And he was thirty-nine, not seventy-nine. Up to now his life had been set on a cruise-control ride to the top. Ten years ago he had worked his tail off, but now he felt more comfortable phoning it in. He had settled into a routine that suited him.

Mercedes shook him out of the complacency. He wouldn't be thinking twice about a Congressional run if he hadn't been able to imagine her face lighting up at the thought. And instead of hitting the hay at midnight, he'd been staying up late, haunted by thoughts of one night in San Francisco. He replayed it, cut and spliced the tape inside his head.

They'd spent less than forty-eight hours together, but with Mercedes, after ten minutes, you knew her deep down to her heart. He'd seen her heart-among other parts-and he liked her heart.

And that was it. Decision made.

Sam picked up the phone to call her, apologize, make things right. He got the sultry voice of her answering machine and hung up. He never left messages if it was a personal call because he hated voice mail. Another artificial barrier to separate humanity even further.

He stared at the phone, wondering if she was screening her calls, or was she actually out in leather and spiked heels, one hand on the whip at her side? Both scenarios bothered him, although one strangely aroused him as well. Sam let in Max, and got himself a beer from the refrigerator.

The news played in the background, and he read some of the pieces on the New Jersey political environment that Charlie had given him. After he finished, he looked at the clock, looked at wide-awake Max.

Where was she?

Idly he picked up the Daily News, and reread the article that had caught his attention earlier. He dug through his computer e-mails and came across the source he was looking for. The more info he had on one Mercedes Brooks, the better.

SHELDON BROOKS DIDN'T usually watch television at night, but then again, her husband wasn't usually glued to his computer. Technically they were still in the honeymoon phase, and if he was going to be glued to anything at night, it'd be her.

She sighed, arching languidly in bed, trying to distract him. He looked up, ogling her for a minute, and then shook a warning finger. "Thirty more minutes. Swear."

"You said that," she looked at the clock, "twenty-seven minutes ago."

She tilted one shoulder, letting the strap of her teddy slip lower. Jeff's dark gaze grew even more distracted.

"I could take a break," he offered in the spirit of maintaining marital harmony.

She gave him her sultriest smile. This was the man she knew and loved. "Take me, I'm yours."

He pounced, and was settling in on the special spot behind her ear when the phone rang.

Sheldon was prepared to let the answering machine pick up, because she really liked that special spot, but then she heard the voice on their machine.

She put a hush-finger to her lips and picked up.

"h.e.l.lo," she said, sending Jeff an apologetic glance. She'd have things to make up for later, but that wasn't a problem.

"Sheldon Brooks? Sam Porter here. I'm sorry to call so late."

"Oh, it's not too late," she said, talking while trying to keep Jeff's talented hands and mouth at bay.

"Your sister-in-law mentioned something last week about a new charity project, and I was curious if you'd like to come on the show, to help out a good cause, of course."

"That's very nice of you."

"I believe in philanthropy, people helping people."

"I'm sure we could arrange something. Why don't you have your booker talk to Tower Communications, and arrange the time and place. It was great of you to think of me. I know you're a busy man, so I'll just-"

"Wait!"

"Yes," asked Sheldon, trying desperately not to laugh. After all, this was Mercedes's love life, and she shouldn't find anything remotely humorous about it. But after what Mercedes had put her through with that blog, there was a certain satisfaction in payback.

"About Mercedes. Is she doing okay?"

"Mercedes? You know, now that you mention it, she was pretty depressed the other day. A shadow of the woman she usually was. You know where she is right now? Home alone, watching the soap opera channel, and she hates soap operas. I don't think she's eating, either."

Jeff looked up, alarmed, and she shook her head.

"She's really feeling bad?" He sounded fabulously concerned, and Sheldon sighed heavily into the phone.

"Awful. I wish I knew what was wrong. You don't know, do you?"

He hesitated, a tell-tale sign that no woman over the age of p.u.b.erty would miss. "No, not a clue."

"It could be the book, I suppose."

"What's wrong with the book?"

"I shouldn't say anything, but she's worried about her sales numbers."

"You think that's what's bothering her?"

"I don't think so. I think this is more serious than that. So why were you asking about Mercedes?"

He paused again, and Sheldon could tell that deception didn't come easy to Sam. He'd have much to learn to survive in this family. Finally he spoke. "She was supposed to contact me about something, and I haven't heard from her."

"You should try and call her."

"That's a good idea. I think I will. Book sales, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks for your help."

"Anytime."

Sheldon hung up and burst out laughing.

"What was that about?" asked Jeff. "What's wrong with Mercedes?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed by one Mr. Sam Porter."

"That was Sam Porter?" He started to laugh, too. "You're a devious woman, Mrs. Brooks."

"Why thank you, Mr. Brooks. Now come and do your husbandly duty."

He kissed her, and she happily kissed him back, forgetting about everyone's love life but her own.

THE NEXT MORNING, SAM tried to call Mercedes again, but she wasn't answering at her apartment, or on her cell, and he still refused to leave a message. At lunchtime he headed for the studio, making a stop at the bookstore on Route 17. Her display was up there near the front, and Sam decided the picture didn't do her justice. Three dimensions were necessary to capture the full effect of Mercedes Brooks.

She had that way, that vibrancy about her. She dared a man to come out and play. To do more, to be more. He picked up a copy of her book and walked toward the registers. If she wanted to be a success, he would do his part.

By buying another book? One, single book? What sort of c.r.a.ppy dent would that make?

He loaded up all the copies on the display and took them to the front.

"You're getting all these?" asked the clerk.

"Yeah," Sam stated, praying the clerk wouldn't recognize him while he was buying an armload of erotica. It wouldn't do much for his family-friendly image.

The clerk picked up the credit card, glanced at his name. "Can I see some ID, sir?"

Sam fished out his wallet, expecting the recognition any minute, and preparing himself for the first amendment const.i.tutional response. Casual insolence, protector of free speech, and a man who believed that all reading material was created equal. "Sure," he said, handing over his license.

The clerk held it up and compared his signature to the signature on the credit card. "Sorry, sir. I can't take this."

"Excuse me?"

"It looks fake."

"It's not fake," Sam managed through clenched teeth.

"It looks fake. It's a good copy, but the watermark isn't there."

Sam pointed to his driver's license. "It's there."

"I'm sorry, sir."

The manager came forward, sensing a crisis, and smiled politely. "May I help you, sir?"

"His credit card is bogus," said the kid.

"It's not bogus," argued Sam.

"And the driver's license is a fake."

The manager looked at Sam. "You're Sam Porter?"

Sam nodded once.

The manager looked at the kid. "This is real."

"No way. That credit card was fake, you could tell by the way the little plastic numbers-"

"Can you just ring it up?" asked Sam.

The manager glanced at the pile of Mercedes's books. "You're buying these?"

Casually Sam leaned against the mahogany counter like he did this every day. If he wanted a relationship with Mercedes, this was what he was in for. He could do this. He locked his face in a smile. "Uh-huh. If you have any more in the back, I'll take those as well."

The manager blinked, but then lifted the phone. "Give me a second."

"I'll wait," answered Sam, trying to blend into the crowd. But people had started to gawk, and it wasn't easy. One man was eyeing the cover of Mercedes's book and Sam slowly flipped the top copy over-because all reading material wasn't created equal, no matter what the librarians said.

Eventually the manager returned with another three books. "Should I add these to your purchase?"

"Go ahead," said Sam.

"You're certainly getting a lot of these," murmured the manager as the kid rang up the additional purchases.

"It's for a friend." Okay, so maybe he wasn't quite ready for America to know what Sam Porter was reading late at night.

"Uh-hum," said the manager, skepticism oozing through every priggy pore in his body.

"It's a joke I'm playing on someone," lied Sam, angry that a man couldn't buy seventeen copies of an erotic novel without feeling embarra.s.sed enough to lie about it. He should be brave. He should tell the truth, explain he was doing this to help out a friend. It was a good deed; there was absolutely no reason in the world to feel defensive about it.

"Ah," replied the manager, finally finding an explanation he could buy into.

Sam didn't disabuse him. So he wasn't that brave of a man. Big deal. He had other qualities.

He kept hitting bookstores, until he had bought up almost two hundred copies of The Red Choo Diaries, his trunk and backseat full of the s.e.xual writings of one Mercedes Brooks. Why couldn't she have written a normal book? Hunting for Dummies, Real Men Eat Steak.

Somehow he knew that Mercedes would never be normal. Ever. He laughed to himself. Normal or not, he still wanted her. Maybe she was the psychological equivalent of a sports car, maybe not. It didn't change things. Her stories didn't change things, leather skirts didn't change things, a campaign for Congress wouldn't change things, either.

No matter how complicated, Sam still wanted her.

Bad.

IT TOOK ONE MORE DAY TO break him. On Sat.u.r.day afternoon, he left a message on her answering machine. "It's Sam. I hope you're home and not tied up somewhere. I'm sorry."

Five days. The man had more backbone than a humpback whale. She'd written five days worth of literary murder, mayhem, even delving into whips and chains, which normally weren't her thing. Fiction wasn't life, and she hoped Sam got the point, and so what if he got a little nervous-whatever.

It still ticked her off when she thought about it. Mercedes wasn't some groupie, using him to get rich quick. That had opened up an artery that she didn't know she had.

The sharp pain inside her was why she didn't like relationships, why she danced her way in and out of affairs with jerky men. But Sam wasn't jerky, and somewhere in her head, "just one night" had changed into "just another night."