by Nora Roberts
“Idiot,” he said softly, and kissed her. Shifting, he gathered her to his side. She was asleep in moments and lay still. He held her.
11
The alarm clock went off with a shrill. Automatically, Liv reached over to shut off the blast and rolled into Thorpe. Her eyes shot open. Disoriented, groggy, she stared into his eyes while the bell continued to peal. Part of her mind registered the shadow of beard on his chin, the sleepy heaviness of his eyes as they looked into hers.
I slept with him, she remembered. Made love with him and slept the night in his bed. The knowledge registered slowly. She could feel a trace of astonishment in the full light of day, but though she searched and wondered, there were still no regrets. She had been given passion, gentleness, caring. How could there be regrets?
Thorpe reached behind him and snapped off the alarm. Silence was abrupt and complete. Saying nothing, he gathered Liv against him. He had seen the dazed surprise in her face, then the gradual understanding and acceptance. He found it amusing, and strangely endearing. This wasn’t a woman who made it a habit of waking up in a man’s bed.
The quiet morning cuddle was a new sensation, and Liv drifted with it. Undemanding intimacy. Tangled with him, she explored it sleepily. She wasn’t certain what she was feeling. What emotion was this? Contentment? Happiness? Simple pleasure at being close enough to touch and be touched?
Something had changed. Doors had opened. She wasn’t sure whether she or Thorpe had turned the lock, but it had been done. His breath was warm on her cheek, his arms lightly possessive around her. She was no longer alone. Did she want to be? She felt the pressure of his body against her. Yesterday she had been certain that solitude was the answer for her. But now . . .
She had made love with him. Shared herself. Taken from him. Liv wasn’t a casual person. Intimacy was no small gesture for her. Intimacy meant commitment. To her, the two had always, would always, walk hand in hand. And yet, she had promised herself there would be no more commitments in her life, no more one-to-one relationships. There was too much in her past to remind her of the risks. He was becoming too important. She was becoming too vulnerable. It was much too easy to stay where she was, wrapped tight, held close. If she stayed too long, she might forget how quickly disillusionment came.
She shifted, wanting to break the bond before it became too strong. “I have to get up. I have to be in by nine-thirty.”
Still silent, Thorpe brought her back to him. His mouth closed gently over hers. She was so soft, so warm. And her scent still lingered. He’d waited long, too long, to wake beside her. Now he wanted to enjoy the moment. He wanted to see how she looked in the morning, fresh from sleep, her eyes still heavy. He had slept beside her, awakened beside her. He didn’t intend to be without her again.
Liv responded to the gentleness and the lazy arousal. For a moment she could pretend there was no outside world that demanded their involvement and no past to inhibit her. There was only the two of them. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was still night and they had hours left to hold each other. But time was passing. The sun was a pale yellow light through the windows.
“We have to get up,” she murmured, almost wishing he would contradict her.
“Mmm.” He shifted his head slightly to see the clock. “Apparently,” he agreed, and settled for a last nuzzle of her throat. “I don’t suppose your conscience would allow you to come down with a sudden case of laryngitis or a convenient fever?”
“Would yours?” she countered.
He laughed and kissed her. “At the moment, I have no conscience.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Easing away from him, she sat up, automatically pressing the sheet to her breast. “I’m going to need a robe.”
“Pity.” With a groan he rolled away from her and rose. “I’ll supply you with a robe. And breakfast,” he added as he padded to the closet. “If you handle the coffee.”
She was a little stunned to see him stand naked in front of the closet. Straightening her shoulders, she told herself not to be a fool. She had just spent the night with him. His body was no secret to her now. But to see him, Liv thought, as he pulled out the first robe for himself. He was magnificently built—hard, lean, with broad sinewy shoulders and a long torso. She had indeed often thought he seemed streamlined in his clothes. Without them, he appeared more the athlete.
“Okay?” He pulled out a short, kimono-style robe in blue terry and turned to her.
She had lost what he had been saying. Her eyes lifted to the amusement in his. “What? I’m sorry.”
“Can you make coffee, Liv?” He grinned as he held out the robe.
“Have you got a jar and a spoon?”
He looked pained. “Are you joking?”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t. I’ll manage, I suppose,” she told him doubtfully, and slipped her arms into the robe.
“The percolator’s on the counter; coffee’s on the second shelf over the stove,” he instructed as he swung into the bath. “See what you can do.”
She wrinkled her nose as he shut the door, then rose from the bed.
In the kitchen, she found things precisely where he had told her. She ran water and measured coffee. Just barely, she could hear the sound of the shower running.
She found it an odd sensation to be poking around in his kitchen, naked under his robe. I’m having an affair, she thought. She held the top of the percolator aloft a moment, staring into space. She had made love with Thorpe, had spent the night in his bed, and was now preparing coffee in his kitchen. In his robe, she reminded herself, running a hand down the lapel.
With a quick shake of her head, she fit the lid on top of the pot. For goodness’ sake, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve been married and divorced. I’m a professional woman who’s been on her own for years. Why shouldn’t I have an affair? People do every day. It’s a part of life. It’s very simple—even casual. To make anything else out of it is foolish. We’re two adults who just spent the night together. That’s all there is to it.
Even as she ran the last of these cool, sensible words in her head, Thorpe came into the room. Liv turned to say something mildly sarcastic about the coffee and found herself folded into his arms.
His mouth touched hers softly at first, twice. The third time, they lingered and grew hungry. She lifted her arms to bring him closer. Everything she had just told herself was forgotten. His hair was still damp as her fingers combed through it. The scent of soap and shaving lotion brushed at her senses. Everything seemed new and fresh, like a first romance.
His hands rested at the sides of her breasts, then lowered to her hips. It wasn’t a desperate kiss, but a strong one. It brought echoes of the night back to her. Thorpe drew back a little to look at her.
“I like you this way,” he murmured. “Barefoot, in a robe several sizes too big for you, with your hair a little mussed.” He lifted a hand to it and disordered it further. “I’ll be able to picture you this way when I watch the cool Ms. Carmichael deliver the news.”
“Fortunately for the ratings, the viewers won’t.”
“Their loss.”
“Not everyone appreciates the rumpled, just-out-of-bed look, Thorpe.” The coffee was perking frantically, and she drew out of his arms. There were mugs suspended from hooks under the cabinets. Liv slipped two off and poured.
“But then I appreciate the calm, sleekly groomed look too,” he pointed out, offering her a small carton of cream for her coffee. “Actually, I haven’t found anything about you that doesn’t appeal to me.”
Liv laughed and glanced up at him. “Are you always so agreeable before your coffee, Thorpe?” She handed him a mug. “I’d better shower while you drink this. It might sour your mood.” He started to lift it to his lips, and she placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Remember, before you drink it, you did promise to fix me breakfast.”
She left him, taking her own mug with her.
Thorpe glanced back down at his coffee, then sippe
d doubtfully. It wasn’t quite as bad as she had prophesied. Obviously, he thought, as he drank again, the kitchen wasn’t her area. It was his, he concluded philosophically, and went to the refrigerator. He could hear the shower running. He liked knowing she was close—only a few rooms away. He took out a slab of bacon and heated a pan.
Thorpe wasn’t a man to delude himself. They had made love—they would make love again—but Liv’s feelings were not as defined as his. It was uncomfortable to find himself in the position of caring deeply for someone who didn’t return the same depth of emotion. She could, he told himself as the bacon sizzled. She was fighting it. He was too confident a man to consider he might lose in the end.
Even in the bright sunlight of the kitchen he could remember her open giving of the night before—her initial hesitation, the gradual change to aggression and passion. Whatever she said, she was a complex woman, full of hidden corners and contradictions. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Since he had fallen in love, he preferred it to be with a woman who had a few eddies and currents. Fate might have bound him to a tamer type.
Olivia Carmichael was the woman for him, and he was the man for her. He might have to be patient until he convinced her, but convince her he would. Thorpe smiled as he cracked an egg into a bowl.
As it had the night before, the scent coming from the kitchen drew Liv irresistibly. Standing in the doorway, she stared at the platter Thorpe was piling with bacon, golden eggs and lightly browned toast.
“Thorpe,” she said, inhaling deeply, “you’re amazing.”
“You just noticed?” he countered. “Grab a couple plates,” he ordered, jerking his head toward the proper cabinet. “Let’s eat before it gets cold.”
Liv did as he bade, plucking up the flatware as well before she followed. “I have to admit,” she said as she took her chair at the table, “that I’m in deep awe of anyone who can fix a meal and consistently have everything ready at the same time.”
“What do you eat at home?”
“As little as possible.” She began to help herself from the platter. “Mostly I use all those little boxes that say ‘Complete Meal Inside.’ Sometimes there really is.”
“Liv, do you have any idea what sort of things they put inside those little boxes?”
“Please, Thorpe.” She shoveled a forkful of eggs into her mouth. “Not while I’m eating.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Didn’t you ever learn to cook?”
Liv lifted a shoulder. She remembered the meals she had fixed during her marriage. They had usually been hurried—dinners put together before she had dashed on to the evening shift at the station, a quick something after classes. She had cooked adequately, even well on sporadic occasions. But there had been so little time and so many obligations. She skipped back over that to give him the answer.
“When I was growing up, my mother didn’t consider it important. In fact,” she added after finishing off a slice of bacon, “she didn’t care to hear about the few times I poked into the kitchen to see what was going on. That wasn’t our territory.”
Thorpe buttered a slice of toast and considered how remarkably diverse their backgrounds had been. He and his mother had been close, both from necessity and out of love. Liv and hers had been distant, perhaps from a simple lack of understanding.
“Do you go back to Connecticut often?”
“No.”
There was a signal in the one word. Don’t press too close. Thorpe recognized it and detoured.
“How’s your schedule today?”
“Packed. The first lady’s dedicating that children’s center at eleven. Dell’s due into National at one, though I doubt we’ll be able to get near him, and I have another stakeout at the school board this afternoon.” She finished off the rest of her eggs. “I’m scheduled to tape another promo. The general manager’s nervous about the ratings.”
“Aren’t they all.” He glanced at her empty plate. “Well, at least you’re fortified.”
“If that’s your subtle way of saying I stuffed myself, I’ll overlook it.” Rising, Liv began to gather the plates. “Since you cooked it, I’ll wash up while you dress.”
“Very democratic.”
She kept her eyes on the plates and platters. “I’ll need to go back to my apartment to change before I go in. I’ll take a cab.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Unsure of her moves, Liv lifted the stack of plates. “It’s silly for you to drive halfway across town, out of your way. It would be simpler—”
He stopped her by taking the stack of plates out of her hands and setting them back on the table. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he studied her face. It was in his eyes again—the searching, the depth of intensity that was inescapable.
“Liv, last night meant something to me. Being with you means something to me.” He could see the quick flicker of emotions as she digested his words. “No cabs.”
“No cabs,” she agreed, then slipped her arms around him to hold him tightly. The gesture surprised him, moved him. Liv closed her eyes and held on. She had been afraid he would agree without a second thought. The sensible part of herself had told her it would be best—keep it light, keep it sophisticated. Take a cab and see you later. But her heart wanted more. And her heart was beginning to outweigh everything else.
“Will you wait for me tonight?” he murmured into her hair. “Until after my broadcast?”
She tilted her face to his. “Yes.” As his mouth touched hers, she thought fleetingly that the ground she was treading on might be dangerous; but she hadn’t felt so alive in years.
It was five thirty-two when Thorpe stood in the control room and watched Liv through the window. He paid scant attention to her report on a robbery at a local chain store, or to the technical aspects of television that went on around him. She had, quite simply, been on his mind all day. He’d wanted to see her again before it was his turn in front of the camera.
“Punch up camera one,” Carl ordered from his seat in front of the wall of monitors. She was there too, reproduced eight times in the black-and-white preview monitors and the live color ones. Her voice came through in stereo from the speakers. At his left, an engineer worked at the sound board.
“Camera two.”
Brian’s image replaced Liv’s on the live monitor. At Carl’s next order, the graphics were punched up to flash behind him.
“Thirty seconds to commercial.”
Brian continued smoothly to the cut.
Carl drew hard on a cigarette and shot a glance over his shoulder at Thorpe. “See you around here more now than when you worked here,” he commented.
“I’ve more incentive,” he answered easily.
Carl studied Liv’s image in the monitor and gave a grunt of agreement. He’d always liked Thorpe as a man, respected him as a reporter. He wished that he had been able to keep him on staff. Carl gave a sigh and crushed out the cigarette. He doubted he’d keep Carmichael more than a couple of years. He’d been around too long to expect anything different.
“Thirty seconds.”
Thorpe looked back through the window. Liv was talking to Brian. She laughed at something and shook her head. Was it his imagination or did she seem more relaxed, more free? It would be well over an hour before he could touch her again.
Camera one was focused on her, and on cue she began the next segment of the broadcast. Thorpe left the control room with her voice still echoing in his mind.
With the show over, Liv went back to the newsroom. She had weighed the pros and cons of going upstairs to meet Thorpe, and had decided that to wait for him in her own territory would generate less speculation—and less gossip. She was not ready to put her personal life on display.
She missed him. The fact had surprised her, but there was no denying it. Her day had been hectic, at moments frantic, but somehow he had hovered on the edges of her thoughts throughout it.
Keeping to her desk, she began to go over her next day’s schedule. H
er eyes drifted again and again to the clock. Why, when the day had flown by, did one hour seem to be an eternity?
“This lady looks like she wants a cup of coffee.”
Glancing up, Liv smiled at Bob and held out a hand. “I always knew you had great perception.”
“I’d rather be irresistibly sexy,” he commented, and sat on the corner of her desk.
“Of course you are.” Her eyes laughed at him over the rim of the plastic cup. “I constantly have to restrain myself!”
“Yeah?” He grinned at her. “Can I tell my wife?”
“I’ll leave that up to your own discretion.”
“I worked with Prye today.” Bob sighed into his coffee cup. “You know the little thirty-second stand-up he did in front of the Kennedy Center.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Liv knew what was coming, and settled back in her chair.
“Fourteen takes. You wouldn’t believe how many times that guy can blow a line. He got irked when I asked him if he wanted us to make up some idiot cards for him. We should have more respect for the talent.” He snorted, and gulped down more coffee. “He wouldn’t know talent if it walked up and chewed on his ankle.”
Liv opted to play the diplomat. She was well aware that Prye had a running battle with the crews. “The stand-up came across very well.”
“Lucky for him he doesn’t have to go live. If I had my choice,” he said, and winked at her, “I wouldn’t work with anyone who didn’t have great legs. You know”—he cocked his head to study her—“you look different.”
She lifted a brow. Could it be that a night of love and freedom had left some noticeable change? “If you’re trying to save yourself from Prye tomorrow,” she said lightly, “I’ve already talked to the desk about having you work with me.”
He grinned again. “Thanks, but I’d rather have a wild weekend in Acapulco.”
“Acapulco,” she repeated, pretending to consider it.
“We could use your expense account.”