Part of her problem was the wiggling worm of guilt that ate inside her. In the past she had cavalierly used her writing for her own purposes, and if other people were involved, it'd taken a back seat to her achieving her dreams. She had inched very, very close to hurting Andrew and Jeff by writing anonymous entries about their private lives in her blog that were more fact than fiction-with a dash of creative license thrown in. She'd tried to be careful and skirt the line, but careful wasn't the same as not writing it at all. No, she'd done it, because Mercedes had a dream of being a successful writer.

This time, when it was Sam-and her, the light bulb inside her began to glow. This time, she got it. Dreams were a good thing, but not at the cost of the people you cared about.

His short, simple phone message went a long way to ease the hurt, ease the guilt, and move their "not really a relationship" into something else. In only thirteen words, she knew that he trusted her. Very few people trusted Mercedes, even her brothers were nervous, but Sam....

Sam did.

It was from a happier place that she began to work on her blog. This time, she wasn't so cruel, because she owed him an apology too. Sam liked his privacy, she knew that.

The message on her answer machine had been exactly what she wanted to hear. She loved his voice, loved the way he lingered over her name. He had been overseas, but would be coming home soon, home to her. She climbed into bed, missing the warm spot that belonged to him. The television helped, but it didn't make up for the strength of his body, the way he held her in his arms.

Soon. Very, very soon...

Sam smiled at the words. Things were definitely improving. He called, got her answering machine and decided he would destroy that wretched piece of technology as soon as he got the chance.

As much as he'd rather spend a crisp Sunday afternoon with Mercedes, he had a life-altering meeting to think about. He wanted to treat this one like any other meeting he attended, but there was a humming in his gut that said otherwise.

Today he was meeting Charlie and his two cohorts at Ben Benson's. Ben Benson's-now that was a place for men. The chairs were black, the meat was red, and the beer ran icy cold. Restaurants didn't get much better than that.

A wreck on the Palisades made him later than expected, and when he got there the other men were already seated, nursing their drinks.

Martin Darcy was very smooth, from his moussed hair to his polished leather uppers. His smile was perfect, his teeth were capped, and Sam suspected he lived and died by his poll numbers.

"Sam Porter. Whew. What a shining star for the party. I saw the piece you did on California's influence on the Supreme Court. Poetry, sir. Pure poetry."

Sam nodded graciously. "Thank you."

Harvey tapped his fingers restlessly on the table. He had the leathered-old skin of a blue-collar man, and yet he was the party chairman. "But we're not here to talk about poetry."

Martin picked up the hint. "No, we're here to get you signed on for the primaries. Our opposition is closing around Tommy Ferguson for their candidate and he's good. Squeaky clean, but a big zero on the charisma-meter. I think we play up your Jimmy Stewart/Clint Eastwood qualities, and that way we'll woo the soccer moms and the NRA, all at the same time." He pulled out some papers. "I've got a platform laid out for you-"

Sam pushed the papers back. "Shouldn't I have some input here?"

Harvey coughed. "Martin's only giving you a jumping off point. Part of the reason you're admired is that you're not lock-step in with everyone else, and we're going to use that, not change it. You run a little more centrist than some of the right-wingers want, but you'll charm them."

Sam looked over the doc.u.ments. "I'll read these and see what I like."

"Very good," Martin said with a landslide in November smile. "Did you ever do a piece on the campaign trail? Follow anyone around?"

"Back in the early nineties. The local news sent me on the bus with the gubernatorial candidate. I've had candidates on the show, but I've only been in front of the camera."

Martin snorted. "Not a problem. You're quick. You won't believe some of the jacka.s.ses I've had to work with."

"Doesn't matter as long as you can get those jacka.s.ses elected," Sam said smoothly.

Charlie laughed. "You'll have to go easy on Sam, Martin. He's a little set in his ways."

Sam folded his arms across his chest, not bothering to disagree.

Martin looked at Sam, looking at Harvey, and then nodded. "Any skeletons, on-the-air quotes, or flag-burnings we should know about?"

"Nothing but a few parking tickets."

"Wife?"

"Divorced for over ten years. I'm a.s.suming that dating a p.o.r.n star, an erotica writer, or a flag-burning liberal would be out of the question?"

Martin stabbed a finger in the air. "You're going to be great on the stump, I can see it now."

Sam coughed. "There's nothing to worry about, but my private life is n.o.body's but mine."

"As long as it's clean," said Martin, who then lifted his drink. "To the next Congressman from the great state of New Jersey."

Gla.s.ses were clinked, backs were patted, and Sam smiled blandly.

h.e.l.l.

9.

THE NEXT MORNING, SAM showed up at her door, unannounced, uninvited, and there was no one she wanted to see more.

"We're speaking now?" she asked cautiously, letting him in. His eyes looked tired, and his usually tousled hair was a little more tousled than usual. She kept her eyes guarded as her gaze slipped over him. This wasn't usual for her, either. Usually she didn't care.

"Speaking, yes. I think that's what they call this." His hazel eyes gentled to the green of the spring gra.s.s. She wanted to stand there, sinking deeply into their tenderness. "I'm sorry I said what I said. I know you didn't do it on purpose, Mercedes."

"I'm sorry I did what I did. I didn't realize, then. I do now."

He held out his hand and she laid hers over it, such a small touch, such a big step for her. In the past, an argument meant walking out the door without flinching. This time, she flinched. This time she stayed.

Sam had no idea what this cost her, and she was determined to keep that hidden. After all, two television shows, one dinner, and one endless night, did not a relationship make. Mercedes shook her hair carelessly, like this was no big deal, and this time, Sam flinched, too.

The heat from the eyes cooled-not a lot, but she noticed. He checked his watch.

"Hey, what are you doing now? I've got seventy-five minutes to kill until I have to be in the studio, and I need to get a birthday present for my sister-in-law. I'm really bad at presents."

"You're really bad at presents?"

"The worst."

Wow, an actual character deficiency. Mercedes was charmed. "You're very lucky that I'm an expert shopper. Where are we going?"

"You're in charge."

Mercedes picked up her long leather coat and grabbed her bag from the hook by the door. "Macy's. It's the shopping mecca. If you can't get something there, you're a lost cause."

"Nice coat," he said, his eyes skimming over her. "You like leather, huh?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"It's growing on me."

They walked out of her building into the brisk fall air. To the east, the river, to the west, the booming Manhattan skyline, and above it all, the sun maintained order, high in the sky. Fluffy clouds drifted by slowly. It was perfect.

"Cab or walk?" he asked.

She glanced at him, glanced at the sky. "Walk."

He gave her a nod and they were off. His strides were long, but growing up with two older brothers, Mercedes was used to walking fast and keeping up.

"Tell me about your sister-in-law. What would she like?" she asked, starting to reach for his hand. But then a man pa.s.sed by on the street, looking at Sam once, looking at Sam twice. Sam Porter. Mercedes stuffed her hands in her pockets.

He didn't even notice the looks. "I don't know. That's why you're here."

"Does she like clothes, cooking, candy or knickknacks?"

"Yes, no, she's diabetic, and maybe. The house is covered with the little horrors."

"What did you get her last year?"

"I'm supposed to remember? Let me think...A gift certificate...I think."

Mercedes groaned.

"Hey, she liked it," he said defensively.

Such a babe in the woods. Mercedes would have to educate him. "That's what she told you. People don't tell you to your face that they hate the gift." She looked at him, shook her head. "A gift certificate?"

"It's a very practical gift, and it was for a restaurant that my brother likes."

"You have much to learn, Sam."

"I'm putty in your hands."

She winked at him, then, and he smiled, and maybe they weren't holding hands, but he was touching her in ways that he didn't realize.

They walked on, across 14th, up Broadway, and there were more subtle looks in Sam's direction. No one stopped him, but people saw, and Mercedes took it all in. New Yorkers were very casual about celebrity, and the ratio of talk show hosts to average citizens was higher in Manhattan, than, for instance, Iowa. But the aura was still there, hanging over him.

Deliberately she kept her hands in her pockets and walked. Touching was overrated anyway.

They hit 34th Street, and she pulled him into Macy's and the shopping safari began in earnest. Her first destination was the top floor where the china department was located. Sam examined the dinner plates and goblets, then examined her. "She doesn't like to cook. I told you. This is cooking."

"Not cooking. That's in the bas.e.m.e.nt. This is tableware." Mercedes led him over to the gla.s.sware and picked a piece up. "And we call this a crystal vase. We add some silk flowers, then pick out a nice little pin, and top it off with a gift certificate from her favorite restaurant."

"I thought gift certificates were bad."

"You can accessorize with a gift certificate, but it cannot be the primary."

"Says who?" he asked, in his skeptical, interviewing voice.

"The Rules," answered Mercedes patiently. She'd been on the receiving end of skepticism many times, and had learned to bulldoze right through it.

"What rules? It's a present."

"There are gifting rules. Follow and learn. First we need to establish her favorite restaurant."

"What if I don't know Linda's favorite restaurant?"

"You ask your brother."

Next they headed for the jewelry section, where Mercedes picked through the costume jewelry until at last she lifted a pin to the light. "Perfect."

Sam stared. "What is it?"

"It's a shoe."

"A shoe? Are you sure she'll like a shoe?"

"Yes, she'll like a shoe pin. It's compact, cute, yet tasteful enough to go with a variety of styles, both modern and cla.s.sic."

Sam shook his head. "It just looks like a shoe to me, sorry."

"She'll love it," she said, and patted his hand. She meant the touch as a joke, but he caught her fingers for a second, and held them there. Her smile died, and then she pulled her hand away.

As they were walking by the men's department she accidentally guided him into the densely overgrown, subterranean polyester-cotton-cashmere jungle of men's shirts. Flannel was nice, but he should have something new, more up to date. After all, he had a public image to consider. He must have spied her predatory glance, because he pulled back, away from the jumble of racks and displays. "I like my shirts."

"It's plaid," she explained, which she thought was explanation enough.

Sam glanced down at his shirt. "There are no rules for shirts. Plaid is good."

"Plaid is bad. Although, if you went with a Scottish plaid in wool, it might be okay."

"I'm not dressing like some d.a.m.ned highlander, Mercedes."

"And the lumberjack look is okay?"

"You don't like my shirt?"

"I love your shirt. But I think it could be even better. You're a very handsome man, and in the right shirt..." she trailed off.