From the Heart

pressured. She would not be maneuvered. She was still in charge of her own life. He could feel the change. His fingers tightened on her skin in impotent fury.
    “What do you want?”
    “A great deal more,” he said deliberately, “than you’re willing to give me. Trust, I suppose, would be a good start.”
    “I can’t give you any more than I have.” She wanted to tremble, to weep, to cling to him. She kept her eyes level. “I don’t love you. I don’t want you to love me.”
    Neither knew the extent of pain their words caused the other. She saw only a flare in his eyes that made her realize how strictly he controlled his own violence. If he had had less of a grip on himself, she felt certain he would have struck her for the cold dispassion of her words. She almost wished he would. At the moment, she would have gladly exchanged physical pain for the emotional one.
    Slowly, he released her. He hadn’t known he could be hurt like this. In silence, he dressed. He knew he had to leave quickly, before he did something he would detest himself for. She wouldn’t drive him to that. Not by rejection, or her damn coolness or anything else. He’d leave her to herself, since that’s what she wanted. The sooner she was out of his sight, the sooner he could work on forgetting her. He cursed himself for being a fool even as he shut the door behind him.
    The sound of it closing brought Liv’s head around. For a full minute, she stared at the panel. The silence welled uparound her. Curling into a ball, she lay on the rug and wept for both of them.
     
    The normal routine of a day was like an obstacle course. Getting up, dressing, driving through rush hour traffic. To Liv, it all seemed larger, more complicated than it ever had before. In a morning crammed with appointments, she went through the hours with a combination of nervous energy and dull fatigue. Her thoughts could never be completely centered on her objective when Thorpe was always just around the edges. She had begun to taste happiness again, and now . . .
    Everything had happened so fast. Liv hadn’t expected him to love her. She knew enough of him, understood enough of him to be certain he wasn’t a man to love lightly. His energy and power would be bound up in it. When a man like Thorpe loved a woman, she was loved completely. Perhaps that was what frightened her most.
    Yet, what she felt now as she finished up an interview wasn’t fear; it was emptiness. Before Thorpe had become a part of her life, she had accepted the emptiness. The void had been filled, as nearly as possible, with her work and her ambition. It was no longer enough. During the morning, a dozen things happened that she found herself wanting to share with him. Years had passed without her feeling the need to share with anyone, and now it was inescapable. But she had pushed him away.
    What should she do now? How could she make him understand that while part of her wanted to love him, to be loved by him, another part was like a rabbit under a gun. Frozen. Terrified.
    How could she expect him to understand? she asked herself as she mechanically negotiated through afternoon traffic. She was no longer sure she understood herself. Put it on hold for a while, she advised herself. Have lunch with Mrs. Ditmyer, relax, and then try to think fresh again.
    Hoping she could take her own advice, Liv pulled into the parking lot beside the restaurant. It was the perfect way to take her mind off things, she decided. Part business, part social. A glimpse at her watch told her she was barely fiveminutes late. Nothing major. It wouldn’t do to keep Myra Ditmyer waiting long.
    I like her, Liv thought as she entered the restaurant. She’s so . . . alive. Greg was lucky to have her for an aunt, for all her matchmaking tendencies. Liv could only wish the cards had dealt her a similar relative. A woman like that would be sturdy as a boulder when the world crumbled under your feet.
    Liv shook away the thought. There was also the matter of her position in Washington political and social circles. Since Myra had taken it into her head to notice her, Liv might as well take advantage of the side benefits.
    “Mrs. Ditmyer’s table,” she told the maître d’.
    “Ms. Carmichael?” He smiled when she inclined her head. “This way please.” Liv followed him, amused. As a Carmichael she recognized deferential treatment. As a presswoman, she had learned not to expect it.
    “Olivia!” Myra greeted her as