From the Heart (50 page)

“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. “Reporting 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.”

“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?”