From the Heart (39 page)

“Think so?” She crossed them and gave them a critical stare. “You're probably right.”

She enjoyed his good-natured flirting. Bob was harmless, happily married with two growing children. A serious flirtation would have frozen her. She separated men into two categories: safe and dangerous. Bob was safe. She could relax with him.

“All right,” she said as the van stopped in front of the three-story brick house. “Try to look like respectable members of the working press.”

Grinning, Bob muttered a short expletive and climbed out of the back of the van.

At the front door, Liv was once again the cool, aloof newswoman; no one would dare to comment on her legs. Not out loud. She knocked briskly, leaving the crew to follow with their equipment.

“Olivia Carmichael,” she announced to the maid who opened the door. “To see Mr. Dell.”

“Yes.” The maid glanced past her with the slightest moue of disapproval at the blue-jeaned crew hauling equipment up the front steps. “This way, Ms. Carmichael. Mr. Dell will be right with you.”

Liv recognized the maid's disapproval. She thought little of it. Her own family and many of her childhood friends felt the same way about her profession.

The hall was an elegant, refined entrance to a wealthy home. Liv had seen the same hall in a dozen homes in a dozen styles when she was growing up. There had been hundreds of teas, stiff little parties and carefully organized outings, all of which had bored her to distraction. She never cast a glance at the Matisse on the wall on her left. She heard Bob's low whistle as he entered behind her.

“Some place,” he commented as his sneakers moved soundlessly over the parquet floor.

Liv made a distracted sound of agreement as she went back over her strategy. She had grown up in a home not so very much different from this one. Her mother had preferred
Chippendale to Louis XIV, but it was all the same. Even the scent was the same—lemon oil and fresh flowers. It stirred old memories.

Before Liv had taken two steps behind the maid, she heard the sound of male laughter.

“I'll swear, T.C., you know how to tell a story. I'll have to make sure the first lady's not around when I repeat that one.” Dell came lightly down the stairs, trim, handsomely sixtyish and beside Thorpe.

Liv felt her stomach muscles tighten.
Always one step ahead of me,
she thought on a swift rush of fury.
Damn!

Briefly, potently, she met Thorpe's eyes. He smiled, but it wasn't the same smile he had given to Dell as they had begun their descent.

“Ah, Ms. Carmichael.” Spotting her, Dell extended his hand as he crossed the hall. His voice was as smooth as his palm. His eyes were shrewd. “Very prompt. I hope I haven't kept you waiting.”

“No, Mr. Dell. I appreciate the time.” Liv let her eyes pass over Thorpe. “Mr. Thorpe.”

“Ms. Carmichael.”

“I know you're a busy man, Ambassador,” Liv turned her eyes back to him with a smile. “I won't take much of your time.” An unobtrusive move put the mike in her hand. “Would you be comfortable talking to me here?” she asked, to give the soundman a voice level.

“Fine.” He made an expansive gesture and gave a generous smile. The smile was the stock-in-trade of the diplomat. From the corner of her eye, Liv watched Thorpe move out of camera range to stand by the door. The eyes she felt on the back of her neck made her uncomfortable. Turning to Dell, she started her interview.

He continued to be expansive, cooperative, genial. Liv felt like a dentist trying to pull a tooth from a patient who smiled with his mouth firmly shut.

Of course he was aware that his name was being linked with the position to be vacated by Larkin. Naturally, he was flattered to be considered—by the press. Liv noted he was careful not to mention the president's name. She was being led in circles, gently, expertly. Just as gently, she backtracked
and probed from different angles. She was getting the tone she wanted, if not the firm words.

“Mr. Dell, has the president spoken to you directly about the appointment of a new Secretary of State?” She knew better than to expect a yes or no answer.

“The president and I haven't met to discuss an appointment.”

“But you have met with him?” she persisted.

“I have occasion to meet with the president from time to time.” At his subtle signal, the maid appeared at his elbow with his coat and hat. “I'm sorry I can't give you more time, Ms. Carmichael.” He was shrugging into his coat. Liv knew she was losing him. She moved with him to the door.

“Are you seeing the president this morning, Mr. Dell?” It was a blunt question, but it wasn't the verbal answer Liv looked for as much as the reaction in the eyes of the man she asked. She saw it—the faint flicker, the briefest hesitation.

“Possibly.” Dell extended his hand. “A pleasure talking to you, Ms. Carmichael. I'm afraid I have to run. Traffic is so heavy at this time of the morning.”

Liv lifted a hand to signal Bob to stop the tape. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Dell.” After passing the mike to the soundman, Liv followed Dell and Thorpe outside.

“Always a pleasure.” He patted her hand and smiled with his old-world southern charm. “Now you be sure to call Anna, T.C.” He turned to Thorpe and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “She wants to hear from you.”

“I'll do that.”

Dell walked down the steps to the discreet black limo where his driver waited.

“Not bad, Carmichael,” Thorpe commented as the limo pulled away. “You do a tough interview. Of course . . .” He looked down at her and smiled. “Dell's been dancing his way around tough interviews for years.”

Liv gave him a cool stare. “What were you doing here?”

“Having breakfast,” he answered easily. “I'm an old family friend.”

She would have liked to knock the smile from his face with a good swift punch. Instead, she meticulously pulled on her gloves. “Dell's going to get that appointment.”

Thorpe lifted a brow. “Is that a statement, Olivia, or a question?”

“I wouldn't ask you for the time of day, Thorpe,” she retorted. “And you wouldn't give it to me if I did.”

“I've always said you were a sharp lady.”

Good God, she's beautiful, he thought. When he saw her on the air, it was easy to attribute the nearly impossible beauty to lighting, makeup, camera angles. But standing face to face in harsh morning light, she was quite simply the most physically beautiful woman he had ever seen. The incredible bone structure; the flawless skin. Only her eyes were hot, giving away the fury she was controlling. Thorpe smiled again. He loved to watch the ice crack.

“Is that the problem, Thorpe?” Liv demanded as she stepped aside to let the crew pass. “Don't you like reporters who happen to be women?”

He laughed and shook his head. “You know better than that, Liv. ‘Reporter' is a word without sex.”

His eyes weren't intense now, but filled with good humor. She didn't like them any better. More accurately, she refused to like them any better. “Why won't you cooperate with me?” The wind was tossing his hair around his face as it had the night before. Thorpe seemed untouched by the cold as Liv shivered inside her coat. “We have the same job; we work for the same people.”

“My turf,” he said quietly. “If you want a share, Liv, you're going to have to fight for it. It took me years to establish myself here. Don't expect to do the same in months.” He saw her shudder against the cold as she continued to glare at him. “You'd better get inside the van.”

“I'm going to have my share, Thorpe.” It was half threat, half warning. “You're going to have a hell of a fight on your hands.”

Thorpe inclined his head in acknowledgment. “I'll count on it.”

It was obvious to him that Liv wasn't leaving until he did. She would stand there shivering for an hour out of sheer stubbornness. Without a word, Thorpe walked down the steps to his car.

Liv stood for another moment after he'd driven off. She
was aware—and annoyed by the fact—that she was able to breathe with more ease when he was no longer standing beside her. He had a strong personality; it was impossible to be indifferent to him. He demanded definite emotions. Liv decided hers were all unflattering.

He wasn't going to block her way. She wasn't going to put up with it. She walked down the steps to the van slowly.

Anna, she thought suddenly, remembering the name Dell had mentioned to Thorpe. Anna Dell Monroe—Dell's daughter and official hostess since the death of her mother. Anna Dell Monroe. Whatever was going on in her father's life, she'd know about it. Moving quickly now, Liv climbed in the van.

“We'll drop the tape at the station for editing; then we head for Georgetown.”

L
iv typed furiously. She had given Carl the Dell interview for the noon news; but she had more, a great deal more, for the evening show. Her hunch about Anna Monroe had paid off. Anna knew the details of her father's life. Though she had been careful during the interview, she wasn't the trained diplomat her father was. Liv had enough from her half-hour interview in the parlor of Anna Monroe's Georgetown row house to give her viewers a story with touches of glamour and suspense.

The tape was good. She had already taken a quick look at it while it was still being edited. Bob had captured the stylish elegance of the room and the gentle, privileged breeding of the woman. It would be a good contrast to the compact shrewdness of her father. Anna's respect for her father came through, as well as her taste for the finer things. Liv had worked both into the interview. It was a solid piece of reporting, and it gave a glimpse of the larger-than-life world of affluent people in politics.

Liv transcribed her notes hurriedly.

“Liv, we need you for the voice-over on the tease.”

She glanced up long enough to search for Brian. The look she gave him made him sigh. He pushed away from his desk and stretched his shoulders. “All right, all right, I'll do it. But you owe me one.”

“You're a prince, Brian.” She went back to her typing.

Ten minutes later, Liv pulled the last sheet from her typewriter. “Carl!” she called to the director as he crossed the newsroom toward his office. “Copy for the lead story.”

“Bring it in.”

As she rose, Liv checked the clock. She had an hour before air time.

The television was on, its volume low, when she entered Carl's office. Seated behind his desk, he checked copy and time allowances.

“Did you see the tape yet?” Liv handed him her pages.

“It's good.” He lit a cigarette from the butt of another and gave a quick, hacking cough. “We'll run part of this morning's business with Dell, then lead into the interview with the daughter.”

He read Liv's copy with a small furrow of concentration between his brows. It was a good, tidy story, giving quick bios on all top contenders for the cabinet post, and focusing in on Beaumont Dell. It gave the audience a full, open view before it brought them to Dell's doorstep.

Liv watched smoke curl toward the ceiling and waited.

“I want to flash pictures of the rest of them while you read the bios.” He scribbled notes on her script. “We should have them on file. If not, we'll get them from upstairs.” Upstairs was the term for CNC's Washington bureau. “Looks like you're going to have about three minutes to fill.”

“I want three and a half.” She waited until Carl looked up at her. “We don't replace many secretaries of state midterm, Carl. Our next biggest story is the possibility of a partial shutdown of the Potomac River filtration system. This is worth three and a half.”

“Go argue with the time editor,” he suggested, then held up his hand as she began to speak.

Liv saw immediately what had shifted his attention. The graphics for a special bulletin flashed across the screen. She obeyed his quick hand signal to turn up the volume. Even as she did, T.C. Thorpe stared directly into her eyes. Liv hadn't been prepared for the intensity of the look.

She felt a sexual pull—a quick, unexpected flash of desire. It left her stunned. She leaned back against Carl's desk. She hadn't felt anything like that in more than five years. Staring
at the television image, she missed the first few words of Thorpe's report.

“ . . . has accepted Secretary of State Larkin's resignation as expected. Secretary Larkin resigned his cabinet post for reasons of poor health. He remains in Bethesda Naval Hospital recovering from extensive cardiac surgery performed last week. With the acceptance of Larkin's resignation, the president has appointed Beaumont Dell to fill the vacated post. Dell officially accepted an hour ago in a meeting in the Oval Office. Press Secretary Donaldson has scheduled a press conference tomorrow at nine A.M.”

Liv felt the supports fall out from under her and leaned back heavily. She heard Thorpe recap the bulletin while she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Carl was already swearing.

Her story was dead. The guts had just been torn out of it.
And he had known it.
Liv straightened as the scheduled program flashed back on the screen. He'd known it at eight o'clock that morning.

“Do the rewrites,” Carl was telling her, grabbing for his phone as it rang. “And get somebody upstairs for Thorpe's copy. We need it to fill in. The bit with the daughter is scrubbed.”

Liv grabbed her papers from Carl's desk and marched to the door.

“They need you in makeup, Liv.”

She ignored the statement and continued out of the newsroom. Impatient, she paced back and forth in front of the elevator, waiting for it to make the descent.

He's not going to get away with it, she fumed. He's not going to get away with this without a scratch.

She continued to pace back and forth inside the elevator on her way to the fourth floor. It had been years—she could count the years—since anything or anyone had made her this angry. She was bursting with the need to let out her temper. And there was only one man who deserved the full force of it.

“Thorpe,” she demanded curtly when she entered the fourth-floor newsroom.

A reporter glanced up and cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of her phone. “In his office.”

This time Liv took the stairs. She darted up them, forgetting her carefully constructed poise and control.

“Ms. Carmichael.” The receptionist outside the fifth-floor offices rose as Liv dashed through. “Ms. Carmichael!” she repeated to Liv's retreating back. “Whom did you want to see? Ms. Carmichael!”

Liv burst into Thorpe's office without a knock. “You louse.”

Thorpe stopped typing and turned toward the door. He watched, more intrigued than annoyed, as the unannounced visitor crossed the room. “Olivia.” He leaned back, but didn't rise. “What a nice surprise.” He noted the receptionist hovering in the doorway and shook his head slightly to send her away. “Have a seat,” he invited with a gesture of his hand. “I don't believe you've graced my office in over a year.”

“You killed my story.” Liv, her copy still in her hand, remained standing and leaned over his desk.

He noted the high color in her normally pale face, the dark fury in her normally calm eyes. Her hair was mussed from her mad scramble up the steps and she was breathing hard. Thorpe was fascinated. How far, he wondered, could he push before she really let loose? He decided to find out.

“What story?”

“You know damn well.” She put her palms down on the desk and leaned over farther. “You did it deliberately.”

“I do most things deliberately,” he agreed easily. “If you're talking about the Dell story, Liv,” he continued, sweeping his eyes back to hers, “it wasn't your story. It was mine. It
is
mine.”

“You broke it forty-five minutes before my broadcast.” Her voice was raised in fury, something he had never witnessed before. To his knowledge, Olivia Carmichael never spoke above her carefully modulated pitch. Her anger was usually ice, not fire.

“So?” He laced his fingers together and watched her over them. “You've got a complaint about my timing?”

“You've left me holding nothing.” She held out her copy, then crumpled it and let it drop. “I've worked for two weeks
putting this together, since Larkin had the heart attack. You killed it in two minutes.”

“I'm not responsible for protecting your story, Carmichael; you are. Better luck next time.”

“Oh!” Enraged, Liv struck both fists on the mahogany desk. “You're contemptible. I poured hours into this story, hundreds of phone calls, miles of legwork. It's because of you that I have an obstacle course to run in the first place.” Her eyes narrowed, and he noted that a faint New England accent was slipping through. “Do I scare you that much, Thorpe? Are you so insecure about your sanctified piece of turf and the mundane quality of your reporting?”

“Insecure?” He was up, leaning on the desk until they were nose to nose. “Worrying about you inching onto my ground doesn't keep me up at night, Carmichael. I don't concern myself with junior reporters who try to scramble up the ladder three rungs at a time. Come back when you've paid your dues.”

Liv made a low sound of fury. “Don't talk to me about paying dues, Thorpe. I started paying mine eight years ago.”

“Eight years ago I was in Lebanon dodging bullets while you were at Harvard dodging football players.”

“I never dodged football players,” Liv retorted furiously. “And that's totally irrelevant. You knew this morning; you knew what was going down.”

“And what if I did?”

“You knew I'd be spinning my wheels. Don't you feel any loyalty to the local station?”

“No.”

His answer was so matter-of-fact, it threw her for a moment. “You started there.”

“Would you call WTRL in Jersey and give them your exclusive because you read the weather there?” he countered. “Drop the alma mater routine, Liv; it doesn't cut it.”

“You're despicable.” Her voice had dropped to a dangerous level. “All you had to do was tell me you were going to break the story.”

“And you'd have politely folded your hands and let me break it first?” She watched the ironical lift of his brow. “You'd have slit my throat to put that story on the air.”

“Gladly.”

He laughed then. “You're honest when you're mad, Liv—and gorgeous.” He took some papers from his desk and held them out to her. “You'll need my notes to revise your lead. You've less than thirty minutes until air.”

“I know what time it is.” She ignored the outstretched papers. She had an almost irresistible urge to hurl something through the plate glass window at his back. “We're going to settle this, Thorpe—if not now, soon. I'm tired of having to crawl over your back for every one of my stories.” She snatched the notes, hating to accept anything from him, but knowing she was boxed in.

“Fine.” He watched her retrieve her own crumpled copy. “Meet me for drinks tonight.”

“Not on your life.” She turned and headed for the door.

“Afraid?”

The one softly taunting word stopped her. Liv turned and glared at him. “O'Riley's, eight o'clock.”

“You're on.” Thorpe grinned as she slammed the door behind her.

So, he thought when he settled back in his chair. There is flesh and blood under the silk. He'd begun to have his doubts. It appears I've made my first move. He laughed a little as he swiveled to stare out at his view of the city.

Damn but she'd made him mad. All for the best, he decided; otherwise he'd still be biding his time. One of the most important qualities a reporter had to have was patience. Thorpe had been patient for more than a year. Sixteen months, he thought, to be exact.

Since the first night he'd watched her broadcast. He remembered the low, calm voice, the cool, clean beauty. His attraction had been immediate and absolute. The moment he had met her, felt that aloof gaze on him, he had wanted her. Instinct had told him to hold off, keep a distance. There was more to Olivia Carmichael than met the eye.

He could have checked her background thoroughly. He had the talent, the contacts. Yet something had curbed his reporter's drive to know. He had fallen back on patience. Having spent time cooling his heels staking out politicians,
Thorpe knew all about patience. He sat back and lit a cigarette. It looked as though it were about to pay off.

 

At eight o'clock, Liv pulled into a parking space beside O'Riley's. For an instant she rested her brow against the steering wheel. All too clearly, she could picture herself storming through the newsrooms and into Thorpe's office. With perfect clarity, she heard herself shouting at him.

She detested losing her temper, detested more losing it in front of Thorpe. From the first time she had met him face to face, Liv had recognized a man she would need to keep at a distance. He was too strong, too charismatic. He fell into the “dangerous” category. Headed it, in fact.

She had wanted to keep an impersonal distance, and formality was necessary for that. A few hours before, Liv had dropped all formality. You couldn't be formal with someone when you were pressed nose to nose and shouting.

“I'm not cool and unruffled,” she murmured, “no matter how hard I try to be.” And, she realized with a sigh, Thorpe knew it.

When she was a child, she had been the misfit. In a family of sedate, well-mannered people, she had asked too many questions, cried too many tears, laughed too lustily. Unlike her sister, she hadn't been interested in party dresses and ribbons. She had wanted a dog to run with, not the quiet little poodle her mother had babied. She had wanted a tree house, not the tidy pristine playhouse her father had hired an architect to build. She had wanted to race, and had been constantly told to walk.

Liv had escaped from the strict rules and expectations of being a Carmichael. There had been freedom in college . . . and more. Liv had thought she had found everything she could ever want. Then, she had lost it. For the last six years, she had been dealing with a new phase in her growth. The final phase, she had determined. She had only herself to think about, and her career. She hadn't lost the thirst for freedom, but she had learned caution.

Liv straightened and shook her head. This wasn't the time to think of her past. Her present—and her future—demanded her attention. I won't lose my temper again, she promised
herself as she climbed from the car. I won't give him the satisfaction.

She walked into O'Riley's to meet Thorpe.

He saw her enter. He'd been watching for her. She's slipped the veil back on, he noted. Her face was composed, her eyes serene as they scanned the room in search of him. Standing in the noise and smoke, she looked like marble—cool and smooth and exquisite. Thorpe wanted to touch her, feel her skin, watch her eyes heat. Anger wasn't the only passion he wanted to bring out in her. The desire he had banked down for months was beginning to crowd him.