From the Heart

daughter, would you?”
    Liv was used to the nameless term. “Yes, I am.”
    Myra’s face split into a smile. “Isn’t that something. The last time I saw you, you were seven or eight years old. Your mother was giving a proper little tea, and you came into the parlor—a scruffy thing with a rip the size of a fist in your skirt and the buckle off your shoe. I believe you got quite a scold.”
    “I usually did,” Liv agreed, not remembering the particular incident, but others like it.
    “I remember thinking you must have had a great deal more fun that afternoon than the rest of us did.” She gave a gleaming smile. “Your mother gave a stuffy party.”
    “Myra, really.” Amelia took her mind from her pending bill long enough to give a disapproving tsh-tsh.
    “It’s all right, Congresswoman,” Liv said smoothly. “She still does, I believe.”
    “I must say, I would never have recognized you.” Myra rose and brushed off her skirt. “Quite an elegant young woman now. Married?”
    “No.”
    “Are you and T.C . . . . ?” She let the sentence trail off delicately.
    “No,” Liv said positively.
    “Do you play bridge?”
    Liv lifted a brow. “Poorly. I never acquired a taste for it.”
    “My dear, a detestable game, but useful.” She plucked a business card out of her bag and handed it to Liv. “I’m having a card party next week. Call my secretary Monday; she’ll give you the details. I have a nephew I’m rather fond of.”
    “Mrs. Ditmyer—”
    “He won’t bore you—at least not too much,” Myra continued smoothly. “And I think I’m going to like you. My husband will be there,” she added, shrewd enough to dangle tempting bait before the reporter. “He’d love to meet you.”
    “Let’s go back, Myra,” Amelia suggested, wearily rising. “Before you’re up on bribery charges. Good evening, Ms. Carmichael.”
    “Good evening, Congresswoman.”
    Alone, Liv studied the elegant little calling card for a moment, then dropped it into her purse. One didn’t turn up one’s nose at a direct invitation from Myra Ditmyer—even if it included bridge and a nephew.
    Snapping her purse shut, Liv rejoined the party.
    “I was beginning to think you were holding a press conference in there,” Thorpe commented, offering her a fresh glass of wine.
    She gave him an enigmatic smile. “Close.”
    “Want to elaborate?”
    “Does accepting your invitation mean I have to share?” Liv took a careless sip of wine. She was feeling curiously buoyant. Three unexpected contacts in one evening was well worth the trip. “Actually,” she continued, “I believe I’m going to be a blind date at a bridge party.”
    “Date?” Thorpe frowned. He had noted the women who had come out of the powder room before Liv.
    “Yes, date. You know—a man and a woman finding a common interest for a certain number of hours.”
    “Cute. Had enough of this place?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes.” Liv took a last sip, then handed him back the glass.
    “We’ll get your coat.” He took her arm and propelled her through the room.
     
    “I do appreciate your letting me tag along, Thorpe.” Liv reached for her keys as they stepped from the elevator on her floor.
    “Tag along,” he repeated. “That wasn’t included in your definition of a date, was it?”
    “This wasn’t a date.”
    “Still.” Thorpe took the keys from her and slipped one into the lock on the door. “Good manners would buy me a cup of coffee.”
    “Fifty cents would buy you one down the street.”
    “Liv.” Thorpe gave her an offended look that made her smile.
    “All right, manners it is. A cup’s worth.”
    “You’re incredibly generous,” he told her as he opened the door.
    Liv tossed her coat on a chair as she walked to the kitchen. He eyed the coat with a small smile. Now and again, she forgot the carefully created image she had built. Olivia Carmichael would never throw down a coat—much too fastidious. Much too organized. More than ever, Thorpe wanted to know the woman behind the image. There was warmth there, humor, passion—all hidden behind a thin shield. The shield had been raised for a reason. He intended—sooner or later—to find out what it was.
    She liked color, he decided. He’d noted it before in the way she dressed. Now he noted it again in the furnishings of her apartment: a brilliant blue throw pillow, a persimmon-colored bowl. Small signs of fire, he thought, like the quick flare of temper. She banked