From the Heart

while her knees were still trembling. “Probably, if I follow directions.”
    “I’ll write some down for you.” He took her arm in afriendly grip that still managed to shoot sparks down her spine. “Come on, give me a hand.”
    “Do you usually invite women to dinner, then put them to work?” It was important to match his mood and forget the moment of weakness.
    “Always.”
    The kitchen was a surprise. Onions, garlic and potatoes hung in wire mesh baskets near the window, while copper-bottom pans dangled from hooks. There were utensils she had never seen before, all within easy reach of the stove or counter. Glass canisters stored colorful beans and different-shaped pasta. Her own kitchen was a barren desert compared to this. Here was a room of someone who not only knew how to cook, but enjoyed it.
    “You really do cook,” Liv marveled.
    “It relaxes me—like rowing. Both take concentration and effort.” Thorpe uncorked a bottle of Burgundy and set it aside to breathe. Liv was drawn to the simmering Crockpot.
    “When did you have time to do this?”
    He lifted the lid. “I put it on before I left for work this morning.”
    She narrowed her eyes at his easy smile. “You’re terribly sure of yourself.” It was astonishing how often he had made her angry in such a short period of time.
    “Here,” he said soothingly, and dipped a wooden spoon into the pot. “Taste.”
    Pride fell before hunger, and she opened her mouth to obey. “Oh.” Liv closed her eyes as the flavor seeped through her. “It’s immoral.”
    “The best things tend to be.” Thorpe dropped the lid on the pot again. “I’ll do the bread and pasta; you do the salad.” He was already filling a pan with water. Liv hesitated a moment. The sauce was still tangy on her tongue. Nothing, she decided, was going to stand between her and that spaghetti. “Everything’s in the fridge,” he added.
    She located fresh vegetables, and after filling her arms with them, took them to the sink to wash. “I’ll need a salad bowl.”
    “Second cabinet over your head.” He added a dash of salt to the water after the flame was on under it.
    She rummaged for the bowl as he began to slice bread. Hewatched her—as she stood on tiptoe to reach the bowl, her dress floating up then down with her movements; as she scrubbed a green pepper under a spray of water, her fingers gliding over the skin. She wore clear polish. Her nails were well shaped, carefully tended, but she never used color on them. It was something he had noticed. Her makeup was always subdued, understated, as were her clothes. Thorpe wondered if it was a purposeful contrast to her more flamboyant sister or if it was simply a matter of taste.
    Liv carried the vegetables to the butcher block. She glanced up when Thorpe held a glass of wine out to her.
    “Hard work deserves its rewards.”
    Before she could empty her hands and take the glass, he held it up to her lips. His eyes were steady on hers.
    “Thanks.” Her voice was as cloudy as her mind. She turned away quickly.
    “Like it? You usually drink white.” Thorpe lifted the glass and drank himself.
    “It’s good.” Liv gave all her attention to choosing a knife.
    Thorpe slipped one out of its slot and handed it to her. “It’s sharp,” he warned. “Be careful.”
    “I’m trying to be,” she murmured, and set to work.
    She could hear him moving around behind her, pouring pasta into boiling water, setting the bread under the broiler. His presence was invading her senses. By the time the salad was finished, her nerves were jangling. She took the wine he had left on the block and drank deeply. Settle down, she cautioned herself, or you’ll forget what you came for.
    “Ready?” His hands came down on her shoulders, and she just prevented herself from jolting.
    “Yes, all done.”
    “Good. Let’s get started.”
    A small smoked-glass table was set in front of a window. It was a cozy, intimate area, despite the open view of the city, raised from the living room by three steps and separated by an iron railing. There were candles of varying sizes and shapes burning through the room. The light was soft and flickering. The English bone china was another surprise. Liv tried to divorce herself from the atmosphere while Thorpe served thesalad. She had come to talk. Perhaps it was best to ease into it gently.
    “You have a beautiful apartment,” she began. “Have you lived here long?”
    “Three years.”
    “Did you