From the Heart

by Nora Roberts

  “I understood perfectly, Olivia; you’re very articulate.” He helped himself when she had finished.

  “Then you must see how difficult you’re making things.”

  “By sending you a flower,” he concluded, and offered her grated cheese.

  “Well, yes.” It sounded so silly when he said it. “It’s very sweet, but . . .” Frowning, she rolled spaghetti onto her fork. “I don’t want you or anyone else to think that it means anything.”

  “Of course not.” He watched her sample the first bite. “How is it?”

  “Fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.” Liv let the pure sensual pleasure of food spread through her slowly. “I’ve never tasted anything better.” She rolled a second forkful and tried to remember what point she had been trying to make. “In any case, it’s not the sort of thing associates do, you know.” The second forkful proved as satisfying as the first.

  “What isn’t?” It gave him a great deal of satisfaction to watch her preoccupation with his cooking. Her tongue slid lightly over the fork.

  “Send flowers,” she stated. “To each other. Especially when there’s rivalry as well. Local and national news are siblings. I know a bit about sibling rivalry.”

  “Your sister,” he commented. The candlelight shot little flecks of gold into her eyes. He could almost count them.

  “Mmm. With a sister like Melinda, I’ve had experience at being the underdog. I never minded; it makes you more inventive. The same goes for doing the local news.”

  “Is that how you look at it?” he asked curiously. He picked up one of her hands to examine the delicately painted nails. “As being the underdog?”

  “You have the big budget,” she pointed out. “The large exposure, publicity. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have the same quality on a smaller scale.” There was a callus on his thumb. She could feel its light scrape across her knuckles. An unexpected chill shot straight down her spine. Carefully, Liv removed her hand and reached for her wine. “But that’s not the point.”

  “What is?” Thorpe smiled at her—the slow, personal smile that scattered her wits. Liv hastily pulled herself together.

  “You know how stories fly around a newsroom. Internal stories,” she specified as she returned to her dinner. “It’s a difficult place to have any privacy. Privacy’s important to me.”

  “Yes, it must be. There hasn’t been any mention of you in the papers or glossies since you were a teenager. The Carmichaels always make good copy.”

  “I didn’t fit the mold.” She hadn’t meant to say that, and was astonished it had slipped out. “What I’m trying to say,” she continued, as Thorpe kept his silence, “is that once someone in your newsroom or mine gets hold of an idea, the next minute it’ll be fact. Then the sky’s the limit. You know how a simple coffee date can become a torrid lunchtime affair after the third telling.”

  “Does it matter so much?”

  Liv gave a weary sigh. “Probably not from your standpoint, but from mine, yes. I have to deal with being the new kid on the block, and a woman. It’s still hard, Thorpe. Whatever progress I make is always examined more closely than anyone else’s right now. Is Carmichael seeing Thorpe because she wants to jump on the national news team?”

  He studied her a moment. “You don’t have enough confidence in yourself.”

  “I’m a good reporter,” she countered immediately.

  “I was speaking about you as a woman.” He saw the shield come up and could have sworn in frustration.

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re talking about?” he countered. “I sent a woman a rose, not a reporter.”

  “I am a reporter.”

  “That’s your profession, not your sex.” He lifted his wine and forced back annoyance. He knew anger was no way to get through to her. “It doesn’t do to have thin skin in this business, Liv. If newsroom gossip bothers you, you’re going to get a lot of bruises. Look in the mirror. People talk about a woman with a face like yours. It’s human nature.”

  “It isn’t only that.” Liv subsided a bit. She had wanted to talk to him. It wouldn’t help if she became angry. “I don’t want any personal involvement—not with you, not with anyone.”

  Thorpe studied her in silence over the rim of his glass. “Were you hurt that badly?”

  She hadn’t expected the question, or the trace of sympathy in it. It cost her a great deal to keep her eyes level and composed. “Yes.”

  He left it at that. That she had made the admission instead of freezing was enough. He would wait for the rest. “Why did you come to Washington?”

  Liv looked at him a moment. She had been prepared for further interrogation, but not for a casual change of subject. Warily, she allowed herself to relax again. “I’d always been interested in politics. That was my beat in Austin, though most of the time I did little but read the news on the air. When WWBW made the offer, I grabbed it.” She began to give her attention to the meal again. “It’s an exciting city, especially from a reporter’s viewpoint. I wanted the excitement. I suppose I wanted the pressure.”

  “Have you thought of doing national news?”

  She made a vague gesture with her shoulders. “Of course; but for now, I’m happy where I am. Carl’s the best news director I’ve ever worked with.”

  Thorpe grinned. “He does have a tendency to become emotional.”

  Liv lifted a brow as she toyed with the last of her spaghetti. “Particularly when some hotshot from upstairs steals a story. I had to step on the toes of one of your associates after the mayor’s press conference this afternoon.”

  “Is that so? Which one?”

  “Thompson. The one with the big ears and flashy ties.”

  “A flattering description.”

  “Accurate,” Liv countered, but a smile tugged at her lips. “In any case, I’d gone to a lot of trouble to set up a quick interview after the conference. He tried to cash in on it.”

  “You set him straight, I’m sure.”

  Liv let the smile form. It rather pleased her to recall how she had dispatched the enterprising Thompson. “As a matter of fact, I did. I told him to do his own legwork or they’d find him hung by his tie in the basement of the Rayburn Building.” She paused consideringly. “I think he believed me.”

  Thorpe looked into the cool blue eyes. “I think I do too. Why didn’t you just sic your cameraman on him?”

  Liv grinned and scooped up the last of her spaghetti. “I didn’t want a vulgar scene in front of the mayor.”

  “Want some more?” He gestured toward her empty plate. Liv sat back with a sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Dessert?”

  Her eyes widened. “You didn’t really make dessert?”

  Leaning forward, Thorpe tipped more Burgundy into her glass. “Drink your wine,” he suggested. “I’ll be right back.”

  He took the plates away with him. Liv gave a moment’s thought to giving him a hand, then sat back. She was too content to move. It was foolish to deny she enjoyed his company. Liked talking to him. Arguing with him. She had nearly forgotten how stimulating an argument could be. He made her feel alive, vital. She didn’t quite feel safe with him, and even that was exciting.

  Liv glanced up as she heard him come back. At the sight of the dish of strawberries and cream he carried, she gave a low sound of pleasure.

  “They look marvelous! How did you get your hands on strawberries that size this early in the season?”

  “A reporter never reveals his sources.”

  She sighed as he set the dish on the table. “They look wonderful, Thorpe, but I don’t think I can manage it.”

  “Try one,” he insisted, dipping a berry into the fresh whipped cream.

  “Just one,” she agreed, and obligingly opened her mouth as he started to feed it to her. He smeared the cream along her cheek. “Thorpe!” Liv said on a laugh, and reached for her napkin.

  “Sorry.” He laid his hand on top of h
ers, preventing her from lifting the napkin. “I’ll get it.” Cupping her neck with his other hand, he slowly, lightly began to nibble the cream from her cheek.

  Liv’s laughter stilled. She didn’t move, couldn’t protest. Her mind and body were locked in the shock of sensation. Her skin seemed alive only where his tongue glided over it.

  “Good?” he murmured, passing his lips over hers.

  Liv said nothing. Her eyes were locked on his. Thorpe watched her steadily as he read the stunned passion in her eyes.

  Slowly, he dipped a second berry and offered it. “Another?”

  Liv shook her head, swallowing as she watched his teeth slice through the berry. Rising, she stepped down into the living room. She had to be on her feet to think, she told herself. In a moment, she would feel perfectly normal again. The trembling would stop—the heat would cool. A startled gasp escaped her when Thorpe turned her into his arms.

  “I thought you’d like to dance,” he murmured.

  “Dance.” She melted into his arms. “There isn’t any music.” But she was moving with him, and her head was already resting on his shoulder.

  “Can’t you hear it?” Her scent was teasing his senses. Her breasts yielded softly as he drew her closer.

  She sighed and closed her eyes. The candlelight flickered against her lids. Her limbs felt heavy, much too comfortably so. She leaned on Thorpe. She tried to tell herself she had had too much to drink. That was what she was feeling. But she knew it was a lie. When his lips passed over her ear, she sighed again and shuddered.

  I should go, she told herself. I should leave now, right now. Her fingers wandered into his hair. It’s madness to stay. A slow, kindling longing was building as his body moved against hers. His hand slid up her spine and down again to settle at her waist. When she felt his lips on her neck, she gave a low sound, drugged in pleasure.

  “I can’t stay,” she murmured, but made no effort to move from his arms.

  “No,” he agreed, as his mouth made a leisurely journey to hers.

  “I should go.” Her lips sought his.

  “Yes.” He slipped his tongue between her parted lips to touch hers. Liv felt her bones dissolve and her head spin.

  “I have to leave.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Gently, he lowered the zipper at the back of her dress. She made a muffled sound as his hands ran over the thin chemise.

  “I’m not going to get involved with you, Thorpe.” Her mouth was moist and heated as he explored it.

  “I know; you’ve told me.”

  Her dress slid to the floor.

  She pressed closer and let his mouth find hers again. She was drowning, but the water was so warm, so soft. The need for him was sleepy, growing as he moved his hands over her. She was a prisoner of his touch—a touch that was gentle. She made no protest when he lifted her into his arms.

  Moonlight filtered into the bedroom, shadowed light, softly white. Liv nearly broke through the surface.

  “Thorpe—”

  Then he kissed her again. Lost, longing, she clung to him as he lowered her to the bed. He undressed her slowly, with soft kisses and caresses. The words he murmured were quiet, stroking her nerves, arousing her body.

  When his back was bare, Liv ran her hand over it. There was hard strength. She wanted him to be strong. Needed for him to be. He lowered the chemise to her waist, following the trail of his hands with his mouth.

  Desire changed from dreamy to desperate in a flash. Liv moaned and pressed him closer until his mouth was hungry at her breast. Her movements under him were no longer languid, her hands no longer timid. She arched to help him strip the thin garment from her. He ran his hands up the inside of her thighs, and she felt a rush of heat engulf her. She crested on a moan, but he slid his fingers over and inside her, driving her up again.

  She dug her nails into his shoulders. Nothing, no one, had ever made her feel like this—mindless, aching, glowing. Liv wanted him to take her, but he had other pleasures to give.

  His tongue glided down her torso, flicking over the curve of her waist until she knew she would go mad. Wandering, he moved lower still, until on a strangled gasp, she peaked again.

  Her responsiveness overwhelmed him, taking him beyond his own desire. He wanted her to experience every drop of pleasure he could give. She was sensitive to every touch, every thought. Though the moonlight gave her skin a marble hue, it felt like liquid fire under his hands. Need for her vibrated through him. Each time she moaned his name or reached for him, the shock of it rocketed straight through him. Desire pulsated from her—for him. That alone took him to the edge of reason.

  His mouth crushed down on hers, and Liv answered the demand ravenously. All restraint had fled; all barriers were broken. She knew only a desperate need for fulfillment and the one man who could give it to her. She opened for him, then guided him inside of her.

  Her gasp was muffled against his shoulder. She felt the muscles tense and ripple against her mouth as he took her beyond what she remembered, past what she had dreamed of. She gave herself up completely and went with him.

  Thorpe lay wrapped round her, holding on to the warmth. For him, the world had whittled down to the bed—to the woman. Even in the dark he could see her, each curve of her body, each plane of her face. In all of his memory, he had never felt so involved, so totally united. Her skin was smooth against his, her nipples still taut as her breasts pressed against his chest. Her breathing was leveling slowly. He had known there was passion under her strict control, but he hadn’t guessed the depth of it or what its effect on him would be. He was vulnerable, almost defenseless for the first time in his life.

  Liv felt the intensity of passion drain into contentment. She had never experienced that sort of abandonment. Had that been missing all of her life? She was almost afraid to find the answer and what it would mean. One basic truth was that he had made her feel like a woman again, complete. The taste of him still lingered on her lips and tongue. She didn’t want to lose it, or the warm security she now held nestled in her arms.

  But who was Thorpe? she wondered. Who was he who had drawn from her what she had been unable, or unwilling, to give any man for more than five years.

  “I promised myself this wouldn’t happen,” she murmured, and buried her face against his neck.

  Her words forced Thorpe out of his dreamy state. “Regrets?” he asked carefully, and waited what seemed a lifetime for the answer.

  “No.” Liv gave a long sigh. “No regrets.” She tilted her face back. “I never expected to be here with you, like this. But I don’t regret it.”

  He relaxed again and held her closer. The soft, serious words stirred him. “Olivia, you’re such a complicated woman.”

  “Am I?” She smiled a little and closed her eyes. “I’ve never thought so. Too simple perhaps, and singleminded, but not complicated.”

  “I’ve been working on sorting you out for a year and a half,” he returned. “It isn’t an easy job.”

  “Don’t try.” She let her hand roam over his shoulder again. She liked the feel of muscle, knowing he could control it into gentleness. “Thorpe, have you had many lovers?”

  He gave a muffled laugh. “That’s a delicate question to ask at the moment, Carmichael.”

  “I wasn’t going to ask for names and numbers,” she countered, sighing as his hand moved down her back. “It’s just that I haven’t really. I’m not very good at it.”

  “Good at what?” he asked absently. His casual explorations were teasing his own need for her.

  She felt awkward suddenly, and searched for a phrase. “At—ah—pleasing a partner.”

  The movement of his hand stopped, and he drew back to study her face in the darkness. “Are you joking?”

  “Well, no.” She was embarrassed now. If she hadn’t been so relaxed, she would never have put herself into such a position. She fumbled on. “I know I’m not very—exciting in bed, but—”

  “Who the hell put that into your head?”
<
br />   The sharp annoyance surprised her. My husband trembled on the edge of her mind. “It’s just something I’ve known—”

  He swore ripely and stopped her. “Do you think I was pretending just now?”

  “No.” She was confused suddenly, and unsure of herself. “Were you?”

  He was angry, almost unreasonably so. Rolling, he pinned her beneath him. “I wanted you, from the first moment I saw your face. Did you know that?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak. A fresh surge of passion raced through her at the press of his body, the grip of his hands.

  “You’re so cool, so aloof, and I could see all those whispers of heat. I wanted you like this, naked in my bed.”

  His mouth crushed down on hers, bruisingly, furiously. Her lips were eager for his, accepting the anger, the demand, matching the hunger.

  “I wanted to strip away the layers,” he muttered. He moved his hands over her until she was writhing mindlessly. “I was going to have you—melt all that ice.” His hand slipped between her thighs and she arched, yearning for him. “But there wasn’t any ice, any need for games when I held you. If you didn’t please another man, it was his fault. His loss. Remember it.”

  She was on fire. Her hands touched, searched, stroked on their own power while her mouth roamed his neck. She could feel his pulse go wild under her tongue. She pulled at him, dragging his mouth back to hers. The taste—his taste. She was desperate for it. He trembled with her.

  Then the kiss was savage, staggering her with the knowledge that she had taken him beyond the civilized. This was no pretense. He was totally lost in her—in what they made together. She felt it, marveled at it, then swirled into a mist where no thoughts could penetrate.

  She was limp, utterly spent, her breath and body shuddering. His weight was on her fully, and his back was damp under her hands. There was no measuring the time they lay there, replete in each other.

  “I suppose you’re right.” His voice was dark and husky. “That wasn’t very exciting.”

  Liv didn’t think she had the energy to laugh, but it bubbled inside her, warm and comfortable. She didn’t know how he knew exactly the right thing to say, but she accepted it. It was a novel and wonderful sensation, to laugh in bed. He lifted his head and grinned at her.