From the Heart

she had erected. She wanted only to experience again, to feel again.
    His heart beat against hers, lightly, quickly, making her understand the hunger was mutual. She was wanted—desired. What would it be like to make love with him? What would it be like to feel his skin against hers? To have his hands touch her? But no—she couldn’t let herself imagine. She couldn’t stop herself from imagining.
    He let his lips wander to the crest of her cheekbone, then on to her temple. “I’d like to continue this someplace moreprivate. I want to touch you, Liv.” His mouth came back to hers, hot, possessive. “All of you. I don’t want an audience.” He drew back until his eyes locked on hers. He saw desire, and his own clawed at him. “Come home with me.”
    Her heartbeat was echoing in her head, fast and furious. For the first time in years, it would have been so simple to say yes. She wanted him, shockingly. It overwhelmed her. How had it happened so quickly? If someone had suggested a month before that she would be tempted to make love with Thorpe, she would have laughed. Now, it didn’t seem ludicrous at all. It seemed natural. It frightened her. Liv drew out of his arms and ran a hand through her hair. She needed some room, some time.
    “No. No, I’m not ready for this.” She told herself to take a deep breath, and did so carefully. “Thorpe, you make me nervous.”
    “Good.” He fought back a powerful surge of need and leaned back. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”
    She managed a husky laugh. “You don’t bore me. I don’t know exactly what my feelings are toward you. I’m not even sure you’re quite stable. This—this delusion you have about getting married . . .”
    “I’m going to remind you of this conversation on our first anniversary.” He put the car in first. If he was driving, he might keep himself from touching her again. Thorpe was discovering he wasn’t as patient as he had thought.
    “Thorpe, that’s ridiculous.”
    “Think of what it’s going to do for the ratings.”
    She wondered how he could be likable one minute, desirable the next, and then infuriating. Liv was torn between laughing and beating her head against the windshield in frustration.
    “Okay, Thorpe,” she began, opting for patience as he joined a stream of traffic. “I’m going to make this crystal clear in the simplest terms I can. I am not going to marry you. Ever.”
    “Wanna bet?” he countered smoothly. He shot her a grin. “I’ve got fifty says you will.”
    “Do you seriously expect me to bet on something like that?”
    “No sporting blood.” He shook his head. “I’m disappointed, Carmichael.”
    Liv narrowed her eyes. “Make it a hundred, Thorpe. I’ll give you two-to-one odds.”
    He grinned again and cruised through a yellow light. “You’re on.”

7
    P rime Minister Summerfield’s death was unexpected. The fatal stroke which ended the British official’s life left his country saddened. It sent the world press into a fever of preparation. There were special reports to air, recaps of Summerfield’s forty-year career in British government to assemble, reactions to gather from the heads of other countries. How would the death of one man affect the balance of power in the world?
    Two days after the prime minister’s death was announced, the president was in Air Force One, crossing the Atlantic to attend the funeral. Thorpe was with him.
    As press reporter, it would be his job to stick by the president, as close as a reporter was allowed, then share his information with the other news people who took the same journey on the press plane. He had a crew, pooled from the networks, ready to film any pertinent business on the flight. The cameraman, lighting and sound technicians were settled in the rear of the plane with their equipment close at hand. Their colleagues and backups were following on the press plane. In the forward portion of Air Force One were the president, first lady, and their entourages—secretaries, secret service, advisors. The mood was subdued.
    Behind Thorpe, members of the pool crew played a quiet game of poker. Even the swearing was low key. On mosttrips, he would have joined them, whiled away the hours with a few hands, a few stories . . . but he had a lot on his mind.
    The job itself would keep him occupied on the plane ride. He had research and information to put together and pick apart, a loose script to outline for the day of the funeral. Then, in