"The first ever ever?"

"My mom came here when she was alive. So, if you want to be precise, you're the second female."

"Precise is important," answered Mercedes, trying to ignore the supremely satisfied look on his face, and she wondered if she'd fallen into a skillfully executed mind-trap. They had tea on the couch, made love in front of the fireplace, and Mercedes fell asleep wrapped up in his arms.

The next morning, he woke her up at five. In the morning, not the evening. Mercedes whapped him in the chest. "It's too early."

"Not for the fish. Come on. You're the second female to be up here with me, don't make me second-guess my decision."

"Blackmail is a very low tactic, Sam."

"But effective?"

She glared. "But effective."

"Dress in warm stuff. It gets cold out there."

A small boat was docked a good walk from the house, and he explained the basics of the sport, although she drew the line at baiting her own hook.

Once on the lake, everything was quiet, the wind blowing through the trees. He didn't take them very far out, the cove was fairly small, and although she could hear some boat motors in the distance, nothing came close. Just the two of them on the water, the boat rocking gently.

"How long does it take to catch a fish?" she asked, getting used to the feel of the rod and reel in her hands.

"However long it takes. But the point of fishing is not to catch fish.

"Ah. Silly me. All those poor, misguided fishermen."

"You know what the point is?"

"You're going to tell me?"

"It's hearing the quiet lapping of the water, seeing the blue of the sky, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves. It gives you time to think. People don't think enough."

"There's no blue in that sky. Just fast-moving clouds."

"We'll have rain soon. But for now we fish."

"And think," she reminded him. "What do you think about?"

"Whatever I want. Peace in the Middle East or what I want for dinner."

"Deep stuff."

"Not always."

"Does it bother you if I talk to you while you fish?" she asked, watching the dark clouds bearing lower in the sky.

"Nah."

"But I don't have to."

"Mercedes, you can say what you want."

"Right now, you have your show, and tens of millions of people listen to you every day, and they listen to what you say, and you know how much influence that is? And when you get to Washington, because I know you'll get to Washington, then suddenly your influence dives down to 435 WASP-y men, of which only fifty percent would give you the time of day, so now we're down to 217, give or take a few seats, and they all have their own agendas to push, so you're really only one voice in 435, versus one voice that's influencing tens of millions. Isn't that a step down for you?"

"Very deep question for five-thirty in the morning."

"Thank you, I do my best thinking in the morning."

"I'll remember that, but to start with, my viewing audience isn't close to tens of millions, we're still in the single digit million numbers-"

"But still sizeable."

He nodded. "Still sizeable. But in my seat in the studio, I can talk, I can whine, I can argue, I can debate, I can opine, but at the end of the day, it's just talk. A man shouldn't be judged only by his words."

"But I get judged only by my words?"

"That's different," he said, as the boat rocked harder, the waves lapping higher against the sides.

"No, it's not. At the end of the day, I don't do anything. I talk on paper. You talk on television. Apples to apples."

He frowned. "Okay, maybe. But it doesn't bother you, does it?"

"Sometimes," she answered, "but I've got lots of time left."

"I don't know, Mercedes. I just get mad, and I want to fix things, and my father taught me that a leaking pipe never got fixed by standing around and talking about it."

"Sheldon's doing something now."

"Summerville?"

"Brooks, thank you very much."

"Sorry."

"S'all right. She's funding music education for kids. What's your stance on public funding for the arts, Sam?"

"To be honest, I haven't thought much about it. Math and science is where most of the emphasis should go."

"But to cut it off completely?"

"You want to have this debate at five-thirty in the morning?"

Mercedes sat up as straight as possible when rocking on water. "Yes, yes, I do."

"You're with Sheldon, I take it."

"I think I am."

"First thing, you have to make a definitive opinion. Not wishy-washy, no fence-straddling. You state your case, your arguments for the cause, and then you stick to it."

"Kids need music. There's causal connections between math and music, and where would the United States be without music? There'd be no "Star-Spangled Banner," no "America the Beautiful," and no Elvis. If you don't stop the cuts in funding for music, that-that'd be esquivalience on your part."

"Esquivalience?"

"I know big words, too. I'm a writer."

"I think you made it up."

"It means the willful avoidance of one's official responsibilities."

"I still think you made it up."

"Look in the dictionary, Sam. I'm highly educated, you know." She smiled, pleased with herself. "So what did you think?"

He nodded with approval. "You did that well."

"Do you find yourself swayed at all?"

"For you, I could be swayed."

"Maybe I should find a cause, too."

Sam made a face. "Here's the thing, Mercedes. If you don't believe in it, really, honestly believe in it, it'll never work. Wait until something finds you, hits you over the head. You're right. You are young."

"But not too young," she reminded him, feeling a fat raindrop on her face.

"Not that young."

"Are you one of those hard-core he-man types who fishes in the rain?"

"Not on your life," he said, and cranked up the motor.

They made it back to the dock as the rain started to fall.

She raced up the path, Sam not far behind, but by the time they were inside, both of them were soaked.

"How fast can you get a fire in that thing?" she asked, pulling off her jacket, shivering from the cold chill of the rain.

"Four minutes, and the clock starts now," he replied, and in short order the flames was blasting heat into the small room.

Mercedes sat closer, hands outstretched. "Much better, and a minute left on the clock."

She watched him then, the heat of the fire lighting his face with a ruddy glow. His hair dripped with moisture, his eyes narrowed, and the air in the room got very still. The rain pounding on the roof, the crackle of the fire, the insanely loud beating of her heart.

"You look like a mermaid, your hair wet like that." He reached out and caught a stand between his fingers.

Her eyes locked on his, and she began to unb.u.t.ton her shirt. "Clothes are wet," she whispered softly.

"I could help," he offered.

"Let me," she said, sliding the shirt off her shoulders. Underneath her shirt was a plain white T-shirt. His hand reached out, and touched her through the shirt. Then he lowered his head, using his mouth to wet the fabric even more, pulling one tightly beaded nipple into his mouth.

Mercedes bit back a moan, and he hauled her close. It was supposed to have been a slow seduction, but when she was with Sam, slow had left the building. She wanted him with an urgency that never seemed to stop. His hands pulled at her jeans, and she lifted her hips, as he jerked them off her. His hand parted her thighs, pushed inside her like a spear.

She gasped, not with pain. Not nearly from pain.

"You," she managed, her mouth tightly clenched, because she wanted more than this, her body poised on the edge, needing something more. Needing him.

He lowered his jeans, sheathed himself, and then he entered her. Her senses went on alert, the smell of wet wool, the sound of his words whispering against her neck. Her hands pulled at him, needing to touch him, and not buffered through layers of clothes.

There was something raw and primitive about the feel of wood at her back, the hardness of Sam over her, inside her. The rain beat even louder, and she knew that she could scream here, and there were no other tenants, no other neighbors, no one else but Sam. There was no one else in the world but Sam.

Her hands clawed at the b.u.t.tons on his shirt, needing to feel his flesh against her. Finally, she found the heated skin, and sighed as he pressed against her, flattening her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It was s.e.x as she'd never known before. Ancient and exposed. No cars, no skysc.r.a.pers, no lights. Just a man's carnal possession of a woman.

Her hips lifted, and he took her legs, balancing them on his shoulders, thrusting deeper inside her. Mercedes couldn't think, couldn't feel, she only knew him. This breaching of her carefully built defenses. He kept pounding, turning her inside out, and she could no longer deny him.

Mercedes opened her mouth, and screamed.

SAM NOTICED THAT SHE WAS quiet for the rest of the weekend, and he didn't ask her to explain. She would watch him when she thought he wasn't looking, her eyes soft and curious. If he caught her gaze, the look would change to something more womanly, more wicked...more calculated. On Sunday night, he drove her back to her apartment, and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll pick you up tonight after taping is done."

"You have the press conference tomorrow. I don't think that's very smart, Sam. What if reporters are there?"

"I'm running for the House, not the Presidency. And besides, the day I give up my privacy, is the day I'm dead."

"You're being naive."

"Optimistic."

"Naive."

"When a reporter shows up, just let me know. I'll deal with it."

She stopped arguing with him, but he could read the disagreement in her eyes. "There won't be any problems," he said, needing to convince her, only hoping he was right.

MERCEDES watched the press conference from the cold comfort of her own apartment. It wasn't long, a few questions, a few pithy remarks from Sam, and then boom-he'd moved from Sam Porter, ordinary television talk show host, to Sam Porter, the Candidate.

Her stomach clenched up like a fist, and she sat on her couch, and pretended like it wouldn't matter. In the long run, it wouldn't, because there would be no long run. Only a short run. A fire that would eventually burn itself out. Sam would work in Washington, and Mercedes would spend her days writing erotic blog entries about a tawny-haired man with green eyes she wanted to wake with forever.

Oh, G.o.d. The f-word.