by Nora Roberts
They found one in a corner. Liv sat with her back to the wall. Customers were shoulder to shoulder at the bar. From the familiarity, she concluded most of them were regulars. Off to the side, someone played a piano with more enthusiasm than skill. Several voices joined in song.
There was talk, a constant chatter. A voice would lift now and then, so that she caught snatches of conversation. The theme ranged from the attack on the funeral procession to someone’s unsympathetic boss.
“What’ll ya ’ave?” The barmaid who sauntered over gave them both a suspicious stare.
“White wine for the lady,” Thorpe told her. “I’ll have a beer.”
“Ooh, Americans.” That seemed to please her. “Doing the town?”
“That’s right,” Thorpe told her.
With a quick laugh, she walked back to the bar. “Got us a couple Americans, Jake,” she told the bartender. “Let’s ’ave some service.”
Liv gave a low laugh. “How did you know about this place, Thorpe?”
“I was on assignment a few years back.” He flicked his lighter at the end of a cigarette. “An American attached to our embassy here had delusions of being a master spy. He picked this place for the meet.”
“Cloak and dagger.” Liv leaned forward, resting her elbows on the wooden table. “And what came of it?”
“Zilch.”
“Oh, come on, Thorpe.” Disappointed, Liv shook her head. “At least make something up.”
“How about I infiltrated an international spy ring single-handedly and broke the story on the six o’clock news?”
“Much better,” she approved.
“Here you go, ducks.” The barmaid set the drinks in front of them. “Just whistle when you want another round.”
“You know,” Liv continued when they were alone again. “You just about fit the image.”
“Image?”
“The tough, unflappable newsman.” Liv sipped at her wine before she grinned at him. “You know, a trench coat with a few wrinkles, the world-weary face. You stand in front of a government building or a sordid pit and report the news in a drizzle. It has to be drizzling.”
“I don’t have a trench coat,” he pointed out.
“Don’t spoil it.”
“Even for you,” he said with a smile. “I’m not going to start doing stand-ups in a trench coat.”
“I’m crushed.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“Are you? By what?”
“By your image of a field reporter.”
“It was my image before I got into the game,” she admitted. “I saw myself having meets with disreputable figures of the underworld in seamy bars and breaking world-shaking stories before breakfast. It was going to be one fast-paced story after another. Adventure, excitement, intrigue.”
“No paperwork, stakeouts or time editors.” Drinking his beer, he watched her. How could anyone remain so lovely after the day she had put in?
Her laugh was warm and appreciative. “That’s it exactly. Reality came into focus in college, but I think I still had this image of high adventure and glamour. It stayed with me until I covered my first homicide.” She gave herself a quick shake and returned to her wine. “That’s the sort of thing that brings you back to earth quickly. Do you ever get used to dealing with that, Thorpe?”
“You don’t get used to it,” he countered. “But you deal with it.”
She nodded, then pushed away the mood. The piano player had switched to a melancholy ballad. “Are you really writing a novel?”
“Did I say that?”
Over the rim of her glass, she smiled. “You did. What’s it about?”
“Political corruption, naturally. What about yours?”
“I don’t have one.” With a spark of mischief in her eyes, she looked up at him. A dull, throbbing ache started in his stomach. “Actually,” she began in lowered tones, then hesitated. “Can you be trusted, Thorpe?”
“No.”
She gave a muffled laugh. “Of course not, but I’ll tell you anyway. Off the record,” she added.
“Off the record,” he agreed.
“When I was in college and money was scarce, I did some writing on the side.”
“Oh?” He wondered how money could have been scarce with her family background, but left the question unasked. “What kind of writing?”
“I did a few pieces for My True Story.”
After choking on his beer, he stared at her. “You’re kidding! The confession magazine?”
“Don’t get lofty. I needed the money. Besides,” she added with a touch of pride, “they were pretty good little pieces.”
“Really?” Thorpe gave her a lewd grin.
“Fictional,” she stated.
“I’d like to read them . . . just for educational purposes.”
“Not a chance.” She glanced up as the crowd at the bar grew noisier. “What did you do in your misspent youth, Thorpe?”
“I had a paper route.” He cast a casual glance over his shoulder at two men who were arguing over a game of darts.
“Ah, always the journalist.”
“And chased girls.”
“That goes without saying.” Liv watched the dart players come nose to nose over their disagreements. Customers at the bar began cheerfully choosing sides. Thorpe reached for his wallet. “We’re not leaving?” she asked as he pulled out bills.
“Things are going to get rowdy in a minute.”
“I know.” She grinned. “I want to watch. Do you want the guy in the hat or the one with the moustache?”
“Liv,” he began patiently, “when’s the last time you were in on a barroom brawl?”
“Don’t be stuffy, Thorpe. I’m betting on the guy in the hat. He’s smaller, but he’s wiry.” Even as she spoke, the man with the moustache threw the first punch. With a sigh of resignation, Thorpe leaned back. She’d be safer in the corner at this point.
Those at the bar turned to watch, holding their drinks as they shouted encouragement. Liv winced as her man took a jab in the stomach. Throughout the pub, customers began to pull out bills as they wagered on the outcome. The bartender continued to dry glasses. The two men came together in a furious hug, then toppled to the floor to wrestle.
Thorpe watched them roll around on the floor. A chair was knocked over, and a man with a glass of ale set it upright, sliding it out of range. He settled on it to root for the man of his choice. There were shouts of encouragement and advice.
It appeared Liv’s prediction was a sound one, Thorpe decided. The man with the hat was slippery as an eel. He had his bigger adversary in a headlock, demanding that he give. With a face reddened with frustration and lack of air, he did.
“Want another drink?” Thorpe asked Liv as things quieted down again.
“Hmm?” She brought her attention back to him, then grinned at his dry expression. “Thorpe, don’t you think this is the sort of thing that makes good copy?”
“If you’re going to comment on a prizefight,” he agreed, but smiled. “You surprise me, Olivia.”
“Why, because I didn’t scream and cover my eyes?” Laughing, she signaled the waitress herself. “Thorpe, they didn’t do any more than give themselves a few bruises and something to talk about. The newsroom’s more violent every day before deadline.”
“You’re a tough lady, Carmichael,” he said, toasting her.
Pleased, she touched her glass to his. “Why, thank you, Thorpe.”
It was late when they walked back outside. Liv heard the hour strike one. Stubbornly, the drizzle continued to fall. Lights reflected in shallow puddles and glimmered hazily through the misting rain. Though the air was chilled, the wine had warmed Liv, so that she felt glowing and wide awake.
“Do you know,” she said as they walked slowly through Soho, “the first time I was in London I went to monuments and museums, teas and theaters. I feel as though I’ve seen more tonight than I did in that entire week.” When he took her hand in his, she made no
objection. There was something natural about walking with him in the early hours of the morning in a misting rain. “When I left the hotel tonight I was tired, depressed.” She moved her shoulders. “Restless. I’m glad you found me.”
“I wanted to be with you,” he said simply.
Cautiously, Liv skirted around his statement. “I’m glad we’re getting back in the middle of the weekend,” she continued. “An assignment like this drains you, especially when you get a surprise like we had this morning.”
“Not much of a surprise, really,” he commented.
Liv looked up sharply. “Do you mean you were expecting something like that to happen?”
“Let’s say I had a hunch.”
“Well, you might have shared it with the rest of us,” she said with a sound of exasperation. “After all, you were the press reporter.”
“And as such, I’m required to share information and facts, not hunches.” He grinned as she frowned up at him. “You should have been able to put two and two together for yourself, Carmichael. You have raindrops on your lashes.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“And every trace of your makeup’s been washed away.”
“Thorpe—”
“Your hair’s wet.”
With a sigh, Liv gave up.
“Tired?” he asked as they walked into the lobby of the hotel.
“No.” She laughed. “Lord knows I should be.”
“Want to go to the lounge for a nightcap?”
“Not if I want a clear head in the morning.” She headed for the elevator instead. “I have to check in with Scotland Yard before we leave. Any connections there you want to share, Thorpe?”
Smiling, he pushed the button for their floor. “You’ll have to dig up your own.”
“I thought your turf was Washington.”
“When I’m there,” he agreed, and steered her into the corridor.
“You do have a connection,” she said suspiciously.
“I didn’t say that. In any case, the London correspondent will take the story from here.”
Knowing she faced a dead end, Liv slipped her key into the lock. “That’s unfortunately true. I hate not being able to follow up on it.” She turned to smile at him. “Thanks for the company.”
Without speaking, he lifted her hand to his lips. When the tremor shot down from her fingertips, she started to pull away, but he kept her hand firmly in his. He turned her palm up to plant another lingering kiss.
“Thorpe.” Liv backed away, but her hand was still held fast in his. “We agreed to be friends.”
His eyes were fixed on hers. The husky quality of her voice stroked along his skin. “It’s tomorrow, Liv,” he said quietly. “I didn’t make any promises about tomorrow.” Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her toward the door, and pushed her gently in. He let go of her only to close the door behind them.
She was in his arms again. Slowly, he ran his fingertips up the slim column of her neck. With his eyes on hers, he traced the shape of her ear, her cheekbones, then her lips. They trembled open at his touch as if she would speak. But no words came. With the same slow care, he took his mouth on the journey his fingers had completed. Light, butterfly kisses roamed over her neck and face, teased her mouth. He used neither pressure nor demand, but let her own needs hold her prisoner.
When he slipped his hands under her sweater, she made no attempt to stop him. Barely touching her, he ran the back of his fingers up her sides, then down again. He felt her quiver. Still, he deepened the kiss only slightly, a gentle exploration of the moist recesses of her mouth, a tender meeting of tongues.
Liv didn’t resist him. It was as if she were too steeped in a conflict of her own making to reach for him or to push him away. Her breasts were firm and taut in his hands. The rough scrape of his palm against her sensitive skin brought a moan of pleasure from her.
Somehow instinct warned him she should be treated as an innocent—with care, with patience. Yet all the while his desire for her increased. Her trembling excited him, but he needed more. He needed her to touch him, to ask for him. The passion was there; he had tasted it before. He wanted it now. His mouth pressed down on hers, drawing it, coaxing it. She was fighting herself more than him. Her breathing was ragged, her body pliant, but there was still a thin wall he had not yet broken through.
Slowly, he unhooked her slacks, and with a groan, let his fingers reach for her. Soft—the incredible softness of her took him to the edge of control. For a moment she pressed against him convulsively. Life seemed to shoot into her entire body. Under his, her mouth was suddenly avid and demanding. Then she was pulling away, backing against the door. She shook her head frantically.
“No. No, don’t do this.”
“Liv.” Pushed to the limit, Thorpe brought her back into his arms. “I won’t hurt you. What are you afraid of?”
It was too close, much too close. Her voice sharpened in defense. “I’m not afraid of anything. I want you to go; I want you to leave me alone.”
With his temper straining, his grip on her tightened. “The hell you do.”
His mouth came down hard on hers as fury and frustration seeped through. Even as she tried to protest, her lips were answering his.
“Now look at me,” he demanded roughly, drawing her back by the shoulders. “Look at me and tell me you don’t want me.”
She opened her mouth to tell him but the lie wouldn’t come. She could only stand and stare at him. All of her courage deserted her. She was totally without defense.
“Damn you, Liv,” Thorpe muttered abruptly. Pushing her aside, he slammed out of the door.
10
When Liv walked into WWBW on Monday morning, her thoughts were calm. She had spent the remainder of her weekend assessing her relationship with Thorpe. Relationship was not quite the word she liked to use. It implied something personal. Situation was a better choice.
She had firmly decided against complications. It was true that she had found him more appealing, more enjoyable than she had thought she would. More fun. She had never considered Thorpe in the context of fun. He was an entertaining companion. And there was a quiet streak of kindness in him, which softened her.
Liv was a cautious woman; circumstances had made her so. But she was honest with herself. She knew the cool, controlled Olivia Carmichael who delivered the five-thirty news was only part of the whole woman. A great deal of herself had been in storage. She had put it there for her own survival. It was true that Thorpe had begun to pick the lock, but the years had given her strength. If she wanted to keep herself shut off, she would. It was that simple. Or so she had convinced herself.
Involvement didn’t always follow a physical attraction. She had no intention of becoming involved with Thorpe. They would still work closely now and again, and perhaps she would even consider seeing him socially on occasion. Perhaps it was time to start picking up the pieces of her personal life. She couldn’t mourn forever. But—she would not put herself into a position again where things could get out of hand with Thorpe. He wasn’t a man to underestimate.
She had made a miscalculation when she had allowed her pride to push her into the ridiculous wager. A man like Thorpe, she mused, would only be all the more determined to have his way for the sheer devil of it. She should have simply ignored his fanciful statements about marriage.
The memory of his pleased, confident smile when she had accepted the bet still haunted her. He had looked too much like a cat who knew how to open the birdcage door.
But I’m not a canary, she reminded herself as she walked into the newsroom. And I’m not afraid of cats.
The newsroom was as it usually was. Noisy. Phones rang incessantly. Only the wall of television screens was silent. Interns bustled everywhere—college students learning the trade—running errands. The assistant director argued with a field reporter over the edited length of a segment. A crew headed out of the door with equipment and coffee cups.
�
�How many kittens?” she heard a reporter ask into a phone. “She had them where?”
“Liv.” The assignment editor hailed her with an upraised hand. “The mayor’s holding a press conference at two.” He stuck out a piece of paper as he breezed by.
“Thanks.” She wrinkled her nose at it. That might give her the time she needed to make the two million phone calls on her list.
“Who wants a kitten?” She heard the plea as she moved through the room. “My cat just had ten of them in the kitchen sink. My wife’s going crazy.”
“Hey, Liv.” Brian caught her arm as she passed his desk. “I took two phone calls for you already this morning.”
“Really?” She gave his jacket a critical glance. “New suit?”
“Yeah.” He pulled a bit at the pearl-gray lapels. “What do you think?”
“Devastating,” she said, knowing how Brian worried about his on-the-air image. He could agonize over the shade of his tie. “About the phone calls?”
“I was a little worried about the fit in the shoulders.” He shifted them experimentally. “The first one was from Mrs. Ditmyer’s secretary. Something about setting up a lunch date. The second was from a character named Dutch Siedel. Said he had a tip for you.”
“Really?” Liv frowned thoughtfully. Dutch was the one dependable source she had on Capitol Hill. He was a page with visions of a hot political career.
“Who do you know named Dutch?”
Liv gave Brian a guileless smile. “He’s my bookie,” she said smoothly, and started to walk away.
“Full of surprises, aren’t you?” Brian commented. “Who’s the dude who keeps sending you flowers?”
That stopped her. “What?”
Brian smiled and examined his nails. “There’s a fresh white rose on your desk, just like the one last week. The little intern with the frizzy hair said it came from upstairs.” He shot her a teasing look. “There’s been a lot of buzzing about Thorpe’s visit to the studio last week. Collaborating on a big story?”
“We’re not collaborating on anything.” Liv spun on her heel and stalked to her desk.
There it was—white and innocent with its petals gently closed. She had a mad urge to crush it in her hand.