From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  “Nobody ever sends me flowers.”

  Liv turned and glared at the woman typing at the desk behind her.

  “You must have hooked a romantic.” She sighed. “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me,” Liv muttered. What was the man trying to do to her? It occurred to Liv that the room had become suspiciously quiet. A quick sweep of her eyes caught several speculative glances and too many grins. Furious, she swooped up the rose, vase and all, and plunked it down on the other reporter’s desk.

  “Here,” she said with a broad gesture. “You can have it.” She stormed out of the room. It was time, she decided, as she heard the scattered laughter behind her, to lay down the ground rules.

  Liv was out of the elevator in a flash when it stopped on Thorpe’s floor. Still seething, she came to a halt at the receptionist’s desk.

  “Is he in?” she demanded.

  “Who?”

  “Thorpe.”

  “Well, yes, he is, but he has an appointment with the chief of staff in twenty minutes. Ms. Carmichael!” She stared in exasperation at Liv’s retreating back. “Oh well,” she murmured, and went back to her typewriter.

  “Look,” Liv began before the door had slammed shut behind her. “This has got to stop.”

  Thorpe lifted a brow and set down the pen he’d been writing with. “All right.”

  Her teeth clamped together at his amiable answer. “You know what I mean.”

  “No.” He gestured to a chair. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me. Have a seat.”

  “This rose business,” she continued, ignoring the chair and advancing to the desk. “It’s embarrassing, Thorpe. You’re doing it on purpose.”

  “Roses embarrass you?” He smiled at her, infuriatingly. “What about carnations?”

  “Will you stop!” She leaned her palms on the desk much as she had done the first time she had stormed his office. “You might fool the brass with that crooked smile and choirboy look, but not me. You know just what you’re doing. It’s driving me crazy!” She paused a moment for breath, and he leaned back. “You know what a rumor factory this place is. Before noon, the entire newsroom is going to think I’m involved with you.”

  “So?”

  “I’m not involved with you. I never have been and I never will be involved with you. I don’t want my associates thinking otherwise.”

  Thorpe picked up the pen and tapped on the desk top. “Do you think being involved with me damages your credibility?”

  “That has nothing to do with it.” She snatched the pen out of his hand and tossed it across the room. “I’m not involved with you.”

  “The hell you aren’t,” he countered smoothly. “Wake up, Liv.”

  “Listen—”

  “No, you listen.” He rose and came around the desk. She straightened to face him. “You were kissing me two days ago.”

  “That has nothing—”

  “Shut up,” he said mildly. “I know what you felt, and you’re a fool if you think you can pretend otherwise.”

  “I’m not pretending anything.”

  “No?” He lifted his shoulder a bit, as if he thought little of her statement. “In any case, sending you a rose is hardly comparable to groping in the editing room during a coffee break. If you want something tangible to be offended about, I can oblige you.” He pulled her into his arms. For the first time, Liv noticed the glint of anger in his eyes. She refused to struggle. It would be humiliating because he was stronger. She tilted her chin and glared back at him.

  “I don’t imagine you have to put much effort into being offensive, Thorpe.”

  “Not a bit,” he agreed. “I’m rather pressed for time right now, or I’d demonstrate. We can hash this out over dinner tonight.”

  “I’m not having dinner with you tonight.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty,” he said as he released her and picked up his jacket.

  “No.”

  “I can’t make it before seven-fifteen.” He kissed her quickly. “If we have things to say to each other, they should be said in private, don’t you think?”

  He had a point. And her mouth was still warm from his. “You’ll listen to what I have to say?” she asked cautiously.

  “Of course.” He smiled and brushed her lips again, lightly.

  She stepped back. “And you’ll behave reasonably?”

  “Naturally.” He slipped on his jacket. She was wary of his easy agreement, but could hardly argue with it. “I’ve got to go. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  “All right.” As she walked with him, Liv wondered if she had won or lost the argument. A draw, she decided, was the best she could make of it.

  Thorpe hesitated outside of Liv’s apartment. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this. He wasn’t accustomed to rejection, particularly rejection from a woman. He had always had success both in his personal and professional life. The professional success he had worked for. Hard. Success in his private life had always come easily. He hadn’t had to devote endless hours to research, endless miles to legwork to lure a woman into his arms, into his bed.

  When he had been in his early twenties, pounding Washington pavements, making contacts, reporting on faulty sewage systems, he had had his share of desirable women. Some might have said more than his share. Later, when he had done an eighteen-month stint abroad, covering the delicate and explosive Middle East, there had still been women. And as his name had become more well known, his face more widely recognized, his choices had become varied.

  He knew he had only to pick up his phone and dial to insure himself an evening’s companionship. He knew scores of women—interesting women, beautiful women, famous women. He had come a long way from the boy who had hung around the old Senators’ clubhouse.

  Still, two things had remained the same. He was determined to be the best in his field, and when he wanted something, he went after it. Thorpe thrust his hands in his pockets a moment and frowned at Liv’s door. Was that why he was here? he wondered.

  But it wasn’t as simple as that. Even standing there alone, he could conjure up her face, her voice, her scent. There had never been another woman in his life he could see so clearly when he was alone. There hadn’t been another woman who could make him ache at the thought of waiting. She was a challenge, yes, and Thorpe thrived on a challenge. But that wasn’t why he was there. He loved her. He wanted her. And, he was determined he was going to have her. He pressed the doorbell and waited.

  Liv had her coat over her arm when she opened the door. She had no intention of letting him in. If she was going to be with him, she preferred a restaurant where there would be no danger of making the mistake she had already made too many times.

  “I’m ready,” she said in her most distant tone.

  “So I see.” He didn’t move as she shut the door at her back. She was forced to push him out of her way or stand still. She stood still. He must have come straight from his broadcast, though Liv had no intention of admitting to him that she had watched it. He had removed his tie, however, and had loosened the first few buttons of his shirt. He looked as relaxed as she was tense.

  “You’re still mad.” He smiled, knowing he was baiting her but unable to resist. He wasn’t certain which expression he liked better: the grave sincerity in her eyes during a broadcast, or the controlled annoyance he so often saw when she looked at him.

  Liv wasn’t angry, but nervous—and furious with herself for being susceptible to him. She could already feel herself unbending to that smile.

  “I thought we were going to thrash this out over dinner, Thorpe, not in the hall of my apartment building.”

  “Hungry?”

  She didn’t want to smile, but her lips betrayed her. “Yes.”

  “Like Italian food?” he asked, taking her hand as they moved toward the elevator.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” She gave a slight tug to release her hand, but he ignored it. “Good. I know a little place where the spaghetti is fantastic.”


  “Fine.”

  Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the little place. Liv frowned at the high white building. “What are we doing here?”

  “Having dinner.” Thorpe parked the car, then leaned over to unlatch her door. She slid out and waited for him.

  “They don’t have an Italian restaurant in the Watergate.”

  “No.” Thorpe took her hand again and led her toward the front doors.

  Her suspicions began to peak. “You said we were going to an Italian restaurant.”

  “No, I said we were having spaghetti.” After crossing the lobby, Thorpe punched an elevator button.

  Liv gave him a narrow look. “Where?”

  He guided her into the elevator. “In my apartment.”

  “Oh, no.” She felt panic as the car began its climb. “I agreed to have dinner with you so we could talk, but I—”

  “It’s hard to talk seriously in a noisy restaurant, don’t you think?” he said easily as the doors opened. “And I have a feeling you have a lot to say.” Unlocking his door, he gestured her inside.

  “Yes, I do, but . . .” The thick, aromatic scent of spiced sauce drifted to her. She crossed the threshold. “Who cooked the spaghetti?”

  “I did.” Thorpe slipped the jacket from her shoulders, then shrugged out of his own.

  “You did not.” She looked at him in frank disbelief. Did a man with rough palms, intelligent eyes and casual sophistication cook spaghetti?

  “Chauvinist,” he accused, and kissed her before she could prevent it.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Liv was distracted by the kiss and the enticing smell coming from the kitchen. “I know lots of men who cook, but I—”

  “Didn’t think I could,” Thorpe finished for her. He laughed, keeping his hands on her arms. Her skin was too smooth to resist. “I like to eat; I get tired of restaurants. Besides, I learned when I was a kid. My mother worked; I fixed the meals.”

  His hands were gliding gently up and down her arms until she felt her skin begin to pulse. It was an erotic sensation for him, as well as for her—work-roughened palms against satin smoothness.

  “Don’t,” she whispered, afraid she would be unable to prevent herself from taking the small step forward into his arms.

  “Don’t what, Liv?” Watching the suppressed desire build in her eyes, he felt his own growing.

  “Don’t touch me like that.”

  For a moment, Thorpe did nothing; then casually, he removed his hands. “Are you any good in the kitchen?”

  The ground solidified under her feet. “Not really.”

  “Can you toss a salad?”

  Why was it so easy for him? she wondered. He could smile so effortlessly, while her knees were still trembling. “Probably, if I follow directions.”

  “I’ll write some down for you.” He took her arm in a friendly grip that still managed to shoot sparks down her spine. “Come on, give me a hand.”

  “Do you usually invite women to dinner, then put them to work?” It was important to match his mood and forget the moment of weakness.

  “Always.”

  The kitchen was a surprise. Onions, garlic and potatoes hung in wire mesh baskets near the window, while copper-bottom pans dangled from hooks. There were utensils she had never seen before, all within easy reach of the stove or counter. Glass canisters stored colorful beans and different-shaped pasta. Her own kitchen was a barren desert compared to this. Here was a room of someone who not only knew how to cook, but enjoyed it.

  “You really do cook,” Liv marveled.

  “It relaxes me—like rowing. Both take concentration and effort.” Thorpe uncorked a bottle of Burgundy and set it aside to breathe. Liv was drawn to the simmering Crockpot.

  “When did you have time to do this?”

  He lifted the lid. “I put it on before I left for work this morning.”

  She narrowed her eyes at his easy smile. “You’re terribly sure of yourself.” It was astonishing how often he had made her angry in such a short period of time.

  “Here,” he said soothingly, and dipped a wooden spoon into the pot. “Taste.”

  Pride fell before hunger, and she opened her mouth to obey. “Oh.” Liv closed her eyes as the flavor seeped through her. “It’s immoral.”

  “The best things tend to be.” Thorpe dropped the lid on the pot again. “I’ll do the bread and pasta; you do the salad.” He was already filling a pan with water. Liv hesitated a moment. The sauce was still tangy on her tongue. Nothing, she decided, was going to stand between her and that spaghetti. “Everything’s in the fridge,” he added.

  She located fresh vegetables, and after filling her arms with them, took them to the sink to wash. “I’ll need a salad bowl.”

  “Second cabinet over your head.” He added a dash of salt to the water after the flame was on under it.

  She rummaged for the bowl as he began to slice bread. He watched her—as she stood on tiptoe to reach the bowl, her dress floating up then down with her movements; as she scrubbed a green pepper under a spray of water, her fingers gliding over the skin. She wore clear polish. Her nails were well shaped, carefully tended, but she never used color on them. It was something he had noticed. Her makeup was always subdued, understated, as were her clothes. Thorpe wondered if it was a purposeful contrast to her more flamboyant sister or if it was simply a matter of taste.

  Liv carried the vegetables to the butcher block. She glanced up when Thorpe held a glass of wine out to her.

  “Hard work deserves its rewards.”

  Before she could empty her hands and take the glass, he held it up to her lips. His eyes were steady on hers.

  “Thanks.” Her voice was as cloudy as her mind. She turned away quickly.

  “Like it? You usually drink white.” Thorpe lifted the glass and drank himself.

  “It’s good.” Liv gave all her attention to choosing a knife.

  Thorpe slipped one out of its slot and handed it to her. “It’s sharp,” he warned. “Be careful.”

  “I’m trying to be,” she murmured, and set to work.

  She could hear him moving around behind her, pouring pasta into boiling water, setting the bread under the broiler. His presence was invading her senses. By the time the salad was finished, her nerves were jangling. She took the wine he had left on the block and drank deeply. Settle down, she cautioned herself, or you’ll forget what you came for.

  “Ready?” His hands came down on her shoulders, and she just prevented herself from jolting.

  “Yes, all done.”

  “Good. Let’s get started.”

  A small smoked-glass table was set in front of a window. It was a cozy, intimate area, despite the open view of the city, raised from the living room by three steps and separated by an iron railing. There were candles of varying sizes and shapes burning through the room. The light was soft and flickering. The English bone china was another surprise. Liv tried to divorce herself from the atmosphere while Thorpe served the salad. She had come to talk. Perhaps it was best to ease into it gently.

  “You have a beautiful apartment,” she began. “Have you lived here long?”

  “Three years.”

  “Did you choose it for its”—she paused and smiled—“colorful past?”

  Thorpe grinned. “No. It suited my needs at the moment. I was in Israel when that went down. I’ve always regretted not being here to report the story.” He offered her oil and vinegar. “I know an assignment editor who tossed the story out when he got the feed. No time, and he thought no one would care about some minor break-in. I think he’s selling used cars now in Idaho.”

  Liv laughed. “How long were you in the Mideast?”

  “Too long.” He caught Liv’s questioning glance. “Hours of tedium and moments of terror. Not a healthy way to live. War opens your eyes, maybe too much, to what a human being’s capable of.”

  “It must be very difficult,” she murmured, trying to picture it. “Report
ing a war, that kind of a war, in a foreign country.”

  “It was an experience,” he said with a move of his shoulders. “The trouble is, when you’re reporting, you tend to forget you’re human too. For a while, up here”—he tapped his temple—“you’re indestructible. The camera’s a force field. It’s a dangerous delusion—one that bullets and grenades don’t respect.”

  She understood what he meant. She herself had once walked carelessly into a government building following a bomb detection team. Her mind had been on the story. It hadn’t been until later that the full impact of her action had struck her.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” she mused. “And it’s not just reporters. Cameramen are probably worse. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “Some like to claim it’s a mission, a sacred duty to let the public know. I’ve always considered it simply a matter of being caught up in the moment. You do it because you’re focused in on the story, and the story’s your job.”

  “Tunnel vision,” she said quietly, remembering he had used the phrase before. “That’s not as romantic as a mission.”

  He smiled, watching the candlelight flicker over her skin. “Do you look for romance in your work, Liv?”

  The question startled her, bringing her back. “No. No, I don’t.” Now was the time, she told herself. “Which is exactly why I agreed to have dinner with you tonight.”

  “To keep your romance separate from your work?”

  Her brows drew together. Why did that sound so different when he said it? “Yes . . . No,” she amended.

  “I’ll get the spaghetti while you make up your mind.”

  Liv cursed herself and tore a piece of garlic bread in two. Why was it things never went as she planned when she was around him? And why did he always seem so on top of things? Straightening, she reached for her wine. She would simply start over.

  “Here we go.”

  Thorpe placed a platter of thin pasta topped with the thick sauce on the table.

  “Thorpe,” Liv began. The aroma was irresistible, and she filled her plate as she spoke. “I really thought you understood what I said to you the other day.”