From the Heart

prefer reporting stories, not being featured in them.”
    Liv drew away when the music ended. “I’m going to checkout your theory about the ladies’ room,” she said evenly. Her heart was racing. She detested him for being right.
    Thorpe watched her move away. He suddenly wished the damn party were over so he could have her alone, even for a few minutes. His body still tingled from the brush of hers against it. He had never wanted a woman so badly, nor been as frustratingly certain of the uphill battle he had yet to fight. Taking out a cigarette, he flicked on his lighter and drew deeply.
    He was used to pressure in his work. In truth, he thrived on it. That was his secret. He could go for days on snatches of sleep and still throb with energy. He didn’t need vitamins, just a story. But this was a different sort of pressure—wanting something and knowing it was still out of reach. Not for long, he decided grimly, and drew on the cigarette again. If he had to lay siege to Olivia Carmichael, that’s exactly what he’d do. She wasn’t getting away from him.
    “T.C., you pirate. How are you?”
    Thorpe turned and clasped hands with the Canadian ambassador’s press secretary. Returning the greeting, he reminded himself to relax. A successful siege took time.
     
    Liv took her time renewing makeup which needed no renewing. She tried, as she dusted powder on her nose, to consider her response to Thorpe logically. Hadn’t she termed him a charismatic man? Even attractive, she admitted reluctantly, in a purely physical, athletic way. That had nothing to do with his being difficult and frustrating.
    “Of course he’s a pompous old bat, but I rather like him.”
    Liv glanced in the glass to see the reflections of two women who entered. One was Congresswoman Amelia Thaxter, a thin, hardworking woman who had a penchant for lost causes and dowdy clothes. Her constituents loved her, proving it by electing her for a second term by a landslide.
    The woman with her, who was speaking, was also fiftyish, but plumper and dressed in elegant gray silk. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Liv took out her compact a second time and listened.
    “You’re more tolerant than I am, Myra.” Amelia sat down and tiredly took out a comb.
    “Rod’s not a bad sort, Amelia.” Myra sat and took out asilver case of flashy red lipstick. “If you’d use a bit of honey, you might find him a help instead of a hindrance.”
    “He’s not concerned with the ecological problems of South Dakota,” Amelia put in. She hadn’t bothered to use the comb, but kept tapping it against the palm of her hand. “No matter what you or I say to him tonight, he’s not going to support me when I put my proposal on the floor Monday.”
    “We’ll see.” Myra slashed on the lipstick.
    Rod, Liv realized as she slipped a thin brush out of her purse, was Roderick Matte, one of the more influential men in Congress. If a vote was going to be close, he was the man to sway.
    A pompous old bat, Liv thought, and suppressed a grin. Yes, he was that, as well as his party’s hope for the highest office in Washington in the next election. Or so the rumors went.
    The congresswoman muttered at the comb, then stuck it back in her purse. “He’s a bigoted, narrow-minded pain in the—”
    “My dear,” Myra said sweetly, interrupting her friend’s impassioned speech with a smile for Liv, “that’s a perfectly stunning dress.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Didn’t I see you with T.C. ?” The woman took out a small vial of expensive perfume and used it lavishly.
    “Yes, we came together.” Liv vacillated between identifying herself and keeping silent. She decided it was both wiser and more fair to establish her credentials. “I’m Olivia Carmichael with WWBW.”
    Amelia made a small, unidentifiable sound, but Myra pressed on, undisturbed. “How interesting. I don’t watch the local news, I’m afraid, or much news at all, except for T.C.’s reports. News tends to give Herbert indigestion.”
    Justice Herbert Ditmyer. Liv finally placed the face. Justice Ditmyer’s wife, Myra, a woman with power and influence enough of her own to call Congressman Matte a pompous old bat without fear of repercussions.
    “We’re on at five-thirty, Mrs. Ditmyer,” Olivia told her. “Your husband might find our broadcast easy to digest.”
    Myra laughed, but she was studying Liv carefully. “I knowsome Carmichaels. Connecticut. You wouldn’t be Tyler’s younger