liv murmured. “No, I was sure I wouldn’t.”

  “But you have.” Myra patted her hand again, leaned back and waited.

  Perhaps it was Myra’s skill in dealing with people, perhaps her genuine interest in them that caused Liv to respond to Myra’s silence more than she would have to a dozen well-meaning questions.

  “I thought for a while it would be better to die than to have to live with the pain. There didn’t seem to be anybody . . . . My family,” she said on a long breath. “I suppose they tried; in their way they were sympathetic, but . . .” She stopped and let out a quiet sigh that tugged at Myra’s heart. “I wanted to scream; I wanted to tear something apart. Anything. They simply never understood that kind of need. A person’s grief, a person’s private torment should be just that. Private. It should be handled with dignity.”

  “Poppycock,” Myra said rudely. “When you’re hurt, you cry, and the hell with anyone who doesn’t like to see tears.”

  Liv laughed. “I believe I could have used you then. I might not have made such a botch of things.”

  “It’s entirely your own opinion that you did,” Myra said sternly. “It might be time for you to give yourself a bit more credit. But, as I’ve said, you’ve lived through it, and this is today. Tell me about you and T.C.”

  “Oh.” Liv looked down at her salad again in fresh bewilderment. What was there to say? She’d botched things again.

  “I can hardly hold any hope that you and Greg will make a match of it.” She saw Liv smile at that and continued. “But as T.C.’s one of my favorite people, I’ve decided to be content with that.”

  “I’m not ever going to marry again.”

  “Oh, what boring nonsense,” Myra said good-naturedly. “T.C. and you have been seeing each other fairly regularly now, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Liv frowned a bit. Myra really had missed her calling.

  “He’s entirely too intelligent a man to let you slip through his fingers. I’d bet Herbert’s prize golf clubs that he’s already asked you to marry him.”

  “Well, no. That is, he told me I was going to, but—”

  “Much more in character,” Myra said, pleased. “Oh, yes, that’s just like him. And, of course, that got your back up.”

  “He was so unbearably arrogant,” Liv stated, remembering.

  “And he loves you so dreadfully.”

  That stopped her. She could only stare.

  “Olivia, a blind man could have seen it that night at my little bridge game. And my eyesight’s very keen. What are you doing about it?”

  “I’ve . . .” Liv felt herself deflate like a pricked balloon. “I’ve ruined it. Last night.”

  Myra studied her in silence a moment. Really, she thought, the child was so confused. Again she reached out to pat her hand. It was such a shame to see people waste time because they thought too much and acted too little.

  “You know, unlike the maxim, life isn’t short, Olivia; it’s really terribly long.” She smiled at the serious eyes on her face. “But not nearly long enough. I’ve been married to Herbert for thirty-five years. If I had listened to my parents, bless them, and my own better sense, I would never have married a man who seemed too stuffy, who was too old for me and entirely too work oriented. Think of all I would have missed. Life,” she said positively, “is worth a few risks. To prove it,” she added and sat back, “I’m going to have some of that lemon mousse . . . .”

  Even hours later, preparing for broadcast, Liv couldn’t get Myra’s words out of her mind. It was time to do something, she decided in the middle of the sportscaster’s report. Time to stop mulling things over point by point. If she wanted to be with Thorpe, she was going to have to tell him so.

  The moment her broadcast was over, Liv went upstairs. Seeing her approach, the receptionist gave a fatalistic sigh.

  “He’s not here,” she said, as she prepared to pack up her work for the day. “He’s doing his report on location.”

  “I’ll wait in his office.” Liv breezed by before the other woman could comment.

  What am I going to say to him? Liv asked herself the moment she shut the door behind her. What can I say? Pacing the room, she tried to find words.

  It seemed odd to be there without him. The room was so much his. Scattered on one wall were pictures of him with various world leaders and government officials. He looked invariably relaxed—never stiff, never overawed. He was simply Thorpe, Liv mused. And that was enough. There were scrawled notes littering his desk, and a hefty pile of papers held down by a paperweight. She went to look out at his view of the city.

  She could see the dome of the Capitol. With the sun beginning to set, it had a rosy hue, almost fairylike. Traffic was thick, but the heavy glass insulated her from the sound of it. She gazed out at the lines and circles of the streets, the old, stately buildings, the cherry blossoms just coming to bloom. It didn’t have the movement or urgency of New York, she decided, but was beautiful in its way. Engrossed in her study, she never heard Thorpe come in.

  Seeing her surprised him. He was uncustomarily thrown off-balance. He hesitated for a moment with his hand still on the knob. Very carefully, he shut the
door at his back.

  “Liv?”

  She whirled, and he saw her expression range from surprise to pleasure to controlled anxiety. More than he had ever wanted anything, Thorpe wanted to take her into his arms and pretend the night had never happened.

  “Thorpe.” At the sight of him, all her planned speeches flew out of her head. She stood rooted to the spot. “I hope you don’t mind that I just came in.”

  He lifted a brow and she saw it—the light mockery, the easy amusement. “Of course not. Want some coffee?”

  He was so casual as he strolled over to the pot, she began to wonder if she had imagined that less than twenty-four hours before he had told her he loved her. “No, I . . . I came by to see if you’d come to dinner,” she said impulsively. She could sense refusal and hurried on while his back was still to her. “Of course, I can’t promise a meal like you could fix, but I won’t poison you.”

  Thorpe abandoned the making of coffee, and turned to face her. “Liv, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he said quietly.

  “Thorpe . . .” She turned away for a moment to gather strength. What she wanted to do was weep, and to use his shoulder to weep on. That wouldn’t help either of them. She turned to face him again. “There are so many things you don’t know, don’t understand. But I want you to know, and to understand that I care. I care very much. Maybe more than I’m able to deal with.” He could hear the nerves rushing through her voice as she took a step toward him. “I know it’s a tremendous thing to ask, but if you could just give me some time.”

  It was costing her, he noted, to ask. Knowing her, he understood it had cost her to come to him this way. Hadn’t he told himself to be patient? “I have some things to clear up here first,” he said. “Would it be all right if I came by in an hour or so?”

  He heard her small expulsion of breath. “Good.”

  An hour later, Liv was wound up tight. She tried to bank her nerves and concentrate on getting together a meal, but her eyes were forever fixing themselves on the clock.

  Maybe I should change, she thought, and glanced down at her no-nonsense suit of charcoal gray. Even as she headed from the kitchen, the doorbell rang. Liv jolted. Oh, stop being ridiculous, she chided herself, but when she answered the door, her heart was thumping.

  “Hi.” She gave him a bright smile that was a little strained around the edges. “Your timing’s good; I’ll put the steaks on in a minute.” She shut the door behind her and was already wondering what to do with her hands. “Steak’s about the safest; I can’t do too much to ruin it. Would you like a drink?”

  I’m rambling, she thought. Good God. And he was looking at her again in that calm, steady way. She went to the bar without waiting for his answer. She could use one, even if he couldn’t.

  “Do you want scotch?” she asked, pouring first from the vermouth decanter for herself. She felt his hands on her shoulders.

  She didn’t resist when he turned her, didn’t lower her eyes when his looked into hers. Without speaking, he simply gathered her close and held her. With a shuddering sigh, she clung to him and felt the tension flow from her.

  “Oh, Thorpe, I nearly went crazy without you. I need you.” That in itself was an awesome admission. They both held on to it. Liv lifted her face to his. “Don’t go,” she murmured. “Don’t go tonight.”

  She pressed her mouth to his. The world focused for her again. “Make love to me,” she whispered. “Now, Thorpe. Right now.”

  His mouth still on hers, he lowered her to the couch. He touched her gently, feeling the shape of her through her clothes. Her body was pliant, willing to be explored. Her breath trembled on his tongue. With unbearable softness, he kissed her again and again until Liv felt the total capitulation of mind, body, spirit. She felt no aching drive, no desperation, only a warm, liquifying surrender.

  He undressed her slowly, layer by layer, piece by piece, letting his fingertips linger on the point of her breast, on the curve of her hip. Liv sighed and relinquished everything. He was in command, to take her wherever he wished.

  His touch was light, almost reverent as he stroked her. Even when he wandered to the heated skin of her inner thighs, he moved without hurry. She began to shudder, to arch under him, but he lingered only briefly at her moist center before roaming on.

  He teased the tip of her breast with his tongue, then stopped to savor. Liv felt the passion shoot from the sensitive skin he tasted to the pit of her stomach. It pulled at her until her movements were less languid. But he wouldn’t be rushed. His mouth took the same slow, aching journey his fingertips had—over and over her while her skin hummed then quivered, then flashed with heat.

  She heard herself calling him in a voice that was rough with needs. Her body was no longer passive, but crying out for him. Only him. He took her, but slowly, while she clung to him mindlessly, a breath away from heaven. Then his mouth was on hers and they rocketed through space together.

  13

  “Hey.” Thorpe nuzzled Liv’s neck to wake her. “Going to sleep all day?”

  She snuggled closer. “Um-hum.” She kept her eyes shut. The feel of his body against her was all that she wanted at the moment. It could be night or morning or afternoon. She didn’t care.

  “It’s after nine.” He ran his hand down her back and heard her quiet sigh of pleasure. “We’re going to spend the day in a boat, remember?”

  Liv let her eyes open to slits. It was morning, she discovered. Saturday morning. And he was with her. With a sleepy smile, she tilted her face back to his. “Let’s spend it in bed instead.”

  “The woman’s lazy,” he decided. And beautiful, he thought as he brushed the hair from her cheek. So achingly beautiful.

  “Lazy?” Liv’s left brow arched. “I’ve masses of untapped energy.” Her voice was slow and heavy as she shut her eyes again. “Masses,” she repeated, and yawned.

  “Oh yes, I can see that. Should we go to the Mall and jog first?”

  She opened her eyes again. “Oh, I’ve a much better idea.”

  He hadn’t expected the kiss to be so ardent, or her move to be so quick. She was suddenly lying across his chest with her mouth on his. His sound of pleasure was muffled. Then she touched him. His pulse jumped from an easy rhythm to a racing pace in the space of seconds. His blood, cool from the night’s rest, flamed headily. Her hands were urgent, unexpectedly aggressive, her mouth hungry on his skin. He was caught up in her quickly, before he could fully register that she was leading him.

  His instant response seemed to fill her with power. Her mouth was greedy on his, demanding and drawing, then roaming on to his neck, his throat, his shoulders. Her tongue darted out, tracing over his chest, lingering over his nipples, and then on.

  When did she become so strong? he wondered, dazed. Or was he suddenly weak? He needed to have her now. Now. He could feel the blood pounding, in his head, in his loins, in his fingertips. Pleasure was a pain clawing at his stomach.

  But when he tried to roll her over, she shifted, straddling him and crushing his mouth with her own. He was suffocating, but he pulled her closer. She was in his lungs, in his pores. Her movements on top of him were driving him mad.

  Then he was inside her. Sanity shattered. The world exploded. He could hear the thunder of it roaring inside his head until he thought he would never hear anything else. Then it was Liv’s breathing—short, shallow. She seemed to melt onto him as the strength seeped from her. He shuddered once, then cradled the back of her head in his hand.

  My woman, he thought almost fiercely as she rested against him, still trembling. He let himself lie still until the intensity passed. There was still a need to be cautious. “I suppose you want an apology.”

  “Hmm?” He could hear the bafflement in the sigh.

  “For calling you lazy.”

  Liv laughed and clung to him, then shifted to his side. “It does seem to be in order,” she agreed, and prepared to snuggle again. “You can give it to me when I wake up.”

  “
Oh, no.” Rising, Thorpe grabbed her and hauled her unceremoniously, unsympathetically from the bed. “Rowing,” he said as she tried to scowl at him.

  “You’re an obsessed man.”

  “Absolutely.” He smiled before he kissed her nose. “I’ll let you have the shower first.”

  “Thanks.”

  Her gratitude seemed a trifle mordant, but he grinned at her as she shut the bathroom door behind her.

  Thorpe slipped on his slacks and gave an idle thought to fixing coffee. Instead, he reached for the pack of cigarettes that lay on the table beside the bed. From there, he could hear Liv humming as she started up the water for her shower.

  Picking up his lighter, Thorpe flicked it and got spark but no flame. Mildly annoyed, he glanced around for matches, then opened the narrow drawer in the table, thinking he might find some there.

  The photograph caught his eye immediately. It drew his attention first because Liv’s apartment was so conspicuously bare of photos or personal mementos, and second because the child smiling back at him was strikingly beautiful. Lifting it out, he studied it.

  It was a small snapshot framed in silver. The boy was hardly more than a year old, full in the cheeks and grinning broadly. His thatch of black hair was thick and left to fall around his face in a style that suited the freewheeling smile. The eyes were dark, dark blue, nearly cobalt, and filled with a mixture of mischief and delight. Here was a child a stranger on the street would stop to smile at—a child aunts and uncles would have to spoil. You could almost hear the laughter that was ready to burst through the grin.