From the Heart

clearly when he was alone. There hadn’t been another woman who could make him ache at the thought of waiting. She was a challenge, yes, and Thorpe thrived on a challenge. But that wasn’t why he was there. He loved her. He wanted her. And, he was determined he was going to have her. He pressed the doorbell and waited.
    Liv had her coat over her arm when she opened the door. She had no intention of letting him in. If she was going to be with him, she preferred a restaurant where there would be no danger of making the mistake she had already made too many times.
    “I’m ready,” she said in her most distant tone.
    “So I see.” He didn’t move as she shut the door at her back.She was forced to push him out of her way or stand still. She stood still. He must have come straight from his broadcast, though Liv had no intention of admitting to him that she had watched it. He had removed his tie, however, and had loosened the first few buttons of his shirt. He looked as relaxed as she was tense.
    “You’re still mad.” He smiled, knowing he was baiting her but unable to resist. He wasn’t certain which expression he liked better: the grave sincerity in her eyes during a broadcast, or the controlled annoyance he so often saw when she looked at him.
    Liv wasn’t angry, but nervous—and furious with herself for being susceptible to him. She could already feel herself unbending to that smile.
    “I thought we were going to thrash this out over dinner, Thorpe, not in the hall of my apartment building.”
    “Hungry?”
    She didn’t want to smile, but her lips betrayed her. “Yes.”
    “Like Italian food?” he asked, taking her hand as they moved toward the elevator.
    “As a matter of fact, I do.” She gave a slight tug to release her hand, but he ignored it. “Good. I know a little place where the spaghetti is fantastic.”
    “Fine.”
    Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the little place. Liv frowned at the high white building. “What are we doing here?”
    “Having dinner.” Thorpe parked the car, then leaned over to unlatch her door. She slid out and waited for him.
    “They don’t have an Italian restaurant in the Watergate.”
    “No.” Thorpe took her hand again and led her toward the front doors.
    Her suspicions began to peak. “You said we were going to an Italian restaurant.”
    “No, I said we were having spaghetti.” After crossing the lobby, Thorpe punched an elevator button.
    Liv gave him a narrow look. “Where?”
    He guided her into the elevator. “In my apartment.”
    “Oh, no.” She felt panic as the car began its climb. “I agreed to have dinner with you so we could talk, but I—”
    “It’s hard to talk seriously in a noisy restaurant, don’t you think?” he said easily as the doors opened. “And I have a feeling you have a lot to say.” Unlocking his door, he gestured her inside.
    “Yes, I do, but . . .” The thick, aromatic scent of spiced sauce drifted to her. She crossed the threshold. “Who cooked the spaghetti?”
    “I did.” Thorpe slipped the jacket from her shoulders, then shrugged out of his own.
    “You did not.” She looked at him in frank disbelief. Did a man with rough palms, intelligent eyes and casual sophistication cook spaghetti?
    “Chauvinist,” he accused, and kissed her before she could prevent it.
    “That’s not what I meant.” Liv was distracted by the kiss and the enticing smell coming from the kitchen. “I know lots of men who cook, but I—”
    “Didn’t think I could,” Thorpe finished for her. He laughed, keeping his hands on her arms. Her skin was too smooth to resist. “I like to eat; I get tired of restaurants. Besides, I learned when I was a kid. My mother worked; I fixed the meals.”
    His hands were gliding gently up and down her arms until she felt her skin begin to pulse. It was an erotic sensation for him, as well as for her—work-roughened palms against satin smoothness.
    “Don’t,” she whispered, afraid she would be unable to prevent herself from taking the small step forward into his arms.
    “Don’t what, Liv?” Watching the suppressed desire build in her eyes, he felt his own growing.
    “Don’t touch me like that.”
    For a moment, Thorpe did nothing; then casually, he removed his hands. “Are you any good in the kitchen?”
    The ground solidified under her feet. “Not really.”
    “Can you toss a salad?”
    Why was it so easy for him? she wondered. He could smile so effortlessly,