From the Heart

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 promisedherself 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.
    How long will it take to peel away those protective layers? he mused. He was willing to take his time, enjoy the challenge, because he intended to win. Thorpe wasn’t accustomed to losing. He waited until her eyes settled on him. He smiled and inclined his head, but didn’t rise to lead her to the table. He liked the way she walked—smooth, fluid, with undercurrents of sensuality.
    “Hello, Olivia.”
    “Thorpe.” Liv slid into the booth opposite him.
    “What’ll you have?”
    “Wine.” She glanced up at the waiter, who was already at her elbow. “White wine, Lou.”
    “Sure, Ms. Carmichael. Another round, Mr. Thorpe?”
    “No, thanks.” He lifted his scotch. He had noted the quick smile she had given the young waiter. It had warmed her face for a brief moment. Then her eyes were back on his, and the warmth was gone.
    “All right, Thorpe; if we’re