From the Heart

away.
    “Brian, thanks.” She tightened the grip a moment when he started to shrug it off. “I mean it.”
    “You’re welcome.” He pulled her to her feet. “It’s nearly airtime. You’d better haul yourself into makeup and have them do something about those shadows under your eyes.”
    Liv lifted her fingers to them automatically. “That bad?”
    “Bad enough.”
    With a quiet oath, Liv walked off to follow Brian’s advice. The last thing she needed was to appear haggard on the air. It would be her luck to go on looking as if she hadn’t slept, and then have Thorpe catch her broadcast.
     
    So I haven’t been sleeping well, Liv thought as she took her place on the set. It hasn’t anything to do with Thorpe. I’ve just been a bit restless lately. And I was at the southwest gate of the White House at eight o’clock this morning waiting to catch comments from cabinet officials. I’m a bit tired. It has nothing to do with the night of the embassy party . . . or what happened later.
    Liv clipped on her mike, then flipped through the script one last time. Timing was important as story was piled on top of story.
    She’d been working too hard. That’s what she told herself. The last few days had been particularly hectic—that was all. T.C. Thorpe had been the last thing on her mind. There’d been the aftermath of Dell’s appointment, then that mess at the school board to cover. She frowned down at the script and told herself she hadn’t given a thought to her last meeting with Thorpe. It hadn’t crossed her mind since it happened. Not once. Only a thousand times.
    Swearing silently, she heard the thirty-second cue. She straightened in her chair and glanced up. Thorpe stood in the back of the studio. He was watching her steadily, eyes level as he leaned back against the heavy doors.
    Fifteen seconds.
    What is he doing here? Liv felt her throat go dry. Ridiculous, she told herself, and tore her eyes away from his to the camera.
    Ten seconds.
    The monitor was flashing the opening, an aerial view of the city.
    Five seconds. Four, three, two, one. Cue.
    “Good evening, this is Olivia Carmichael.” Her voice was cool and precise. It amazed her that her palms were damp. She read off the lead story, then never glanced toward the rearof the studio as they went to tape for the reporter’s stand-up on location.
    The cameras switched between Liv and Brian, keeping the pace brisk. She gave her report on the school board meeting without missing a beat, though she could feel the physical pressure of Thorpe’s eyes on her face.
    She gave the depressing news on the wholesale price index. To her knowledge, Thorpe never came to the studio before or during a broadcast. Why wasn’t he upstairs where he belonged, polishing his own words of wisdom?
    There was a buildup of tension at the base of her neck, which increased when they broke for commercial. Liv knew, without glancing over, that he was coming toward her.
    “Nice style, Liv,” Thorpe commented. “Sharp, cool and clean.”
    “Thank you.” The sportscaster settled into his chair at the end of the table.
    “Going to the Ditmyer card party tonight?”
    There was nothing he didn’t know, she decided, and folded her hands over her copy. “Yes.”
    “Want a lift?”
    Now she met his eyes directly. “Are you going?”
    “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty. We’ll grab some dinner first.”
    “No.”
    He leaned a bit closer. “I can arrange for you to be my partner tonight.”
    “You’ll lose,” she told him. She had never known a set of commercials to take so long.
    “No,” he corrected, and smiled. “I don’t intend to lose.” He kissed her quickly, casually, before she could prevent it, then sauntered away.
    Thirty seconds.
    She scowled as the doors swung behind his back. Without turning, she could feel the speculative gazes on her. Thorpe had successfully set the ball rolling. And the tongues wagging.
    Ten seconds.
    Fuming, she vowed to make him pay for it.
    Cue.
    * * *
    Liv arrived at the Ditmyers’ promptly at eight. Bridge wasn’t the inducement. She could remember the dry, stuffy card parties her mother had given when she was growing up. Liv remembered Myra’s flashy red lipstick and careless gossip from the powder room at the embassy. She pressed the doorbell and smiled. She didn’t think Myra Ditmyer gave stuffy parties. And, she reminded herself, how often does a reporter get invited to the home of a justice of the Supreme