From the Heart

under his robe. I’m having an affair, she thought. She held the top of the percolator aloft a moment, staring into space. She had made love with Thorpe, had spent the night in his bed, and was now preparing coffee in hiskitchen. In his robe, she reminded herself, running a hand down the lapel.
    With a quick shake of her head, she fit the lid on top of the pot. For goodness’ sake, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ve been married and divorced. I’m a professional woman who’s been on her own for years. Why shouldn’t I have an affair? People do every day. It’s a part of life. It’s very simple—even casual. To make anything else out of it is foolish. We’re two adults who just spent the night together. That’s all there is to it.
    Even as she ran the last of these cool, sensible words in her head, Thorpe came into the room. Liv turned to say something mildly sarcastic about the coffee and found herself folded into his arms.
    His mouth touched hers softly at first, twice. The third time, they lingered and grew hungry. She lifted her arms to bring him closer. Everything she had just told herself was forgotten. His hair was still damp as her fingers combed through it. The scent of soap and shaving lotion brushed at her senses. Everything seemed new and fresh, like a first romance.
    His hands rested at the sides of her breasts, then lowered to her hips. It wasn’t a desperate kiss, but a strong one. It brought echoes of the night back to her. Thorpe drew back a little to look at her.
    “I like you this way,” he murmured. “Barefoot, in a robe several sizes too big for you, with your hair a little mussed.” He lifted a hand to it and disordered it further. “I’ll be able to picture you this way when I watch the cool Ms. Carmichael deliver the news.”
    “Fortunately for the ratings, the viewers won’t.”
    “Their loss.”
    “Not everyone appreciates the rumpled, just-out-of-bed look, Thorpe.” The coffee was perking frantically, and she drew out of his arms. There were mugs suspended from hooks under the cabinets. Liv slipped two off and poured.
    “But then I appreciate the calm, sleekly groomed look too,” he pointed out, offering her a small carton of cream for her coffee. “Actually, I haven’t found anything about you that doesn’t appeal to me.”
    Liv laughed and glanced up at him. “Are you always so agreeable before your coffee, Thorpe?” She handed him amug. “I’d better shower while you drink this. It might sour your mood.” He started to lift it to his lips, and she placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “Remember, before you drink it, you did promise to fix me breakfast.”
    She left him, taking her own mug with her.
    Thorpe glanced back down at his coffee, then sipped doubtfully. It wasn’t quite as bad as she had prophesied. Obviously, he thought, as he drank again, the kitchen wasn’t her area. It was his, he concluded philosophically, and went to the refrigerator. He could hear the shower running. He liked knowing she was close—only a few rooms away. He took out a slab of bacon and heated a pan.
    Thorpe wasn’t a man to delude himself. They had made love—they would make love again—but Liv’s feelings were not as defined as his. It was uncomfortable to find himself in the position of caring deeply for someone who didn’t return the same depth of emotion. She could, he told himself as the bacon sizzled. She was fighting it. He was too confident a man to consider he might lose in the end.
    Even in the bright sunlight of the kitchen he could remember her open giving of the night before—her initial hesitation, the gradual change to aggression and passion. Whatever she said, she was a complex woman, full of hidden corners and contradictions. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Since he had fallen in love, he preferred it to be with a woman who had a few eddies and currents. Fate might have bound him to a tamer type.
    Olivia Carmichael was the woman for him, and he was the man for her. He might have to be patient until he convinced her, but convince her he would. Thorpe smiled as he cracked an egg into a bowl.
     
    As it had the night before, the scent coming from the kitchen drew Liv irresistibly. Standing in the doorway, she stared at the platter Thorpe was piling with bacon, golden eggs and lightly browned toast.
    “Thorpe,” she said, inhaling deeply, “you’re amazing.”
    “You just noticed?” he countered. “Grab a couple plates,” he ordered,