From the Heart

been assigned as the president’s press reporter. Thorpe would be traveling on Air Force One with the presidential entourage and the crew pooled from the various networks. WWBW could use Thorpe’s feed without dipping into the budget for the funds to send a reporter and crew of their own.
    It had taken Liv an hour of calm, lucid reasoning, and a further hour of determined arguing, to change Carl’s mind. Afterward, she had been torn between cheering or screaming in frustration. Thorpe. Whatever she did, wherever she went, he was always there to make things twice as difficult for her.
    And not just professionally.
    She couldn’t stop thinking about him. During the day, with the countless pressures of the job, he would crop up—either in person or by name. Then she would remember the dance at the embassy, the embrace on the terrace, the laughter at the ball game. At night, when she was alone, he would invade her mind, sneak into her thoughts. No matter what Liv did to prevent it, he would just suddenly be there. The way he laughed, the ironic lift of brow, the hard, rough hands. And worse, much worse, there were times she was certain she could taste his mouth on hers. That’s when the needs would grow out of nowhere—unexpected, vibrant. She was never certain whether to be angry or terrified.
    He had no right to bother her this way, she thought furiously as she groped in her briefcase for another pencil. He had no right to upset the order of her life. And that bet. Liv closed her eyes on a sigh of frustration. How had she ever allowed him to annoy her into making that ridiculous bet?
    Marriage! Could he possibly be unbalanced enough to think she would seriously consider marriage? With him? What sort of man would waltz up to a woman he knows canbarely tolerate his presence and announce his intention to marry her? A foolish one, Liv decided with a shrug, then caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Or a very shrewd one. Uncomfortably, Liv felt T.C. Thorpe fell into the latter category.
    Of course, it didn’t matter how shrewd he was; he couldn’t trick her into marriage, and she would never be talked into it. So, she was perfectly safe.
    Liv stared down at her notes and wondered why she didn’t feel that way.
     
    “Mike.” Thorpe slipped into the seat beside Press Secretary Donaldson.
    “T.C.” Donaldson closed a file folder and gave Thorpe a careful smile. He was a man who looked like someone’s kindly uncle: a little plump, beginning to go bald. His mind, however, was sharp and disciplined.
    “What have you got to give me?” Thorpe asked him, and settled himself comfortably.
    Donaldson raised both brows. “What’s there to give?” he countered. “A state funeral, condolences, support, some pomp and ceremony. You’ll have a lot of top officials, past and present, rubbing elbows. Royalty too. Good copy, T.C.” He reached in his pocket for his pipe, then slowly began to pack it. “There’ll be plenty to fill your time for the next couple of days. You’ve got the president’s itinerary.”
    Thorpe watched Donaldson push tobacco into the bowl with his thumb. “He’s going to be busy.”
    “He’s not going to London to sight-see,” Donaldson said dryly.
    “None of us are, Mike,” Thorpe reminded him. “All of us have our jobs. I wouldn’t want to think you were making mine tougher by holding back on me.”
    “Holding back, T.C. ?” Donaldson gave a quick laugh. “Even if I did, you usually manage to ferret out enough to get by.”
    “I notice there’s a couple extra secret service aboard,” Thorpe put in casually.
    Donaldson went right on filling his pipe. “First lady’s aboard, too.”
    “I counted her men, too.” Thorpe waited a moment before going on. “The funeral of a man like Summerfield brings diplomats from all over the world.” He paused, accepting coffee from the flight attendant while Donaldson eyed him over a lighted match. “Representatives from every country in the UN, and a few more. It promises to be quite a turnout.”
    “Depressing business, funerals,” Donaldson commented.
    “Mmm. Depressing,” Thorpe agreed. “And dangerous?”
    “All right, T.C., we’ve known each other too long. What are you fishing for?”
    “Vibrations,” Thorpe told him with a cool smile. “Any vibrations of trouble, Donaldson? Any reason the president or any of those other high political officials should be extra careful paying their last respects?”
    “What makes you