Jamie merely laughed.

"I don't want to think about my brother that way," said Mercedes.

Sheldon sighed. "Come on, Mercedes. What do you really want in a guy? I refuse to believe those pretty-boys are it."

"What's wrong with pretty-boys?"

"Mercedes, you are not answering the question."

"I know," said Mercedes.

"You don't know, do you?"

"I do," she protested, because it would be a weak-willed, yellow-bellied female who didn't know what she wanted in a relationship.

"What?" asked Jamie, completely unfooled.

Finally she thought of something. "I want a man who's reliable. Who won't stand me up, and won't ever leave me."

"Well, duh," answered Sheldon.

"And he's got to be funny. A sense of humor is very important. I want someone who can make me laugh. And he has to like food."

"What man doesn't like food?" asked Jamie.

"I dated this one guy who had some very weird eating habits," Sheldon mentioned. "He ate like a rabbit. Carrots and lettuce, and he'd wash them in a special rinse. It was too strange."

"Why did you date him?"

"I don't remember," Sheldon said. "But, I'm already married, so let's talk about Mercedes. Her guy has got to be reliable, funny and like food. What color hair?"

Mercedes slipped the dress over her head. "I'm not inclined to judge someone on the basis of hair color," she told them, dodging this answer.

"What color hair?"

"Bald is very s.e.xy," muttered Mercedes.

"Eyes?"

"Gray," snapped Mercedes.

"Icy. Nice."

"Okay, so we're looking for a balding, gray-eyed guy, late twenties, single, reliable, funny and must like food. That's it, Mercedes. He doesn't exist."

"I know he doesn't exist," agreed Mercedes. "Tell me something I don't know." Then she came out from the dressing room and twirled. "What do you think? It's your wedding. I'm merely the party favor."

Jamie looked her up and down, eyes taking in every minute detail. "It looks good. Sheldon?"

Sheldon appeared as a chic concoction that made her look more gorgeous than usual. Mercedes exhaled, at least as far as her dress would allow. "Do I have to stand next to her? I look like the ugly step-sister beside her.

Sheldon caught Mercedes in a one-armed hug. "You're not my step-sister."

"Very funny."

"Oh, come on. Be a sport. You look gorgeous."

"Not as gorgeous as you."

Jamie looked at them both critically. "No. But I like it."

"This is it? No more dress fittings?"

"Unless you want more-" started Jamie.

"No!" said Sheldon and Mercedes together.

"Ah, consensus. Ladies, we have a wedding wardrobe portfolio." She called over the a.s.sociate. "We'll take these."

"I think it's time to celebrate. Something with chocolate."

Mercedes picked at the tight fabric at her waist, checking for excess room. "Can we skip the chocolate? If I'm supposed to look good in this dress, I have to lose five pounds."

Sheldon grinned in the evil manner of a woman who had never dieted in her life. "Starting tomorrow."

Mercedes laughed again, wondering how good chocolate worked on loneliness because the bubble baths weren't cutting in anymore.

THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A woman to confuse a man. Since Sam had fought with Mercedes, he'd read her blog religiously, looking for any hint, any mention, any clue that might represent him. None were to be found.

Now, he was getting p.i.s.sed off, because she was writing about s.e.xual relations with pretty-boys with flowing black locks that fell in their eyes, and poet-like dimples in their chin. What was that all about? And the posts were coming fast and furious. Ten and eleven times a day the entire weekend. He wanted to believe this was pure fiction, he knew it was pure fiction. But ten or eleven times a day, four days in a row? Man, that put some serious pressure on a guy.

Sam checked his watch and realized he had a meeting with the writers in less than half an hour. He couldn't sit here in his studio office reading her blog. He minimized her site, then pulled out the first draft of tonight's script. He'd barely gotten to page three when Charlie came in his office.

"My friend called back," he said, settling into the chair across from Sam.

"What friend?"

"I told you about him. Harvey. Party Chairman. New Jersey. Election. Campaign. Remember?"

"You mentioned him, but you neglected to mention he was a friend," said Sam, arching a brow. "You called him my fan. I remember."

Charlie squinted up at the lights. "Friend. Fan. We play golf together on Sundays."

"That's another fact you neglected to mention, Charlie. I like knowing all the facts. Any other facts that might be missing here?"

"Well, h.e.l.l, Sam, I thought you'd jump at the chance to get into the thick of things, and I'd explain it to you slowly, parcel it out a bit at a time, so you'd figure you came up with this all on your own. So, have you come to any conclusions?" Charlie finished his speech, looking at Sam expectantly.

"I've been thinking..."

"Yeah?" drawled Charlie.

Sam gave him a nod. "Yeah. Let me talk to this guy."

"I knew you'd say that. Meet us over at the Four Seasons Sunday night."

"This was already set up?"

"Two days ago. You had a restless look in your eye. Figured you were coming round."

Sam wasn't about to explain the cause of the restless look to Charlie, better to let him think that politics was the cause of his problems. In truth, he was more interested in pursuing the candidacy than he realized. "You were right. When you're right, you're right."

Charlie smiled. "Martin Darcy is going to be there, too. He's the best campaign manager on the Atlantic seaboard. Got a dark-horse candidate elected in the West Virginia Senate, and swung a huge upset in California in the 2000 elections. He's our man, Sam. If we're going to do this, we're going to do it right."

"And here I thought I was the cash cow."

"Aw, Sam. I'm going to turn seventy-two next year. I'm too old to have cash cows. Now's the time when I get to be a G.o.d-maker, play with history." He pointed a stubby finger at Sam. "Now there's where a man makes his mark, not with cash, or television."

"I knew you were connected, Charlie, but I never knew how much."

Charlie smiled. "Politics are best left behind closed doors, know what I mean?"

"Unless you make a career out of talking about them."

"That's you, not me."

After Charlie left, Sam went back to the script, making changes and adding notes as he read. When he finished the script, he turned to the computer.

And voila. Another entry. Somebody had been busy.

The pain was becoming harder to bear. The suspicious glances, the questions in his voice, as if he didn't trust me. What hurt most was that I had done things, but never what he'd accused me of. Each night we slept together, almost strangers in our lovemaking, together, yet alone, and I couldn't bear it any more. A rubber band pulled tightly will have no choice but to break. It took me two weeks to gather my courage to buy the poison, but eventually I had it in my hands. He came home, and I poured his usual diet soda, unwrapping the tiny packet from the cabinet. I hesitated, shaking fingers trying to decide....

Poison?

Just then, Kristin burst in. "Sam, here's the bio on the Connecticut mayor who wanted to outlaw Thanksgiving." Her eyes looked at the monitor behind him. "Red Choo Diaries. Is that...?" Then she looked at him and laughed. "What the heck are you doing?"

"Research," he said, using his thoughtful, professor look.

"Sure, Sam. You be careful before the IT security goons have you written up for viewing unsuitable materials at work. It doesn't matter that you're the star. To security, you're just another faceless userid."

Sam held out his hand for the paper. "I'll take that under advis.e.m.e.nt. Let me read the bio and get back to you on whether we want him on the show or not."

"Okay, boss. Isn't that the Brooks woman's site?"

"Goodbye, Kristin."

"Goodbye, Sam. But remember what I said. Don't get caught," and then she slammed the door behind her.

Sam reread the part about the poison, looked at his soda and sniffed. No bitter almond smell there. He was safe.

Maybe he had been too hard on her. He'd seen the sh.e.l.l-shocked look in her face when he'd accused her of writing about them on purpose. So she had some fantasies about him, how could a man be mad about that?

On the other hand, she'd put them out there, opened up his bedroom door for all of America to read. Sam hated the idea of people reading about something so intensely personal, even if it was anonymous. He needed his s.p.a.ce from the world of television. Unlike Mercedes, Sam didn't want the public prying into his private life.

Although if anything came out, it could be explained away as an inside joke. She'd been on his show. She thought it'd be funny to write him that way. It almost sounded plausible when he stuck to the facts as the world needed to know them.

Almost.

8.

SAM ARRIVED HOME THAT evening and sent Max outside for his nightly business. Sam hadn't planned on clicking back to her blog, however, the lure of the Net called, and he was curious to see if Mercedes had posted anything more.

There were two new stories, raising her daily quota to nine. One was a dark S&M piece, with lots of leather, some rope, and nipple rings, all of which made him wary. Did she like bondage? Was she out there somewhere right now, sheathed in leather and chains, tied, being pleasured until...

No. Man, he didn't get into bondage, but his Johnson must've missed the memo. It only took a split-second mental visual of that tight body in leather, and Sam was wondering if he'd been missing out on something. Max looked up and barked.

"Yeah. I know. Stick to the sports car."

Thankfully, her second piece was more suitable for a man of his years and political persuasion. A couple that was locked in a sauna. Steamy, literally.

There were no more poisons, no guns, and no anger. Things were improving. Which left Sam with something of a choice.

Mercedes was a woman who wrote erotic fiction that included leather, chains and nipple rings. Sam spent his Sunday's going to the early ma.s.s and watching football, maybe getting crazy and splurging with a second beer.

He was thirty-nine, seriously considering a run for Congress.

She was twenty-six, intent on writing, blogging and t.i.tillating her way to fame and fortune.

Those were the facts.

It wasn't pretty. What it was was a statistical improbability. However, that didn't change the one fact that he couldn't stop thinking about her-nipple rings and all.