From the Heart

“We’ll have to save it for later,” he told her.
    Freed of the trance, Liv stepped out of his reach. “There is no later,” she snapped, then cursed herself as she took a place in the press room.
    It took Thorpe less than thirty minutes to brief his colleagues and send them rushing off to complete their own reports. When he finally reached his own room, he had put in a twenty-hour day. Heading for the shower, he stripped on the way.
    Liv walked into her room and let the bellboy bring in her bags. She waited while he fussed around the room opening drapes, checking the towel count. What she wanted was a pot of tea from room service, and her bed.
    Jet lag, she thought wearily as she stuffed a pound note into the bellboy’s hand. Why was it her sister never suffered from it no matter how many times she zipped here or there, country to country, party to party? If she had been Melinda, she would never have settled down with a cup of tea and a quiet room. She would have changed and rushed out to take in London’s night life.
    But she wasn’t Melinda, Liv reminded herself as she slipped out of her suit jacket. And she had already crammed a day and a half into a scant twenty-four hours. Tomorrow, Liv mused, stepping out of her shoes, there wouldn’t be a moment’s rest. Glancing in the mirror, she spotted the faint shadows of fatigue. It wouldn’t do to have them show up on camera. A cup of tea, then a quick glance at her notes before sleep, she decided. She was heading for the phone to order when she heard the knock on the connecting door.
    She frowned at it, then gave a sigh of annoyance. If one of the other reporters wanted to party or discuss the angles of the Summerfield story, she wasn’t interested.
    “Who is it?”
    “Just another member of the working press, Carmichael.”
    “Thorpe!” The word came out in a rush of indignation. Without thinking, she flicked the lock and opened the door. He was leaning against the jamb, smiling, dressed only in a worn terry cloth robe. His hair was still damp from his shower, and the scent of soap and shaving lotion clung to him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
    “Reporting the news,” he said soberly. “It’s my job.”
    “You know very well what I mean,” she tossed back between her teeth. “What are you doing in the room next to mine?”
    “The luck of the draw?” he ventured.
    “How much did you give the desk clerk to arrange it?”
    He grinned. “Liv, I don’t have to respond to a leading question. You’ll have to get that corroborated and ask me again.” Still grinning, he let his eyes roam down to her stocking feet. “Going out?”
    “No, I am not.” Liv folded her arms and prepared to deliver a heated setdown.
    “Good. I’d prefer a cozy evening at home.” He took a stepinto her room. Liv’s hand shot up to his chest. “Now look, Thorpe.” Her palm had connected with his naked chest where the robe crossed over, and the sudden movement spread the material farther apart. Little more than dark, springy hair covered him to his waist. He continued to smile, unabashed, when she dropped her hand. “You’re insufferable.”
    “I do my best.” Lifting his hand, he twined a lock of her hair around his finger. “If you’d rather go out,” he began.
    “I am not going out,” she repeated furiously. “And there’s not going to be any cozy evening either. I want you to understand—”
    “Haven’t you ever heard that colleagues on foreign soil have to stick together?” His grin was suddenly boyish and impossible to resist. Liv struggled to keep her lips in a straight line.
    “I’m making an exception in your case, Thorpe.” She added on a note of exasperation. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
    “Liv, it isn’t traditional for a man to leave his fiancée alone.”
    His tone was so reasonable it took her a full ten seconds to react. “ Fiancée? I am not your fiancée,” she shouted at him. “I am not going to marry you.”
    “You want to add another hundred to the bet?”
    “No!” She poked her finger into his chest. “Now you listen to me, Thorpe. Your delusions are your own business; leave me out of them. I’m not interested.”
    “You might be,” he said pleasantly. “Some of my delusions are really fascinating.”
    “And I’m not going to sleep next door to a lunatic. I’m getting another room.” With that she whirled away.
    “Afraid?” he asked, following her as she snatched up her