From the Heart (48 page)

Twenty-four people had been injured, more from crowd panic than from bullet wounds. Only six had to be hospitalized, and only two of them had serious injuries. Liv dashed down names and occupations as she worked her way through the remaining crowd.

If the terrorists had counted on aborting the prime minister's funeral service, they hadn't reckoned with British sangfroid. The ceremony went on as scheduled inside the centuries-old abbey while the press and police functioned outside.

Ambulances came and went along with official vehicles. The wrecked car was towed away. Long before the service was over, there was no sign of any disturbance on the street.

From her vantage point, Liv watched the royal family exit the abbey. If the security had been tightened, it remained discreet. She waited until the last limo had driven off. Rubbing the bruise on her arm, she watched camera crews breaking down their equipment. She'd been standing for hours.

“What now?” Bob asked her as he loaded his camera in its case.

“Scotland Yard,” she said wearily, and stretched, arching her back. “I have a feeling we're going to spend most of the afternoon waiting.”

She couldn't have been more right. With a pack of other reporters, print and television, she waited. They were given a bare dribble of information in an official statement and sent on their way. By six o'clock that evening, there was nothing to add to her report but a recap of the morning's events and a statement that the terrorists were as yet unidentified. Liv shot a final stand-up in front of Scotland Yard, then headed back to the hotel.

Exhausted, she soaked for an hour in the tub and let the fatigue drain. Still, when she had toweled off and slipped into
her robe, she was restless. The room was too quiet, too empty, and she was still too keyed up from the events of the day. She began to regret that she had turned down the crew's offer to join them for dinner.

It was still early, she noted. Too early. She didn't want to face another night alone in a hotel room. If she chose, there were any number of reporters she could seek out for company over a drink or a meal. But Liv found she didn't want to spend her evening rehashing and speculating over the day's events. She wanted to see London. Forgetting her weariness, she began to dress.

It was cool outside, with the dampness that had threatened all day still lingering. She had a light coat thrown over her slacks and sweater. Without thinking of direction, she began to wander. Traffic clogged the streets, so that the smell of exhaust tickled her nostrils. She heard Big Ben strike eight. If she was going to have dinner, she should find a restaurant. But she kept walking.

Again, she was reminded of the trip a dozen years before. She had traveled in a Rolls then, from monument to monument. There had been a garden party at Buckingham Palace. In a pale rose organdy dress and picture hat, Melinda had curtsied to the queen. Liv remembered how badly she had wanted to visit the Tower of London. Her mother had reminded her the National Gallery would be more instructive. She had studied the paintings dutifully and thought how badly she would have liked to have seen the inside of a pub.

Once, not so many years ago, Doug had spoken of taking a trip to London. That had been in their college days, when there had still been dreams. They had never had the money to spare for the plane fare. Then, there had been no love left to spare for dreams. Liv shook herself out of the mood. She was here now, free to see the Tower of London or a pub or to ride the subway. But there was no one to share the adventure with. No one to—

“Liv.”

With a gasp, she turned and collided with Thorpe. He steadied her with a hand on her arm. For a moment she stared at him, completely disoriented.

“Alone?” he asked, but didn't smile.

“Yes. I . . .” She groped around for something to say.

“Yes, I thought I'd do some sight-seeing.”

“You looked a little lost.” After releasing her arm, he stuck his hand in his pocket.

“I was just thinking.” She began to walk again, and he fell into step beside her.

“Have you been to London before?”

“Once, a long time ago. Have you?”

“In my salad days.” They walked for a time in silence. The restraint she sensed in him was something new, but she said nothing, letting him choose his own time. “There's nothing new on the terrorists,” he told her after a moment.

“Yes, I know. I spent the afternoon at Scotland Yard. I suppose they could have been independent.”

Thorpe shrugged. “They had very sophisticated, very expensive equipment, but they didn't seem to know how to use it. They were the only fatalities.”

“It was stupid,” Liv murmured, thinking of the four men who had held the limelight for one brief, fleeting moment. “A senseless thing to die for.”

Again, they lapsed into silence, walking in the chilly evening. The streetlamps were lit. They passed under the light, into the shadows and back into the light. Abruptly, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “Liv, there were a lot of bullets flying around out there today.”

“Yes?”

“It was a miracle that none of the press or bystanders were killed.”

“Yes.”

She wasn't going to make it easy for him. Thorpe let out an impatient breath. “If I overreacted this morning, it was because I stopped thinking about you as a reporter. I only remembered you were a woman and I didn't want you hurt.”

In silence she studied his face. “Is that an apology?” she asked him.

“No, it's an explanation.”

Liv considered for a moment. “All right.”

“All right what?”

“I consider it a reasonable explanation.” She smiled then.
“But the next time you get in my way on a story, you're going to get a very unladylike elbow in the ribs. Understood?”

He nodded, returning the smile. “Understood.”

“Have you had dinner, Thorpe?” she asked, as they began to walk again.

“No, I've been getting the runaround from Donaldson.”

“Hungry?”

He glanced down at her, one brow lifted. “Is that an invitation, Olivia?”

“No, it's a question. Answer yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“Someone told me that colleagues on foreign soil should stick together,” she commented. “What are your views on that?”

“I would be inclined to agree.”

Liv took his arm. “Come on, Thorpe, I'll buy you dinner.”

T
hey found a noisy, crowded chophouse and squeezed into a corner table. Thorpe glanced around at the line of customers packed together at the counter. In the air was the scent of grilled meat and frying oil. Overhead were brilliant fluorescent lights.

“Very romantic,” he commented. “I'm a sucker for atmosphere on a date.”

“This isn't a date,” Liv reminded him as she slipped out of her coat. “I'm testing a theory. You should be careful not to spoil it.”

“Spoil it?” He gave her an innocent stare. “How?”

Her only answer was a narrowed look.

When they had ordered, Liv settled back in her chair to soak up the atmosphere. At the counter, two men argued heatedly over a horse race. Over the hiss and sizzle of cooking meat was a constant buzz of conversation. It was precisely the sort of place she had wanted to experience when she had been a teenager on her first trip to London.

In silence, Thorpe watched her, noting that her eyes went from person to person with no loss of fascination. Gone was the faint sadness he had seen on her face when he had first met her on the street. What had she been thinking about? he wondered. Or was it whom? There was still too much he didn't know. And, he thought, it would still be some time before she told him.

“What do you see?” he demanded.

“London.” Liv smiled back at him. “A lot more of London than you can see by looking at monuments and museums.”

“Apparently you like what you see.”

“I only wish we weren't due to leave in the morning. I'd like another day.”

“What would you do with it?”

Liv lifted her shoulders. “Oh, see everything, everyone. Ride a double-decker bus. Eat fish and chips in a newspaper.”

“Go to Covent Garden?”

She shook her head. “I've been to Covent Garden. I'd rather go to the docks.”

Thorpe laughed, lifting his beer. “Have you ever been to the London docks, Olivia?”

“No. Why?”

“I wouldn't advise it. At least not alone.”

“You're forgetting I'm a reporter again,” she reminded him.

“So would the dock workers,” he said dryly.

“Well.” She shrugged before leaning back in her chair. “In any case, we go back tomorrow.”

“What are your plans then?”

“After I check in at the station I'm going to sleep for the rest of the weekend.”

“When's the last time you saw Washington?” he asked, as grilled pork chops were set in front of them.

“What are you talking about? I see Washington every day.”

“I mean for fun.” He picked up his fork. “Have you ever played tourist in D.C. ?”

Liv frowned as she cut into the meat. “Well, I suppose . . .”

“Ever been to the zoo?”

“Of course, I did a story on . . .” She paused and looked up. He was grinning at her “All right, what's your point?”

“That you don't relax enough.”

Liv lifted a brow. “I'm relaxing now, aren't I?” she asked.

“There isn't time for me to show you London properly,” Thorpe put in. “Why don't you let me show you Washington?”

Warning signals sounded immediately. Liv toyed with her
meal as she formulated a safe answer. “I don't think so,” she said carefully.

Thorpe smiled and went on eating. “Why not?”

“I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Thorpe.”

“What's the wrong idea?” His voice was bland and friendly. Glancing down at her hands, he remembered how her fingers had moved over his face when he kissed her.

“Look.” Liv paused, wanting to choose her words carefully. “I'm not totally averse to your company, but—”

“Carmichael, you slay me with compliments.”

“But,” she continued, shooting him a look, “I'm not going to become involved with you, and I don't want you to think otherwise.” Because the words made her feel ungracious, she unbent a little. “We can be friends . . . of a kind, I suppose.”

“Of what kind?”

“Thorpe,” she said impatiently. “Stop it.”

“Liv, as a reporter, I need concise information.” He gave her an easy smile before he sipped at his beer.

“As a reporter,” she countered, “you should be intuitive enough to understand my meaning.”

Leaning closer, he grinned. “I'm crazy about you, Carmichael.”

“You're crazy period,” she corrected, and tried to ignore the sudden increase in her pulse rate. “But I'm trying to overlook that so that we can deal together amicably. Now if you'd just agree to keep things on a friendly basis,” she continued.

“What's your definition of friendly?” he inquired.

“Thorpe, you're impossible!”

“Liv, I'm just trying to understand the issue. If I don't have the facts straight, how can I reach a viable conclusion? Now, as I see it”—he took her hand—“you're willing to admit you can tolerate my company. Is that right?”

Liv drew her hand from his. “So far,” she said warily.

“And you're willing to take the second step and be friends.”

“Casual friends.” Though she knew he was leading her, she was as yet unable to see the trick.

“Casual friends,” he agreed. Lifting his beer, he toasted her. “To the third step.”

“What third step?” Liv demanded, but he only smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Thorpe . . .”

“Your dinner's getting cold,” he warned, then gave her pork chops an interested glance. “Are you going to eat all that?”

Distracted from the point she had been going to make, Liv looked down at her plate. “Why?”

“I missed lunch.”

Liv laughed and cut another slice. “So did I,” she told him. She ate every bite.

When they stepped back outside, it was raining lightly. Liv lifted her face to it. She was glad Thorpe had found her—glad to have had his company over dinner. If it didn't make sense, it didn't matter. If it wasn't safe, she didn't care. She had needed an evening with someone who could make her laugh, make her think. Make her feel. If it was Thorpe, she wasn't going to question why tonight.

A few stolen hours was all she wanted. A few hours to forget all the promises she had once made herself. She didn't need the promises tonight. Tonight she was free of the past, free of the future.

“What are you thinking?” Thorpe turned her into his arms as she laughed.

“That I'm glad it's raining.” Still laughing, she shook back her hair. Then his mouth was on hers. Liv threw her arms around his neck and gave herself totally to the moment.

He hadn't meant to kiss her. God, he hadn't meant to. He had only so much control to call upon. But at that instant, when she laughed and lifted her face to his, he couldn't resist. There was rain in her hair, on her cheeks. He could taste it on her lips.

He had never sensed this sort of abandonment in her before. It fanned his desire to a consuming fire. Couldn't she see how much he loved, how much he needed, and have pity on him if nothing else? Dear God, he thought, as he devoured her willing mouth, he was desperate enough to take pity if it was all she could give him. Crushing her to him, Thorpe buried his face against her throat.

Liv stepped back, drawing out of his arms to lean against a lamppost. Her heart was racing with a terrifying euphoria. The speed and force of her own passion left her shaken. And she had sensed something in him, a desperation that she didn't dare accept.

“Thorpe, I . . .” Swallowing, unable to admit what was happening to her, she shook her head. “I didn't mean for that—It just happened,” she finished helplessly.

Still throbbing, Thorpe went to her. “Liv,” he began, lifting a hand to her cheek.

“No, please.” She closed her eyes. There was a tug-of-war inside her—pulling toward him, pulling away. Perhaps if she could forget everything, wipe the slate clean until that moment, then . . . But no, there was no pushing aside what had been. She wasn't yet ready to start again. “I can't,” she whispered as she opened her eyes. “I just can't.”

Instead of taking his hand from her cheek, he turned it over, letting his knuckles brush along her skin. It would have been impossible to have wanted her any more than he did at that moment. “Can't,” he asked, “or won't?”

“I don't know,” she murmured.

“What do you want, Liv?”

“Tonight . . .” She lifted her hand to his. “Just be my friend tonight, Thorpe.”

There was a plea in her eyes that he couldn't ignore. “Tonight, Liv.” He took her by the shoulders. “Friends tonight, but I won't make any promises about tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.” Some of the tension seeped out of her. After a deep breath, she smiled at him. “Buy me a drink? I've waited twelve years to see the inside of a London pub.”

His hold slackened slowly. She caught a glimmer of the effort it took for him to release her. “I know a little place in Soho if it's still there.”

“Let's go see.” Liv linked her arm through his.

It was there—a bit more dingy than it had been seven years before. When he entered, Thorpe wondered if it were the scent of the same stale beer and tobacco that hung in the air.

“It's perfect!” Liv told him as she gazed around through the curtain of smoke. “Let's get a table.”

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.”