by Nora Roberts
“Liv’s already occupied this weekend,” Thorpe said mildly. Both Bob and Liv turned to look at him. He glanced down at her, then back at the cameraman. “She’s going to be rowing.”
“No kidding?” The information seemed to give Bob more reason to grin. “I guess I’ll have to settle for Sunday dinner at my in-laws.” He rose and, giving Liv a brief salute, left them.
“Thorpe.” He had her arm and was already propelling her through the room. “I haven’t made any plans for the weekend.”
“I have,” he returned amiably. “And you’re included.”
“I have this small idiosyncrasy,” she told him when they stepped outside. “About having a voice in my own plans.”
“I’m flexible.” He opened the car door for her, leaned on it and smiled. “If you’d rather go to Acapulco, I can arrange it.”
It was difficult to feel annoyed when he was smiling at her. She let out a small huff of a sigh. “I might consider rowing,” she said, and gave in to the urge to touch his mouth with hers. “If you man the oars.”
12
So much could change in a week. Liv could almost forget what it was like to be alone—truly alone. The nights no longer held absolute silence. She could almost forget what it was like to have no one but herself to depend upon. There was someone in her life again. She no longer attempted to reason out how he had gotten there.
She was growing to rely on Thorpe’s companionship. She was growing to enjoy the pleasures of intimacy. Simply, she was growing to need Thorpe.
As the days passed, she found she looked forward not only to their conversations, but even to their arguments. He stimulated her, forced her to think fast if she wanted to hold her own. Intellectually, they complemented each other. There were times, she knew, he sharpened his wit on her, just as she did on him.
His strength was important to her. There was something rock solid about him. She had once looked for the solidity in someone else and had been disappointed. She wasn’t looking for protection. She had been through too much to doubt her own ability to deal with whatever life tossed at her. When you had gone through the worst and survived, nothing could ever hurt you in quite the same way again. But if she chose a partner, a companion, a lover, he had to have strength.
She was still cautious. There were still guards over her emotions. But they were growing weaker.
* * *
As he had promised, Thorpe took her to a night ball game.
“I’m telling you, he should look for another profession,” she stated as she stuck the key in the lock of her door. She brooded over the faults of the plate umpire as she shrugged out of her jacket. “Don’t they have to go to school or something before they become umpires?”
“Or something,” Thorpe agreed, not even trying to hide a grin. Liv had been indignant over the umpire’s calls during the entire drive home.
“Well,” she concluded, “he must have gotten dreadful marks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a nasty person who kicks his dog.”
“A sentiment probably shared by a number of ballplayers.” Thorpe slipped out of his jacket and tossed it to join hers. “Maybe it’s time you took over the sportscast, Liv.”
She gave him an arch look. “I might do very well,” she returned. “After a few more games, I could probably report a play by play as well as I do a filibuster. Would you like a brandy?”
“Fine.” He smiled at her back as she fixed the drinks. “Leaving the play by play aside for the moment and concentrating on filibusters, what do you think of Donahue’s chances?”
“Slim,” Liv responded, and turned back with two snifters.
“I talked to him today.” Taking the brandy from her, Thorpe drew Liv down on the couch beside him. “Right before he went onto the floor. He’s brown-bagging it. He must have had five ham sandwiches and a half a dozen doughnuts.”
Liv laughed. “Well, at least he won’t go hungry. That should give him the stamina to keep his filibuster going—if his voice holds out.”
“He’s determined,” Thorpe commented. “He told me he’s going to outlast and outtalk every one of his opponents. If force of will and ham on rye can do it, Donahue’s got it made.” Liv settled back against his shoulder, and his arm automatically encircled her. “The gallery was packed for most of the day.”
“We did some man-on-the-streets,” Liv murmured, sleepy now with contentment. “Most people were there from pure curiosity rather than any interest in the issue. But a full gallery and a filibuster make good press. That might keep Donahue going a few days longer.”
“He made it through day five.”
“I’d like to see him win.” She sighed. How had she ever been comfortable without his arm around her? “I know it’s unrealistic, and the bill will pass eventually, but still . . .”
He listened to her slow, quiet voice. There was a parallel between Donahue and himself, he thought. Thorpe had launched his own filibuster with Liv. He was just as determined as the senator to win a full victory. It wasn’t enough just to be able to hold her. He wanted, needed, a lifetime. How much longer was it going to take? There were times when the need for caution frustrated him to the point of anger.
He set down his drink, and then hers. Liv lifted her face for the kiss, but it was not as she had expected. His mouth was fierce. She was pressed back against the cushions of the sofa with his body fitted to hers. He tugged at her clothes impatiently. This was something new. Always, there had been a thread of control in his lovemaking, as if he compensated for the difference in their physical strengths with gentleness. Now, she felt the urgency as he pushed open her blouse to find her.
His mouth was locked on hers, so that she couldn’t speak, or even moan, as he stripped off her jeans. She fumbled with his sweater, wanting to be flesh to flesh, but the press of their bodies together hampered her. With a low, savage oath, Thorpe stripped it off himself, pulling it over his head, then letting it fall to the floor.
His mouth was suddenly everywhere—tasting, ravishing. She was pliant, fluid under his touch. She flowed wherever he took her, rising and falling to his whim. There was a wildness in him she had only glimpsed before.
He took her on the couch as if it had been years since their last joining. The desperation went on and on until she knew there could be no more either of them could want or give. Then he was pulling her to the floor with him, heating her again while her body was still humming.
She moaned his name once, half in protest, half in disbelief, as her passion mounted again.
“More,” was all he said before his mouth took hers.
His hands were as avid as they had been at the first touch, and her body as receptive. There was in her now an overwhelming need to possess, to be possessed. No longer was she only guided. Her hands sought him, found him, while her mouth clung hot and fast to his.
She was shuddering without being aware of it. She heard only his labored breath in her ear when she wrapped around him. Need and fulfillment seemed to burst within her at once. Then she was once more pliant, once more limp. This time, Thorpe lay beside her and let his body rest.
Yet he couldn’t prevent himself from touching her still. Her skin drew him, and the curve where waist flared to hip. His hands were gentle now. He kissed the slope of her shoulder, the delicate line of her jaw. He heard her sigh as she moved closer to him.
As fiercely as passion had whipped through him before, now love ached inside him.
“I love you.” He felt her immediate stillness and realized he had spoken aloud. Cupping her chin in his hand, he lifted her face to his. “I love you,” he said again. He hadn’t meant to tell her in exactly this way, but now that it had been done, he kept his eyes on hers. He wanted her to understand he meant what he said.
She heard the words, saw them repeated in his eyes. Something moved inside of her like a tug-of-war, toward him and away. “No.” She shook her head and the word was weak. “No, don’t. I don’t want you to.”
“You don�
�t have any choice.” The statement was calmer than his mood. Her answer, and the anxiety in her eyes, cut at him. “And, it seems, neither do I.”
“No.” Pushing away, she sat up to cradle her head in her hands. Old doubts, old fears, old resolutions crowded at her. Pressure was squeezing her in a tight fist. “I can’t . . . . You can’t.”
Love—that dangerous, dangerous word that left you naked and senseless. Accepting it was a risk, giving it a disaster. How could she let herself be caught in the web again?
Thorpe took her shoulders and turned her to face him. Her response left him hurt and angry. The pale, miserable look on her face only added to it. “But I do love you,” he said curtly. “Not wanting me to doesn’t change it. I love you, have loved you for quite some time. If you’d bothered to look, you’d have seen that.”
“Thorpe, please . . .” She could only shake her head. How could she explain to him? What did she want to explain? She wanted him to hold her until she could think clearly again. Love. How did it feel to know she was loved? If she could have a few moments. If her heart would stop pounding.
“I’m not interested in only having your body, Olivia.” She could hear the temper and frustration in his voice. She stiffened against it. No, she would not be pressured. She would not be maneuvered. She was still in charge of her own life. He could feel the change. His fingers tightened on her skin in impotent fury.
“What do you want?”
“A great deal more,” he said deliberately, “than you’re willing to give me. Trust, I suppose, would be a good start.”
“I can’t give you any more than I have.” She wanted to tremble, to weep, to cling to him. She kept her eyes level. “I don’t love you. I don’t want you to love me.”
Neither knew the extent of pain their words caused the other. She saw only a flare in his eyes that made her realize how strictly he controlled his own violence. If he had had less of a grip on himself, she felt certain he would have struck her for the cold dispassion of her words. She almost wished he would. At the moment, she would have gladly exchanged physical pain for the emotional one.
Slowly, he released her. He hadn’t known he could be hurt like this. In silence, he dressed. He knew he had to leave quickly, before he did something he would detest himself for. She wouldn’t drive him to that. Not by rejection, or her damn coolness or anything else. He’d leave her to herself, since that’s what she wanted. The sooner she was out of his sight, the sooner he could work on forgetting her. He cursed himself for being a fool even as he shut the door behind him.
The sound of it closing brought Liv’s head around. For a full minute, she stared at the panel. The silence welled up around her. Curling into a ball, she lay on the rug and wept for both of them.
The normal routine of a day was like an obstacle course. Getting up, dressing, driving through rush hour traffic. To Liv, it all seemed larger, more complicated than it ever had before. In a morning crammed with appointments, she went through the hours with a combination of nervous energy and dull fatigue. Her thoughts could never be completely centered on her objective when Thorpe was always just around the edges. She had begun to taste happiness again, and now . . .
Everything had happened so fast. Liv hadn’t expected him to love her. She knew enough of him, understood enough of him to be certain he wasn’t a man to love lightly. His energy and power would be bound up in it. When a man like Thorpe loved a woman, she was loved completely. Perhaps that was what frightened her most.
Yet, what she felt now as she finished up an interview wasn’t fear; it was emptiness. Before Thorpe had become a part of her life, she had accepted the emptiness. The void had been filled, as nearly as possible, with her work and her ambition. It was no longer enough. During the morning, a dozen things happened that she found herself wanting to share with him. Years had passed without her feeling the need to share with anyone, and now it was inescapable. But she had pushed him away.
What should she do now? How could she make him understand that while part of her wanted to love him, to be loved by him, another part was like a rabbit under a gun. Frozen. Terrified.
How could she expect him to understand? she asked herself as she mechanically negotiated through afternoon traffic. She was no longer sure she understood herself. Put it on hold for a while, she advised herself. Have lunch with Mrs. Ditmyer, relax, and then try to think fresh again.
Hoping she could take her own advice, Liv pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant. It was the perfect way to take her mind off things, she decided. Part business, part social. A glimpse at her watch told her she was barely five minutes late. Nothing major. It wouldn’t do to keep Myra Ditmyer waiting long.
I like her, Liv thought as she entered the restaurant. She’s so . . . alive. Greg was lucky to have her for an aunt, for all her matchmaking tendencies. Liv could only wish the cards had dealt her a similar relative. A woman like that would be sturdy as a boulder when the world crumbled under your feet.
Liv shook away the thought. There was also the matter of her position in Washington political and social circles. Since Myra had taken it into her head to notice her, Liv might as well take advantage of the side benefits.
“Mrs. Ditmyer’s table,” she told the maître d’.
“Ms. Carmichael?” He smiled when she inclined her head. “This way please.” Liv followed him, amused. As a Carmichael she recognized deferential treatment. As a presswoman, she had learned not to expect it.
“Olivia!” Myra greeted her as though they were the fastest of friends. “How charming you look. And how lovely it is to have men staring again. Even if they’re only speculating whether I’m your mother or your maiden aunt from Albuquerque.”
Liv was laughing even as the maître d’ assisted her into her chair.
“Mrs. Ditmyer, I knew having lunch with you would be the high point of my day.”
“What a sweet thing to say.” She beamed, pleased with herself. “Paul, do see about some sherry for Ms. Carmichael.”
“Of course, Mrs. Ditmyer.” The maître d’ bowed away from the table.
“Now then.” Myra folded her hands on the table expectantly. “You must tell what wonderfully exciting things you’ve been doing. I’m sure running around reporting on political corruption and world-shaking events must keep you forever in a spin.”
Liv laughed. It was impossible not to be relaxed and exhilarated simultaneously in the woman’s company. “It seems a crime to disappoint you, Mrs. Ditmyer, but most of the time I spend waiting at airports or outside the gate at the White House. Or,” she added with an apologetic grin, “on the telephone finding out where I’m going to wait next.”
“Oh, my dear, you mustn’t burst my bubble.” Myra sipped her own glass of sherry. “I’m perfectly content if you make something up, just so it’s exciting. And call me Myra; I’ve decided we’re going to get along famously.”
“Do you know, I believe we will.” Liv shook her head. “I’m sorry to say we can’t all be Woodwards and Bernsteins. But I suppose all reporters run into a fat story now and again. Right now, the heat is on Senator Donahue’s filibuster.”
“Ah, Michael.” Myra smiled, then nodded with approval as Liv’s sherry was set in front of her. “Feisty old devil. I’ve always been fond of him. Nobody rhumbas like Michael Donahue.”
Liv nearly choked on her sherry. “Is that so?”
“I shall have to introduce you next month when I give my Spring Ball. You do rhumba, don’t you, dear?”
“I’ll learn.”
Myra smiled in her dazzling way, then crocked a finger at the waiter. “I, unfortunately, will have to make do with the fruit salad. My dressmaker’s sighing horribly these days.” She gave Liv a wistful glance that wasn’t envious so much as reminiscent. “The scampi’s exquisite here.”
“Fruit salad will do nicely,” Liv returned. “Being able to sit down for lunch is treat enough. I still have to thank you for asking me,” Liv went on, as the waiter moved
away. “It really isn’t often I have the opportunity to have an hour like this in the middle of the day.”
“But of course you can justify the luxury by terming it as partly business.” Myra laughed at Liv’s expression. “Oh, no, my dear, you mustn’t think it offends me. Why not in the least. It’s actually part of my intention. Now . . .” She leaned forward a bit like a general preparing to outline a plan of attack. “You must tell me what special project you have in mind. I know you must have one; it’s simply in your character.”
Liv sat back. Though she held the glass of sherry, she didn’t drink. She was too enthralled with the woman across from her. “Myra, I believe you would have made a fabulous reporter.”
A pleased pink flush spread on her cheeks. “Do you really? How marvelous. I do so love to nose around, you know.”
“Yes,” Liv answered faintly.
“So.” Myra spread her hands, palms up. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
Liv shook her head and smiled. “All right. I’ve been toying with trying a news special, probably slotted for late night. A personal view of women in politics. Not only women politicians, but women married to politicians. How they deal with the stress business—family, public exposure, traveling. I’d like to think I could deal with both sides of the coin that way. Women who are immersed in government for varying reasons.”
“Yes . . .” Myra pouted in thought. “That might prove quite interesting. It can be the very devil on a marriage, you know. The campaigning, the staff dinners, the state dinners, the protocol. Lengthy separations, high pressure. It’s a horse race, my dear. One long, never ending horse race. And the women . . .” She smiled again and swirled her sherry. “Yes, indeed, it might be interesting.”
“I’ve been knocking it around with Carl for a couple of months. He’s the news director,” Liv explained. “I think he’d go for it, if and when I can give him an outline and some firm names. I suppose seeing Amelia Thaxter at the embassy started the wheels turning again.”
“A remarkable woman,” Myra commented. She smiled, somewhat dismally, as the fruit salad was placed in front of her. She wasn’t the sort of woman who liked moderation, even gastronomically. “As dedicated as they come, and quite devoted to her constituents. Quite sincerely devoted. She made a choice between marriage and a career long ago. Some women can’t mix the two.” She smiled at Liv then and plunged her fork into a chunk of pineapple. “Oh, I’m not talking out of school. She’d tell you herself if asked. I believe she’ll be quite interested in your project. Yes, and Margerite Lewellyn—nothing she likes better than to talk about herself. Then there’s Barbara Carp . . .”