by Nora Roberts
“Thorpe!” The word came out in a rush of indignation. Without thinking, she flicked the lock and opened the door. He was leaning against the jamb, smiling, dressed only in a worn terry cloth robe. His hair was still damp from his shower, and the scent of soap and shaving lotion clung to him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Reporting the news,” he said soberly. “It’s my job.”
“You know very well what I mean,” she tossed back between her teeth. “What are you doing in the room next to mine?”
“The luck of the draw?” he ventured.
“How much did you give the desk clerk to arrange it?”
He grinned. “Liv, I don’t have to respond to a leading question. You’ll have to get that corroborated and ask me again.” Still grinning, he let his eyes roam down to her stocking feet. “Going out?”
“No, I am not.” Liv folded her arms and prepared to deliver a heated setdown.
“Good. I’d prefer a cozy evening at home.” He took a step into her room. Liv’s hand shot up to his chest. “Now look, Thorpe.” Her palm had connected with his naked chest where the robe crossed over, and the sudden movement spread the material farther apart. Little more than dark, springy hair covered him to his waist. He continued to smile, unabashed, when she dropped her hand. “You’re insufferable.”
“I do my best.” Lifting his hand, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “If you’d rather go out,” he began.
“I am not going out,” she repeated furiously. “And there’s not going to be any cozy evening either. I want you to understand—”
“Haven’t you ever heard that colleagues on foreign soil have to stick together?” His grin was suddenly boyish and impossible to resist. Liv struggled to keep her lips in a straight line.
“I’m making an exception in your case, Thorpe.” She added on a note of exasperation. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Liv, it isn’t traditional for a man to leave his fiancée alone.”
His tone was so reasonable it took her a full ten seconds to react. “Fiancée? I am not your fiancée,” she shouted at him. “I am not going to marry you.”
“You want to add another hundred to the bet?”
“No!” She poked her finger into his chest. “Now you listen to me, Thorpe. Your delusions are your own business; leave me out of them. I’m not interested.”
“You might be,” he said pleasantly. “Some of my delusions are really fascinating.”
“And I’m not going to sleep next door to a lunatic. I’m getting another room.” With that she whirled away.
“Afraid?” he asked, following her as she snatched up her bag.
“Afraid?” Liv tossed the bag back down and spun back. “The day I’m afraid of you—”
“I was thinking more of yourself.” He tilted his head and studied her furious face. “Maybe you’re not sure you could resist—ah, tapping on my door.”
Speechless, Liv stared at him. “Tapping?” she managed in a sputter. “You think—you think I find you so irresistible, so—so . . .”
“Desirable?” he suggested helpfully.
Liv clenched her hands into fists. “I don’t have any trouble resisting you, Thorpe.”
“No?”
Before she could take a breath, she was in his arms. Before she could think to protest, his mouth was on hers. Pressed close—so close her body seemed to mold itself to his without her will. His mouth was firm, not impatient so much as insistent. This time, rather than tempting her surrender, he demanded it. The control, though it balanced on a fine edge, was his. With his fingers in her hair, he pulled her head back and plundered, deeper and still deeper.
“No trouble, Liv?” he murmured, lifting his mouth a whisper from hers.
Her breath was trembling. She shook her head before she attempted to speak. But he gave her no chance.
Again, his lips took hers, this time with the fire of possession. A moan of pleasure escaped her as she instinctively reached for him, tangling her fingers in his damp hair to pull him closer. Sharp, small needs began to race along her skin. He seemed to know, for his hands followed them with uncanny accuracy—a fingertip down her spine, a thumb at the sweep of her hip, his palm at the long length of her thigh.
Liv explored his face with her own hands, running her fingers over the angles and planes as if she would sculpt it. Her touch only heightened his demand, so that he crushed her to him, bending her back from the waist. Like putty, she moved to his command. Then he molded her. Under his hands, her breasts rose and fell with her quickened breathing. The nipples were taut, straining against the material of her blouse while he circled a fingertip over them.
There was no thought of resistance. She wanted the burn of his mouth, the scorch of his touch. When his lips moved to her throat, she tilted her head to give him absolute freedom. The moist heat of his tongue on her skin sent ripples of pleasure through her. She was lost in the dim, shadowed world of desires. His naked chest was pressed hard against her breasts. Caught tight, with arms that wrapped possessively around her, Liv yielded to him, to her own desire. His mouth lingered at the curve of her neck, just above the collar of her blouse; then, with deliberate leisure, he took his lips upward, lingering at the pulse in her throat, then the line of her jaw. When his mouth came back to hers, it was as though all the hunger and thirst she had ever known were concentrated in that one touch of lips.
Passion went from dark to bright. A harsh, blinding light seemed to explode in her brain. It left her limp. With a muffled cry that was half surrender, half terror, Liv leaned against him.
Unprepared for the sudden weakness, Thorpe drew her away to study her. In her eyes he could see traces of desire, hints of fear and confusion. The eyes alone were a more impenetrable defense than all her angry words or fierce denials.
Tenderness. He couldn’t fight his own surge of tenderness. Taking her now would be simple, but having her physically was only part of what he wanted. When they finally made love—and he had no doubt that they would—she would come to him without fear. He would wait for it.
Smiling, he touched his lips briefly to hers. He wanted to see the flash of temper again. “In case you change your mind about resisting me, Carmichael, I’ll leave my door unlocked. You don’t even have to knock.”
He sauntered away, shutting his connecting door with a gentle click. It took ten seconds before the heavy thud of her thrown shoe sounded against it. With a grin, Thorpe switched on the television to see what the British news had to offer.
8
With a low, monotonous buzz, the alarm woke Liv at six A.M. She reached for the button automatically, then lay staring at the bland, impersonal room without the least idea where she was. London, she remembered, and rubbed her fingers over her eyes.
She hadn’t slept well. Sitting up, Liv brought her knees to her chest and rested her forehead on them. Blast Thorpe! She’d spent half the night tossing and turning with doubts and desires that hadn’t existed before he had touched her. Her purpose for being in London was professional. Even if she had the time, she didn’t have the inclination for anything else. She simply didn’t want to be involved with him. Why couldn’t he see that?
Because, she thought wearily, saying something and acting on it are two different things. How could she convince him she didn’t want to be involved when she responded totally every time he took her into his arms? Yes, she had wanted him. In that flash of a moment when she had been held close, mouth on mouth, she would have given herself to him. Her will had bent to his. That frightened her.
The problem, as she saw it, had to be resolved within herself first. The most important thing to do was to change the wording: not that she didn’t want to be involved, but that she refused to be involved.
Rising, Liv prepared to shower and dress. There was too much to do that day to sit and brood about a personal dilemma. In any case, she thought it gave Thorpe too much importance to brood about him at all. How he would e
njoy knowing she had done just that!
She had packed a very somber suit, charcoal gray and tailored. After doing up the final button, Liv gave herself a quick, professional study in the full-length mirror. She would do. A dab of extra makeup concealed the faint shadows under her eyes. Thorpe again, she thought resentfully.
The slim briefcase would carry her notes along with an extra pad and a supply of pencils. Tossing her coat over her arm, she prepared to leave. A slip of white on the floor by the connecting door caught her eye.
Liv stared at it for a moment. It looked suspiciously like a note. The best thing to do, she thought, would be to ignore it. She walked all the way to the front door before she gave up and went back. Stooping, she scooped the paper up.
“Good morning.”
That was all it said. A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. He’s mad, she decided again. Absolutely mad. On impulse, she ripped off a sheet of her own notepaper and scribbled a similar greeting. After slipping it under the connecting door, she left the room.
As arranged, she found her crew in a corner of the hotel’s coffee shop. “Hey, Liv.” Bob sent her a quick smile. “Want some breakfast?”
“Just coffee.” She took the communal pot and poured. “I feel like I need a gallon of it.”
“It’s going to be a long day,” he reminded her, and dug into his eggs.
“Starting immediately,” she agreed. Absently, she shook her head at the waiter. “I want a stand-up in front of Westminster Abbey before the crowds get there, and another at 10 Downing Street. With luck, we might get some tape of Summerfield’s widow. I imagine they’ll start lining the streets a good hour before the funeral procession is scheduled.” One of the crew tempted Liv with a piece of toast, but she smiled and shook her head. “We’ll want some pans of the crowd on tape to use with a voice-over later.”
“I’ve got to pick up some souvenirs for my wife and kids.” Bob shot Liv a grin as she picked up her coffee. “Look, Liv, I got enough grief because I took off for London without them; if I don’t bring back a few goodies, I’m going to be sleeping on the sofa.”
“You should be able to squeeze out a few minutes for shopping between setups,” she said. As she spoke, her eyes roamed the room, skimming over the faces of other reporters.
“Looking for somebody?” Bob asked, and cut into a sausage.
“What?” Distracted, she looked back at him.
“You’ve been scanning the room since you sat down. Are you meeting someone else?”
“No,” she said, annoyed that she had unconsciously been looking for Thorpe. “You all better hurry,” she told the crew in general. “The schedule’s tight.”
For the next ten minutes she drank her coffee with her back to the rest of the room.
The weak sunlight brought little warmth as Liv stood across from Westminster Abbey. She waited, going over her notes for the stand-up one last time as the crew set up their equipment. She estimated the spot would take forty-five seconds. Behind her the abbey’s towers rose into a murky sky. London was gray under the clouds, the air heavy with threatening rain. At the moment, she gave no thought to the city around her, but was totally focused on the forty-five seconds of tape that was to come.
“Come in on me,” she instructed the cameraman. “After the intro, I’m going to turn to the side and gesture back at the abbey. I want a slow pan; then come back on me at the finish.”
“Gotcha.” Bob waited until his lighting man had rechecked his meter. “Okay?”
Liv took the mike, then nodded. She ran through it once. Dissatisfied, she ran through it a second time. A faint breeze tugged at her hair as she spoke of the ceremony that was to come. Thoroughly, as though she had not worked the timing to the second, she talked of the abbey’s history. When the camera came back to her, she looked into the lens with direct, serious eyes.
“This is Olivia Carmichael reporting from Westminster Abbey, London.”
“Well?” Bob shifted his weight to his hip.
“It’s a wrap.” She checked her watch. “All right. We go to Downing Street. There’re two hours before the ceremonies start. That should give us enough time for a quick stand-up and a few man-on-the-streets. We’ll want another briefing with Thorpe before we feed what we have back to the station.”
Thorpe had time for three cups of coffee while he waited for the president. His brief meeting with Donaldson had disclosed only that the president had spent a comfortable evening and had arisen early. But Thorpe was not satisfied.
Outside, the limo waited with secret service hovering discreetly in the background. Thorpe drew on a cigarette, standing coatless, heedless of the chill spring morning. His cameraman whistled tunelessly while the rest of the crew held a mumbled conversation. Thorpe didn’t pay attention. He was watching the secret service. They were quite obviously on the alert.
The moment the president stepped outside, things came to life. Thorpe heard the whirl of the camera going on. He had the mike in his hand. Almost without thought, he filed what the first lady was wearing. There would be those who would demand an exact account.
“Mr. President.”
The president stopped by the door to the limo and turned to Thorpe. A brief nod kept the guards at arm’s length. “T.C.,” he said solemnly. “A sad day for England, and for the world.”
“Yes, Mr. President. Do you feel Prime Minister Summerfield’s death will have an effect on your foreign policy?”
“Eric Summerfield’s death will be felt keenly by all men of peace.”
A roundabout way to say nothing, Thorpe thought without rancor. It was the name of the game. He also knew protocol. He wouldn’t be allowed hard-line questions on the morning of the funeral. “Mr. President,” he added, changing tactics, “have you any personal memories of the prime minister?”
If he was surprised by the altered tone, he continued smoothly. “He could walk for miles.” The president smiled. “I discovered that at Camp David. Eric Summerfield liked to think on his feet.”
With that, the president slipped into the limo beside his wife. Still vaguely dissatisfied, Thorpe waited for his press car.
His commentary, and the film of the funeral procession, would be broadcast via satellite. Thorpe set up less than a block away from Westminster Abbey, where the service would be conducted. His coverage promised to be a long, involved dissertation on what dignitaries had come to pay their respects, and in what order they arrived.
Thorpe announced the sighting of the royal family’s limo, then others, sprinkling in tidbits of Summerfield’s career and personal life. The streets were jammed with people, yet the background noise was minimal. When they spoke, onlookers spoke in hushed tones, as if they were inside the abbey.
He glimpsed Liv once, but there was no time for a personal encounter. As he talked into the mike, she was in the corner of his eye, the corner of his mind. His body tensed a split second before it happened.
A car broke through the police barricade and headed, at high speed, for the heart of the funeral procession. There was the sudden, shocking sound of gunfire. People who had lined the streets to watch scattered in a melee of fear and confusion. Cameramen raced for a better shot at the scene. Mike in hand, Liv dashed forward, reporting on the run. Thorpe was there ahead of her.
The procession was at a standstill. Bullets ripped holes in the tires of the speeding car, sending it skidding, careening out of control. The windshield cracked in a spider web of lines as the car swerved, held on course, then swerved again. It rammed into the curb and came to an abrupt halt.
Four men leaped out, rifles blazing. Bullets flew indiscriminately—toward the cavalcade, into the crowd. There were screams and a new rush of panic. People were knocked underfoot while others scrambled for safety.
Liv pushed her way through, dashing after her cameraman. She had to shove and duck as she fought against the flow of the crowd, which rushed pell-mell in the opposite direction. Shots rang out over the shouts of anger and terr
or. She took a sharp blow on the arm as someone clawed his way past her. Never faltering, she continued forward, speaking into her mike.
Thorpe caught Liv’s wrist as she started to brush by him. Pulling her back, he kept his body firmly planted in front of hers. He’d seen a bullet smash into the pavement no more than three feet from where he stood.
“Don’t be a damn fool,” he snapped before he lifted his mike again. “Four men,” he continued without taking his eyes off the scene, “masked and armed with high-powered rifles . . .”
Liv jerked her wrist out of his hold. Because her way was blocked, she was forced to give her report from where she stood. Over Thorpe’s shoulder, she could see the wrecked car and the gunmen. There was no need to give Bob instructions. He was down on one knee at the front of the crowd, taping the shooting as coolly as he would have taped a garden party. From whatever cover they could find, members of the world press did their job. In a medley of languages, the word of the attack went out over the airwaves.
An explosive blast of gunfire erupted. Then there was sudden and ominous silence.
Thorpe continued to report after the four men lay sprawled in the street. His voice was objective, if hurried. He had to give the facts as he saw them. He had chosen television news for just this purpose. The immediacy. It would always be the newsman’s greatest challenge—to report accurately what was happening as it happened, without a script, without preparation. His adrenaline was pumping. His instincts had been right on target.
For the next fifteen minutes, he talked nonstop until the crowd was calmed and the procession continued on to the abbey. The service would go on. Inside, the London correspondent for CNC would take over. It would give Thorpe time to dig up information on the attack. He signed off and signaled his cameraman.
“You had no right,” Liv began immediately.
“Shut up, Olivia.” He hadn’t realized until that moment just how furious he was. As he turned his mike over to the sound technician, his hand shook slightly. She could have been killed, he thought grimly. Standing right beside him, she could have been killed.