by Nora Roberts
Incensed, she drew herself up straight. “Who do you think you are—” The furious question was cut off when he grabbed her arm.
“Somebody had to stop you before you ran out into the crossfire. You damn idiot!” He stopped, took her shoulders and shook her. “Who’d give your precious report if you walked into a bullet?”
Liv jerked away from him. “I had no intention of walking into a bullet. I knew exactly what I was doing,” she said coldly.
“You weren’t thinking about anything but getting on top of the action.” He was shouting now, drawing the curious attention of a few of their colleagues. “Did you think you could ask politely for them to stop shooting and give you an interview?”
Almost as bewildered as she was infuriated, Liv stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I didn’t do anything any other reporter wouldn’t have done.” With a quick move of her hand, she pushed back her tousled hair. “It was exactly what you did yourself. You had no business interfering with my work.”
“Interfering with your work?” he repeated incredulously. “There were four crazy men with high-powered rifles out there.”
“Damn it, I know that!” Exasperated, she gestured with her mike. “That’s the story. What’s the matter with you?”
Thorpe stared back at her. He was overreacting and knew it. But the fury wouldn’t die. To keep from shaking her again, he jammed his hands into his pockets. He wasn’t able to deal with knowing she could be in any sort of danger . . . and that he could do nothing about it.
“I’ve got a story to cover,” he said tersely, and left her there.
Placing her fists on her hips, Liv glared after him. Glancing to the side, she caught Bob’s questioning stare. After blowing out a frustrated breath, she went to him. “Come on, get the rest of the crew. We’ve got a story to cover.”
Liv interviewed officials, bystanders, police. She spoke to a pale, shocked woman who had a flesh wound in her upper arm from a stray bullet. Liv had to lean heavily on crowd reaction and speculation as the facts were still very thin: four unidentified men on what could be considered nothing less than a suicide mission.
Twenty-four people had been injured, more from crowd panic than from bullet wounds. Only six had to be hospitalized, and only two of them had serious injuries. Liv dashed down names and occupations as she worked her way through the remaining crowd.
If the terrorists had counted on aborting the prime minister’s funeral service, they hadn’t reckoned with British sangfroid. The ceremony went on as scheduled inside the centuries-old abbey while the press and police functioned outside.
Ambulances came and went along with official vehicles. The wrecked car was towed away. Long before the service was over, there was no sign of any disturbance on the street.
From her vantage point, Liv watched the royal family exit the abbey. If the security had been tightened, it remained discreet. She waited until the last limo had driven off. Rubbing the bruise on her arm, she watched camera crews breaking down their equipment. She’d been standing for hours.
“What now?” Bob asked her as he loaded his camera in its case.
“Scotland Yard,” she said wearily, and stretched, arching her back. “I have a feeling we’re going to spend most of the afternoon waiting.”
She couldn’t have been more right. With a pack of other reporters, print and television, she waited. They were given a bare dribble of information in an official statement and sent on their way. By six o’clock that evening, there was nothing to add to her report but a recap of the morning’s events and a statement that the terrorists were as yet unidentified. Liv shot a final stand-up in front of Scotland Yard, then headed back to the hotel.
Exhausted, she soaked for an hour in the tub and let the fatigue drain. Still, when she had toweled off and slipped into her robe, she was restless. The room was too quiet, too empty, and she was still too keyed up from the events of the day. She began to regret that she had turned down the crew’s offer to join them for dinner.
It was still early, she noted. Too early. She didn’t want to face another night alone in a hotel room. If she chose, there were any number of reporters she could seek out for company over a drink or a meal. But Liv found she didn’t want to spend her evening rehashing and speculating over the day’s events. She wanted to see London. Forgetting her weariness, she began to dress.
It was cool outside, with the dampness that had threatened all day still lingering. She had a light coat thrown over her slacks and sweater. Without thinking of direction, she began to wander. Traffic clogged the streets, so that the smell of exhaust tickled her nostrils. She heard Big Ben strike eight. If she was going to have dinner, she should find a restaurant. But she kept walking.
Again, she was reminded of the trip a dozen years before. She had traveled in a Rolls then, from monument to monument. There had been a garden party at Buckingham Palace. In a pale rose organdy dress and picture hat, Melinda had curtsied to the queen. Liv remembered how badly she had wanted to visit the Tower of London. Her mother had reminded her the National Gallery would be more instructive. She had studied the paintings dutifully and thought how badly she would have liked to have seen the inside of a pub.
Once, not so many years ago, Doug had spoken of taking a trip to London. That had been in their college days, when there had still been dreams. They had never had the money to spare for the plane fare. Then, there had been no love left to spare for dreams. Liv shook herself out of the mood. She was here now, free to see the Tower of London or a pub or to ride the subway. But there was no one to share the adventure with. No one to—
“Liv.”
With a gasp, she turned and collided with Thorpe. He steadied her with a hand on her arm. For a moment she stared at him, completely disoriented.
“Alone?” he asked, but didn’t smile.
“Yes. I . . .” She groped around for something to say.
“Yes, I thought I’d do some sight-seeing.”
“You looked a little lost.” After releasing her arm, he stuck his hand in his pocket.
“I was just thinking.” She began to walk again, and he fell into step beside her.
“Have you been to London before?”
“Once, a long time ago. Have you?”
“In my salad days.” They walked for a time in silence. The restraint she sensed in him was something new, but she said nothing, letting him choose his own time. “There’s nothing new on the terrorists,” he told her after a moment.
“Yes, I know. I spent the afternoon at Scotland Yard. I suppose they could have been independent.”
Thorpe shrugged. “They had very sophisticated, very expensive equipment, but they didn’t seem to know how to use it. They were the only fatalities.”
“It was stupid,” Liv murmured, thinking of the four men who had held the limelight for one brief, fleeting moment. “A senseless thing to die for.”
Again, they lapsed into silence, walking in the chilly evening. The streetlamps were lit. They passed under the light, into the shadows and back into the light. Abruptly, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Liv, there were a lot of bullets flying around out there today.”
“Yes?”
“It was a miracle that none of the press or bystanders were killed.”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Thorpe let out an impatient breath. “If I overreacted this morning, it was because I stopped thinking about you as a reporter. I only remembered you were a woman and I didn’t want you hurt.”
In silence she studied his face. “Is that an apology?” she asked him.
“No, it’s an explanation.”
Liv considered for a moment. “All right.”
“All right what?”
“I consider it a reasonable explanation.” She smiled then. “But the next time you get in my way on a story, you’re going to get a very unladylike elbow in the ribs. Understood?”
He nodded
, returning the smile. “Understood.”
“Have you had dinner, Thorpe?” she asked, as they began to walk again.
“No, I’ve been getting the runaround from Donaldson.”
“Hungry?”
He glanced down at her, one brow lifted. “Is that an invitation, Olivia?”
“No, it’s a question. Answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Someone told me that colleagues on foreign soil should stick together,” she commented. “What are your views on that?”
“I would be inclined to agree.”
Liv took his arm. “Come on, Thorpe, I’ll buy you dinner.”
9
They found a noisy, crowded chophouse and squeezed into a corner table. Thorpe glanced around at the line of customers packed together at the counter. In the air was the scent of grilled meat and frying oil. Overhead were brilliant fluorescent lights.
“Very romantic,” he commented. “I’m a sucker for atmosphere on a date.”
“This isn’t a date,” Liv reminded him as she slipped out of her coat. “I’m testing a theory. You should be careful not to spoil it.”
“Spoil it?” He gave her an innocent stare. “How?”
Her only answer was a narrowed look.
When they had ordered, Liv settled back in her chair to soak up the atmosphere. At the counter, two men argued heatedly over a horse race. Over the hiss and sizzle of cooking meat was a constant buzz of conversation. It was precisely the sort of place she had wanted to experience when she had been a teenager on her first trip to London.
In silence, Thorpe watched her, noting that her eyes went from person to person with no loss of fascination. Gone was the faint sadness he had seen on her face when he had first met her on the street. What had she been thinking about? he wondered. Or was it whom? There was still too much he didn’t know. And, he thought, it would still be some time before she told him.
“What do you see?” he demanded.
“London.” Liv smiled back at him. “A lot more of London than you can see by looking at monuments and museums.”
“Apparently you like what you see.”
“I only wish we weren’t due to leave in the morning. I’d like another day.”
“What would you do with it?”
Liv lifted her shoulders. “Oh, see everything, everyone. Ride a double-decker bus. Eat fish and chips in a newspaper.”
“Go to Covent Garden?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been to Covent Garden. I’d rather go to the docks.”
Thorpe laughed, lifting his beer. “Have you ever been to the London docks, Olivia?”
“No. Why?”
“I wouldn’t advise it. At least not alone.”
“You’re forgetting I’m a reporter again,” she reminded him.
“So would the dock workers,” he said dryly.
“Well.” She shrugged before leaning back in her chair. “In any case, we go back tomorrow.”
“What are your plans then?”
“After I check in at the station I’m going to sleep for the rest of the weekend.”
“When’s the last time you saw Washington?” he asked, as grilled pork chops were set in front of them.
“What are you talking about? I see Washington every day.”
“I mean for fun.” He picked up his fork. “Have you ever played tourist in D.C. ?”
Liv frowned as she cut into the meat. “Well, I suppose . . .”
“Ever been to the zoo?”
“Of course, I did a story on . . .” She paused and looked up. He was grinning at her “All right, what’s your point?”
“That you don’t relax enough.”
Liv lifted a brow. “I’m relaxing now, aren’t I?” she asked.
“There isn’t time for me to show you London properly,” Thorpe put in. “Why don’t you let me show you Washington?”
Warning signals sounded immediately. Liv toyed with her meal as she formulated a safe answer. “I don’t think so,” she said carefully.
Thorpe smiled and went on eating. “Why not?”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Thorpe.”
“What’s the wrong idea?” His voice was bland and friendly. Glancing down at her hands, he remembered how her fingers had moved over his face when he kissed her.
“Look.” Liv paused, wanting to choose her words carefully. “I’m not totally averse to your company, but—”
“Carmichael, you slay me with compliments.”
“But,” she continued, shooting him a look, “I’m not going to become involved with you, and I don’t want you to think otherwise.” Because the words made her feel ungracious, she unbent a little. “We can be friends . . . of a kind, I suppose.”
“Of what kind?”
“Thorpe,” she said impatiently. “Stop it.”
“Liv, as a reporter, I need concise information.” He gave her an easy smile before he sipped at his beer.
“As a reporter,” she countered, “you should be intuitive enough to understand my meaning.”
Leaning closer, he grinned. “I’m crazy about you, Carmichael.”
“You’re crazy period,” she corrected, and tried to ignore the sudden increase in her pulse rate. “But I’m trying to overlook that so that we can deal together amicably. Now if you’d just agree to keep things on a friendly basis,” she continued.
“What’s your definition of friendly?” he inquired.
“Thorpe, you’re impossible!”
“Liv, I’m just trying to understand the issue. If I don’t have the facts straight, how can I reach a viable conclusion? Now, as I see it”—he took her hand—“you’re willing to admit you can tolerate my company. Is that right?”
Liv drew her hand from his. “So far,” she said warily.
“And you’re willing to take the second step and be friends.”
“Casual friends.” Though she knew he was leading her, she was as yet unable to see the trick.
“Casual friends,” he agreed. Lifting his beer, he toasted her. “To the third step.”
“What third step?” Liv demanded, but he only smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Thorpe . . .”
“Your dinner’s getting cold,” he warned, then gave her pork chops an interested glance. “Are you going to eat all that?”
Distracted from the point she had been going to make, Liv looked down at her plate. “Why?”
“I missed lunch.”
Liv laughed and cut another slice. “So did I,” she told him. She ate every bite.
When they stepped back outside, it was raining lightly. Liv lifted her face to it. She was glad Thorpe had found her—glad to have had his company over dinner. If it didn’t make sense, it didn’t matter. If it wasn’t safe, she didn’t care. She had needed an evening with someone who could make her laugh, make her think. Make her feel. If it was Thorpe, she wasn’t going to question why tonight.
A few stolen hours was all she wanted. A few hours to forget all the promises she had once made herself. She didn’t need the promises tonight. Tonight she was free of the past, free of the future.
“What are you thinking?” Thorpe turned her into his arms as she laughed.
“That I’m glad it’s raining.” Still laughing, she shook back her hair. Then his mouth was on hers. Liv threw her arms around his neck and gave herself totally to the moment.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. God, he hadn’t meant to. He had only so much control to call upon. But at that instant, when she laughed and lifted her face to his, he couldn’t resist. There was rain in her hair, on her cheeks. He could taste it on her lips.
He had never sensed this sort of abandonment in her before. It fanned his desire to a consuming fire. Couldn’t she see how much he loved, how much he needed, and have pity on him if nothing else? Dear God, he thought, as he devoured her willing mouth, he was desperate enough to take pity if it was all she could give him. Crushing her to him, Thorpe buried h
is face against her throat.
Liv stepped back, drawing out of his arms to lean against a lamppost. Her heart was racing with a terrifying euphoria. The speed and force of her own passion left her shaken. And she had sensed something in him, a desperation that she didn’t dare accept.
“Thorpe, I . . .” Swallowing, unable to admit what was happening to her, she shook her head. “I didn’t mean for that—It just happened,” she finished helplessly.
Still throbbing, Thorpe went to her. “Liv,” he began, lifting a hand to her cheek.
“No, please.” She closed her eyes. There was a tug-of-war inside her—pulling toward him, pulling away. Perhaps if she could forget everything, wipe the slate clean until that moment, then . . . But no, there was no pushing aside what had been. She wasn’t yet ready to start again. “I can’t,” she whispered as she opened her eyes. “I just can’t.”
Instead of taking his hand from her cheek, he turned it over, letting his knuckles brush along her skin. It would have been impossible to have wanted her any more than he did at that moment. “Can’t,” he asked, “or won’t?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
“What do you want, Liv?”
“Tonight . . .” She lifted her hand to his. “Just be my friend tonight, Thorpe.”
There was a plea in her eyes that he couldn’t ignore. “Tonight, Liv.” He took her by the shoulders. “Friends tonight, but I won’t make any promises about tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.” Some of the tension seeped out of her. After a deep breath, she smiled at him. “Buy me a drink? I’ve waited twelve years to see the inside of a London pub.”
His hold slackened slowly. She caught a glimmer of the effort it took for him to release her. “I know a little place in Soho if it’s still there.”
“Let’s go see.” Liv linked her arm through his.
It was there—a bit more dingy than it had been seven years before. When he entered, Thorpe wondered if it were the scent of the same stale beer and tobacco that hung in the air.
“It’s perfect!” Liv told him as she gazed around through the curtain of smoke. “Let’s get a table.”