He looked away, his jaw locked in that no-argument position she was beginning to recognize. "No. I'm not buying a shirt."

"I could buy you a shirt," she offered.

"I don't need you to buy me a shirt."

Mercedes pulled him over to the nice GQ-dude who worked the department. "Tell him he needs a new shirt."

"I don't need a new shirt."

"Sir, you need a new shirt."

Mercedes smiled at the man. "Thank you. I tried to tell him. I'm his sister and it's very frustrating to get him to wear anything nice."

"She's not my sister. I'm not getting a shirt."

Mercedes picked up a black silk shirt, then looked him over.

"No."

"What size are you?" she asked.

"No," repeated Sam.

The suit looked him over. "Thirty-eight, I would guess." Sam glared at the suit, who smiled politely back.

"We'll take this in a thirty-eight."

"I don't want a black shirt, Mercedes."

"It'll look very good on you, sir. Pick up the highlights in your hair."

"I don't have highlights in my hair," said Sam.

"I love your highlights," said Mercedes. "I'm not really his sister. Actually a second-cousin. His mother married my uncle Frank's step-sister, Delia. That'd be second-cousins, wouldn't it? Don't you find family trees confusing?"

"Oh, for goodness sake. Let's just pay for the shirt and get out of here."

Mercedes beamed at him. And in less than fifteen minutes, they were out the door with Linda's present in hand.

"You need to go?" asked Mercedes, noticing when he glanced at his watch. She didn't like the catch in her voice, that needy, "don't leave me" quiver.

The subway rumbled beneath them, and Sam pulled the phone from his pocket. With a one-thumbed flick, he powered it off. "What's a few minutes?"

Mercedes felt an extra kick in her heart, and her lips curved upwards, completely needy, but she was too happy to care.

"I need caffeine," she said, so he bought her a cup of coffee and they walked up 6th Avenue to Bryant Park. The fall crowds were quieter than in summer, but the chess players still came out, bundled in their sweaters and hats, and the pond had just opened the ice, and was teeming with afternoon skaters.

They found two chairs near the edge of the lawn and sat, watching the skaters. Mercedes pushed back the hair from her face, trying to be casual, but she could feel him watching her.

"You shop well."

"I practice often. You're fun to shop with. We should do it again."

"Not anytime soon," he said. "You have plans for next Friday?"

"No plans except for laundry."

He glared.

"But I can do that on Sat.u.r.day," she offered.

"I have a friend who's going through a divorce and he needs cheering up. Get back in the swing of things. I thought we could go to a club, maybe let him work up to an actual date."

"A club? That's very indiscreet of you."

"We'll be okay. It's not my target market. You're more likely to be recognized than me, and we'll have Tony there, too."

"Tony?"

"Tony, that's the divorced one. He needs to get out some."

"Have you set him up with a profile on the Web?"

"What?"

"A dating profile. He should do that, let the women come to him, and he can sort through them."

"You think he should?"

Mercedes nodded. "It'll be perfect. I'll help with his profile and soon the women will be flocking to him in droves."

"But you don't even know him."

"Well, he's a friend of yours. Why shouldn't I help?"

"I'll talk to him."

"Do you think I should bring a friend on Friday? Make this a group outing? Good buddies, doing favors in the name of absolutely nothing remotely sinful and wicked."

"I'll let you decide. Either we go out and you help him with the meeting strange women part, or else you bring a friend that won't savage his ego."

"Fragile?"

He nodded.

She considered the options. "Let's wing this. I think he's better off dealing with a whole roomful of women than one who might expect things from him. Besides, if anyone notices, that way n.o.body will know who I'm with."

He frowned at her. "No. You'll be with me."

"I know that, but they won't know that, and we don't have to let them know that."

He reached out, took a strand of hair between his fingers. Tempting fate, she supposed. "It's very hard not to touch you," he said, his voice husky and rough.

Mercedes leaned in closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth emanating from him. She let her eyes linger on his face, as real as any caress.

"I thought this was easier for you. To the world you always seem so controlled."

He laughed. "Right."

"Tell me what you'd do."

He glanced at her, his eyes hard, but she saw the images there. Him. Her. Together. "One night isn't nearly enough, Mercedes. Every time I touch you, or see you, or even smell your perfume, I turn. It's like some Jekyll & Hyde condition. All I can think about is losing your clothes, seeing the moonlight on your skin, the long line of your thigh, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s in my hands, in my mouth. I want to touch you, taste you when you come."

Her breathing slowed to nothing, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swollen as if his hands were there, her nipples hard, as if his mouth was there. At her center, her throbbing, aching center, she could feel the dampness between her thighs, as if his tongue was already there.

"You're a very dangerous man, Sam Porter. You're all easygoing and charming, with that casual smile, and then BOOM my underwear is drenched and I swear if we were alone I'd-"

He stopped her with a hand to her mouth. "Don't. I've got to interview a Harvard law professor in less than two hours, and I can't go in there with your voice echoing in my head."

Her tongue flicked against his palm, and he jerked it back, as if he'd been burned.

"I'm better with the head than the hand," she whispered.

Quietly he groaned. "I've never done this, been like this. Wound up like a top, spinning on nothing. In the past, all my relationships have been standard, ordinary, a few dates, s.e.x. Everything was comfortable. I wish we could have ordinary, but right now that's impossible. I wish...ah, h.e.l.l. Even if it wasn't comfortable, I wouldn't feel so bad."

"Why do you feel bad?"

"It doesn't bother me what you do; I'm learning to like it, even."

"But it might bother some people, right? Sam, you need to know something. I like what you do, too. I like the show, I like your idealism. The world needs that more than I need dinner at n.o.bu. I don't need dates and ordinary. There's a word. Discretion. I'm learning it."

"I don't like doing this in secret. This isn't Victorian England."

"Well, no, and thank G.o.d, because you'd have a fit if they put you in knickers."

"I want to touch in public, Mercedes. I want to walk down the street holding your hand."

"We can hold hands behind closed doors. And I can cook, you know. And there's a great new invention. DVDs. Perhaps you've heard of them? Oh, wait. I bet you get first-run stuff, don't you?"

"Only the G-rated ones. Sorry."

She sighed. "Okay, fine. So I get no privileges from your position. I can live with that. I want to live with that, Sam. We try, we see what happens. And you come over. I'll cook. Get a bottle of wine. We can watch the sunrise over the fire escape in the building across the street. It's very romantic."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"Cooking? Drinking wine? Watching the sun rise over the fire escape? It's been known to happen when the moon is in the right phase, and Jupiter aligns with Mars. Eight o'clock?"

"Probably closer to nine. We have some wrap-up work after the taping."

"You lead a hard life, Sam."

"I know. Take pity on me."

She pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. A mere peck. "I'll leave the whips and chains in the closet."

There was panic in his eyes, and she shrugged. Let him wonder. Besides, she was seeing him tonight. Everything else didn't matter.

THE CANDLES SHIMMERED IN the dimmed light, the wax pooling and dripping over the edges. Mercedes had cleaned, she had cooked, she had bathed, she had dressed. Everything was ready, except she had no date.

The ziti was turning from a beautiful, bubbling amber to a not-so-beautiful, burning brown and Mercedes pulled it out of the oven, fighting tears. Everything was supposed to be perfect.

She kept telling herself that if a man was thirty minutes late, it did not mean he would never show up at her door again. Sam was reliable. Not punctual, perhaps, but reliable. Sam was not going to disappear.

After spending a good five minutes cursing the whims of Harvard law professors, Italian pasta and a certain nameless man who had no concept of time, the phone rang.

It was said nameless man, who had miraculously developed the concept of time.

"Hey, I'm still at the studio. Got caught up in a problem with tomorrow's show. I'll be there, but it'll probably be another hour."

"No problem," muttered Mercedes.

"You're mad."

"No. You're a busy guy, and if I spent four hours slaving over a hot burner, and have to sit and watch all that hard work turn cold-"

"Eat without me."

"That's not the point."

"I'm sorry. I'll be out of here as soon as I can."

As soon as I can. Mercedes should have known better. At the end of the day, all men were unreliable creatures-including Sam, which ticked her off even more, because she had held him up to a higher standard, and he had failed the test.

She scowled into the phone. "That's okay, I'll take another bath."

"A bath?" he asked, his voice perking up.

"Yeah," she murmured, almost a purr.

"Bubbles?"

"You tell me."

"No bubbles. You like your baths, don't you?"