The flame from the candle blurred in front of her eyes, a prism of colors emerging from the fire. He rode her to his own completion, and then fell still.

She wanted to believe it was only s.e.x between them, it would be easier for him, for her. But "only s.e.x" didn't explain the tenderness in his face, "only s.e.x" didn't explain the hopes in her mind, "only s.e.x" didn't explain why even the afterwards with Sam was better than the during of her other encounters.

Long moments pa.s.sed, the sound of breathing, the city noises taking hold, cars honking, the quiet hiss of the candle flames. Yet all Mercedes could hear was the steady b.u.mp of his heart.

Sam was everything a man should be. Honest, caring, reliable, give or take an hour, and most of all, he was the most honorable man she'd ever known. Every night he told the entire country what he believed in, taking the hits in stride, but never letting it stop him from what he thought was right. People didn't do that anymore, they were too afraid.

Mercedes let out a sigh, because honest, caring and reliable men didn't belong with her. He heard her sigh, misread the reason, and rolled her back on top of him.

"Sam, this campaigning business, will I still be able to see you? It's going to be worse, isn't it?"

"I'm not going anywhere. I found my warm spot, all three-quarters of an inch of it, and I'm not giving it up. It'll be worse for a while. But then it's over. We'll work it out. Promise."

"Okay."

"No brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"Don't make problems, Mercedes. I don't have to run."

At that, she raised her head, jamming a hard fist into his chest. "Don't you dare not do this, Sam Porter. America needs you." I need you, too, she thought, keeping the words quiet in her heart. "What would you do?"

"If I won?"

"Not if, but when. Let's be realistic."

"You're good for my ego, Mercedes."

"This isn't about ego, this is about doing your patriotic duty for your country. What would you do?"

His chest rumbled with laughter. "There're a few heads in the House that have some common sense. I'd work with them. Budget needs help, foreign diplomacy needs help. That's where I'd start."

"You could do a lot."

"Washington is a lot like Wonderland. You've got to be careful not to drink the water, or who knows how you end up."

"Hmmm."

"What are you thinking?"

"Just thinking," she answered. She didn't know much about the political process, but like it or not, she was about to get a baptism by fire. It would have been nice if they'd been together a little longer first. Like maybe a month.

"No brooding."

"I'm not brooding."

"So I have a question for you."

"What?"

"Do you really keep chocolate sauce in your refrigerator?"

"No. That's just fiction."

"Ah. It's a good thing I brought some, then."

BY THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Mercedes had written an online profile for Tony and e-mailed it to Sam, posted two mediocre stories for her Web site, written three yuck pages on her next ma.n.u.script, played seven games of Solitaire, and had viewed an anonymous s.e.x video that some Wall Street trader had sent her in hopes of getting it posted on her blog. In response, Mercedes sent him her standard form rejection letter: I'm sorry, but although your efforts showed promise, we find your submission not quite what we're looking for. I didn't feel the enthusiasm for the project that I should have. Thank you for your interest, and best of luck in your s.e.x video career.

Mercedes Brooks Coming in 2008, The Return of the Red Choo Diaries This time, when she hit the send b.u.t.ton, she didn't get her usual charge of satisfaction. In fact, she didn't get a charge at all. Sadly, her attention was fixated on the pillow in her lap. She picked it up, inhaling deeply. Sam's cologne. She'd walked to the Starbucks that morning, and right after she crossed 14th street, the scent had hit her nose. She turned, ready to see him, but it was just some doofus who had the nerve to wear Sam Porter's cologne. Ruined her whole morning.

Maybe if she did a story about a man's cologne, and the woman who dabs it on herself in order to be able to smell her lover on her when he wasn't there? She was struck by inspiration, felt the need to run to Sak's and buy a bottle of his cologne, when cooler heads (and lack of funds) prevailed and she sat down to write.

When the phone rang, a few minutes later, her first thought was Sam. Her second thought, as she glanced at CallerID was Portia. Her excitement dimmed.

"Doll, great news!"

Okay, it was a nice way to start. "Portia, tell me more."

"What do the words 'second printing' say to you?"

"I can pay next month's rent."

Portia laughed. "You're such a card."

"Forget compliments, tell me about the printing."

"The warehouse is out of stock. Apparently your book has started to fly off the shelves, apparently with the Victoria's Secret slash book club crowd. Who knew? Anyway, just wanted to share the love. The head of PR is trying to line up an interview with you on one of the talk shows. Just think. All that exposure. Your face would be plastered everywhere. Instant recognition, doll."

Instant recognition? But she liked her anonymity. For instance, she could go out with whomever she chose to (Sam) and not worry about him being linked with a well-known writer of erotica. "Maybe I should play it low-key. Right now, I'm pretty faceless, which can be a good thing when you write erotica." Or date a Congressional candidate. Or both.

"Well, yeah, but that's your big hook. You're gorgeous, and you're willing to go out there, and stand up for what you're writing. Not trying to hide behind some fake pen name. People like that. It makes you seem real, earthy, yet s.e.xually charged, too."

"s.e.xually charged is good."

"How's the next book coming?"

"Slow."

"Doll, when you're writing s.e.x, slow is a definite plus."

"Thanks, Portia."

"Loved you on the Sam Porter show, by the way. He's such a hottie."

"Thank you for watching."

"I've heard he's a hard-a.s.s in person, is that true?"

Yes, he does have a hard a.s.s. "I thought he was very personable, but what do I know?"

"Oh, yeah, those talking-head types. I'll be in touch. Kisses."

Mercedes hung up and returned to her writing.

For a maintenance man, he had the nicest smell, a combination of cologne, soap and some other elusive something that made her want to lean in and inhale. She pretended an interest in the work he was doing under the sink, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rubbed against his back. He turned, looked at her, his eyes darkening. She rose quickly, embarra.s.sed by what she'd done, and he went back to his work, leaving her to study his a.s.s. And a nice a.s.s it was. Hard, firm, just made for a woman's hands as he penetrated deep inside her....

11.

SAM DIDN'T BOTHER driving to Jersey the next morning. He snuck into the studio, showered, changed, and was working at his desk before anyone noticed. He looked over the dating profile that Mercedes had written for Tony, and was really impressed.

"Tony, it's Sam."

"Yeah."

"Listen, got a profile done for you."

"A profile for what?"

"Internet dating."

"I don't need a dating profile, Sam."

"No, no, this could work. You should use it. Or at least read it. I think it'd be good for you."

"What if no one wants to meet me?"

"Ah, Tony. Don't do this to yourself. Read it."

"You wrote this for me?"

"Nah. A friend did it."

"You told a stranger about my situation?"

"Don't get upset. She's nice."

"She?"

"Yeah. She."

"She thinks I should, huh?"

"Definitely."

"Does this she have a name, Sam?"

"You'll meet her on Sat.u.r.day."

"Uh-huh. You have a girlfriend, don't you, Sam? I'm going out with you two and I'll be stuck as the third wheel, won't I?"

"It's not that way, Tony."

"What? No girlfriend, or no third wheel."

"She's not exactly my girlfriend."

"Jeez, Sam."

"Will you trust me?"

"Only because it's you."

"Everything's going to be fine. Really."

After he hung up, Kristin came in, bearing a box.

"Delivery. This is like the sixth box you've had sent here these past few days. What are you doing? Moving your stuff in one package at a time?"

"It's research for a project I'm working on." He stood up. "Need help with that?"

"Uh, yeah, about five minutes ago."

Sam took the box from her and moved it to the pile behind his desk. Kristin eyed the boxes. "I'm hoping those are the crew's Christmas presents."

Sam chose not to burst her bubble. "You could think that. What's the latest on Friedman? Did we get him for Friday?"

Kristin nodded. "He's a go."

"Good."

She stared at him curiously. "You okay?"

"Never better. What's wrong?"