by Nora Roberts
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 n
ew 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.
If she wanted a concise, thorough report, she would have to take whatever information he would give her. She would have to meet and talk with him on a scheduled basis. Of course, she reminded herself, regardless of everything else, he was a professional. That she couldn’t fault him for. The information would be clear and incisive. If only it didn’t have to come from him.
Kicking back her seat, Liv shut her eyes. Why was it her luck that Thorpe had been chosen as press reporter? If circumstances had been different, she would soon be three thousand miles away from him. Though she didn’t like admitting it, she needed the distance. There had to be a way to stay clear of him. For the next couple of days, she would have to be on her toes just to keep up with the story and all the angles. He’d be busy too. That should solve a great deal of the problem.
When it came to free time, Liv decided she would make herself scarce. He was too thick skinned to respect her refusals or her coolness. If a no or a cold shoulder didn’t work, unavailability was the next step. It was a pity they had to share the same hotel.
Nothing can be done about that, she reminded herself. But . . . she could see to it that she spent very little time in her room and very little time alone. It should be simple enough to lose herself in the crowd of press people that were about to descend on London.
With a small sound of disgust, she shifted in her chair. She didn’t like playing hide-and-seek. But it’s not a game, she told herself. It’s more like war—a war she forgot to fight when he got too close. Yearnings, yes, she felt yearnings when he held her, when his mouth—Shaking her head, she pushed the seat straight up. It wasn’t Thorpe, she insisted silently. It was simply time she started feeling again. Five years was a long time to bury yourself. Clearly, too clearly, she saw his face in her mind’s eye. And his smile—the charming, self-assured smile. She was definitely going to keep her distance.
* * *
The landing was smooth. Thorpe had had to stick to the president for another two hours before he could set off for his hotel. He had film, plenty of film to feed back to the States, along with his commentary. As he checked his watch and adjusted for the time difference, he noted CNC would have his report for the evening broadcast. With a revamp and update at eleven, he’d done his job for the day.
He watched London whiz by. It had been a good many years since he’d been there. Six? he mused. No, seven. But he thought he could still find the pub in Soho where he had interviewed a nervous attaché from the American embassy. Then there had been that little gallery in the West End where he had met a fledgling artist with a Rubenesque body and a voice like thick cream. Fleetingly, he recalled the two very exhilarating nights they had spent together.
Seven years ago, he thought, before he had settled in Washington. Before Liv. This London assignment was going to be different. He wasn’t interested in two exhilarating nights with an unknown woman; he wanted a lifetime. And one woman. Liv.
Stepping out of the cab, Thorpe hefted his bag himself. He’d learned long ago to travel light. There was a damp chill in the air—the result of a drizzle which had stopped only moments before. People on the sidewalk were hunched inside jackets and moving quickly. As he stepped inside the hotel lobby, Thorpe saw the crowd of reporters checking in. His hopes to get to his room for a shower before the briefing were immediately aborted.
“Thorpe.”
Shifting his bag, he smiled at Liv. She nodded politely.
“What have they got set up for us?” he asked, and was told there was a temporary press room on the second floor. “Okay, let’s head up and I’ll brief you.” Before Liv could lose herself in the crowd, he had her arm. “How was your flight?”
“Uneventful.” Knowing she could hardly snatch her arm from his without causing comment, Liv answered casually. “And yours?”
“Long.” He grinned at her as they squeezed into the elevator. “I missed you.”
“Stop it, Thorpe,” she said crisply.
“Stop missing you? I’d be glad to if you’d stop avoiding me.”
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy.” The crush in the elevator had her pressed tight to his side. After shifting his bag to his other hand, Thorpe slid an arm around her shoulders.
“Crowded in here,” he said amiably when she shot him a narrow glance. Above the smells of tobacco, old cologne and light sweat, her scent lifted, sweet and clean. He had to control a desire to bury his face in her hair and lose himself in it.
“You’ll make a scene, won’t you?” she said softly, under the hum of conversation.
“If you’d like me to,” he agreed. “I want to kiss you, Liv,” he whispered, bending close to her ear. “Right here, right now.”
“Don’t!” There was no room to push away from him. She could only look up and glare. It was her first mistake.
His mouth was inches from hers. His eyes, calmly amused, stared back into hers. There was a surge of need, a devastating sexual pull. Her mind went blank.
When the elevator doors opened, people began to file out around them. Liv stood still, trapped not by the arm around her shoulders but by the look of quiet, patient knowledge in his eye
s.
“Come on, T.C., let’s get this show on the road.”
Thorpe didn’t answer. He smiled at Liv and led her into the corridor. “We’ll have to save it for later,” he told her.
Freed of the trance, Liv stepped out of his reach. “There is no later,” she snapped, then cursed herself as she took a place in the press room.
It took Thorpe less than thirty minutes to brief his colleagues and send them rushing off to complete their own reports. When he finally reached his own room, he had put in a twenty-hour day. Heading for the shower, he stripped on the way.
Liv walked into her room and let the bellboy bring in her bags. She waited while he fussed around the room opening drapes, checking the towel count. What she wanted was a pot of tea from room service, and her bed.
Jet lag, she thought wearily as she stuffed a pound note into the bellboy’s hand. Why was it her sister never suffered from it no matter how many times she zipped here or there, country to country, party to party? If she had been Melinda, she would never have settled down with a cup of tea and a quiet room. She would have changed and rushed out to take in London’s night life.
But she wasn’t Melinda, Liv reminded herself as she slipped out of her suit jacket. And she had already crammed a day and a half into a scant twenty-four hours. Tomorrow, Liv mused, stepping out of her shoes, there wouldn’t be a moment’s rest. Glancing in the mirror, she spotted the faint shadows of fatigue. It wouldn’t do to have them show up on camera. A cup of tea, then a quick glance at her notes before sleep, she decided. She was heading for the phone to order when she heard the knock on the connecting door.
She frowned at it, then gave a sigh of annoyance. If one of the other reporters wanted to party or discuss the angles of the Summerfield story, she wasn’t interested.
“Who is it?”
“Just another member of the working press, Carmichael.”