From the Heart

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. Staringat 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