From the Heart

she would speak. But no words came. With the same slow care, he took his mouth on the journey his fingers had completed. Light, butterfly kisses roamed over her neck and face, teased her mouth. He used neither pressure nor demand, but let her own needs hold her prisoner.
    When he slipped his hands under her sweater, she made no attempt to stop him. Barely touching her, he ran the back of his fingers up her sides, then down again. He felt her quiver. Still, he deepened the kiss only slightly, a gentle exploration of the moist recesses of her mouth, a tender meeting of tongues.
    Liv didn’t resist him. It was as if she were too steeped in a conflict of her own making to reach for him or to push him away. Her breasts were firm and taut in his hands. The rough scrape of his palm against her sensitive skin brought a moan of pleasure from her.
    Somehow instinct warned him she should be treated as an innocent—with care, with patience. Yet all the while his desire for her increased. Her trembling excited him, but he needed more. He needed her to touch him, to ask for him. The passion was there; he had tasted it before. He wanted it now. His mouth pressed down on hers, drawing it, coaxing it. She was fighting herself more than him. Her breathing wasragged, her body pliant, but there was still a thin wall he had not yet broken through.
    Slowly, he unhooked her slacks, and with a groan, let his fingers reach for her. Soft—the incredible softness of her took him to the edge of control. For a moment she pressed against him convulsively. Life seemed to shoot into her entire body. Under his, her mouth was suddenly avid and demanding. Then she was pulling away, backing against the door. She shook her head frantically.
    “No. No, don’t do this.”
    “Liv.” Pushed to the limit, Thorpe brought her back into his arms. “I won’t hurt you. What are you afraid of?”
    It was too close, much too close. Her voice sharpened in defense. “I’m not afraid of anything. I want you to go; I want you to leave me alone.”
    With his temper straining, his grip on her tightened. “The hell you do.”
    His mouth came down hard on hers as fury and frustration seeped through. Even as she tried to protest, her lips were answering his.
    “Now look at me,” he demanded roughly, drawing her back by the shoulders. “Look at me and tell me you don’t want me.”
    She opened her mouth to tell him but the lie wouldn’t come. She could only stand and stare at him. All of her courage deserted her. She was totally without defense.
    “Damn you, Liv,” Thorpe muttered abruptly. Pushing her aside, he slammed out of the door.

10
    W hen Liv walked into WWBW on Monday morning, her thoughts were calm. She had spent the remainder of her weekend assessing her relationship with Thorpe. Relationship was not quite the word she liked to use. It implied something personal. Situation was a better choice.
    She had firmly decided against complications. It was true that she had found him more appealing, more enjoyable than she had thought she would. More fun. She had never considered Thorpe in the context of fun. He was an entertaining companion. And there was a quiet streak of kindness in him, which softened her.
    Liv was a cautious woman; circumstances had made her so. But she was honest with herself. She knew the cool, controlled Olivia Carmichael who delivered the five-thirty news was only part of the whole woman. A great deal of herself had been in storage. She had put it there for her own survival. It was true that Thorpe had begun to pick the lock, but the years had given her strength. If she wanted to keep herself shut off, she would. It was that simple. Or so she had convinced herself.
    Involvement didn’t always follow a physical attraction. She had no intention of becoming involved with Thorpe. They would still work closely now and again, and perhaps she would even consider seeing him socially on occasion. Perhaps it was time to start picking up the pieces of herpersonal life. She couldn’t mourn forever. But—she would not put herself into a position again where things could get out of hand with Thorpe. He wasn’t a man to underestimate.
    She had made a miscalculation when she had allowed her pride to push her into the ridiculous wager. A man like Thorpe, she mused, would only be all the more determined to have his way for the sheer devil of it. She should have simply ignored his fanciful statements about marriage.
    The memory of his pleased,