"But you're campaigning on lower property taxes."

"That, too."

"You can't have it all, Sam."

"I refuse to believe there's not a way."

"Trust me, you can't put this in a campaign speech."

"Okay," answered Sam, making a mental note to put it into a campaign speech. Possibly tomorrow.

"You saw the papers on Congressman Barnard today? Those promises he made two years ago are just starting to blow up in their faces."

"Barnard is a wuss. No big loss."

"Their loss is our gain." Martin handed him some papers.

"Here's what we've set up for the next two weeks. We'll start easy, hit the northern part of the state first. You'll get good exposure. After that, we'll move further south. It's less friendly territory for you, but I think with a few good quotes in the paper and some cheesy press shots, we can turn some heads. There's a fund-raiser next weekend, and I've given you some bios of the people you want to be nice to. These people will fund your campaign if you let them, and I'm hoping we let them. Any questions?"

Sam took the papers from Martin, and tucked them away. "No."

Martin wore a congenial smile, but his eyes were hard, appraising. "You've been very quiet. Anything I need to know? I'm in this to win, Sam, and I don't like surprises."

Sam met his eyes evenly. "I haven't done anything for you to worry about, but I like my life, Martin, and if people are starting to comb through my garbage, I'm out."

"Nah. Not for a seat in the House."

"Okay. I'll see you at the fund-raiser."

TRIDENT WAS A HUGE, cavernous club on the Lower East Side. An old warehouse building with a tin roof and graffiti covered walls, but what it lacked in exterior design, it more than made up for in post-Apocalyptic style. Black and white videos played on the walls, and if a man looked closely, he would be shocked to realize that the videos were basically soft-p.o.r.n. Skin flashed, but the images moved so quickly that a man wasn't exactly sure what he was watching, but he kept looking, just to figure it out.

Sam shook his head, trying not to get turned on.

Interspersed were videos from the club floor, people trying to outshock each other to get their faces and bodies on the wall.

It was hedonistic, it was s.e.xy.

Okay, he was getting turned on. Some things a man couldn't fight.

Sam was going to have to kill Franco for this. Sam looked around, seeing everything that was wrong with America while Tony watched the surroundings with the look of a soldier in the demilitarized zone.

Everywhere there was something to see, something to shock. The women were all young. Way too young, and Sam felt the beginnings of a true midlife crisis approaching. He'd find Mercedes and they'd go someplace simpler, someplace where people could hear.

That was the moment when he spotted her and his throat closed up on him.

Holy moley.

The black leather dress fit her like a glove, a very tight, hand-crafted glove that helplessly maneuvered on every curve. A zipper ran the length of her, from the neck to the top of her thighs, and the zipper was undone about halfway between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

It was nothing overtly sordid, but a man looked and got ideas. Or at least Sam did.

"Hiya, Sam," she said, coming up, just like an old friend. He hated the pretense, hated the idea that he couldn't just take her hand, kiss her properly, or slip the zipper down just another half an inch, but no matter what he wanted, he knew it was a bad idea.

"This wasn't what I was expecting. We should go somewhere...less."

She laughed then. "More is good, Sam. Remember why you're here," she reminded him, with a meaningful glance in Tony's direction. And she was right, Tony was watching the people on the dance floor, watching the videos on the wall, watching Mercedes with avid, avid interest.

Sam had the strong desire to jab Tony in the ribs, possibly hard enough to shove his eyes back into their sockets, but she would know, and get upset because he wasn't a "modern man," so he kept his hands to himself, hoping Tony would keep his hands to himself, too.

While he watched, she led his friend out onto the floor until they were swallowed up in a million throbbing people, engaged in an overt mating ritual that had lost any hint of subtlety.

Mercedes wasn't dancing with Tony, more dancing around him, dancing through the crowd, her body beating in time to the heavy ba.s.s rhythm on the floor. She was completely uninhibited, twisting and writhing. When she saw someone she wanted to include in their circle, she moved around them, through them, until the circle enlarged.

Tony's dance moves were a little outdated, but Mercedes was a good sport and didn't mind at all. She would mimic whatever he was doing, and somehow, when she did it, it didn't look outdated, it looked graceful and seductive. Tony, bless his heart, was having the time of his life.

And that was the purpose of this mind-altering exercise, Sam kept telling himself. He was a good friend. A great friend, he corrected himself. He was the Best. Friend. Ever. But Sam's eyes kept on tracking back to Mercedes, who whirled like a dervish on the floor.

"Sam!"

He blinked at the sound of his name, one hundred percent certain that no one in the eighteen to thirty-four age group would recognize him. Someone slapped a hand on his back, and he turned to see Franco and a woman-most likely the girlfriend. "Franco?"

"Look at you! I didn't think you'd actually come here, being a candidate and all. It's great, isn't it?"

"Marvelous," drawled Sam.

"Where's Tony?"

Sam pointed to the movie on the wall that showed Mercedes still dancing in rings around Tony. "I thought you were cooking tonight."

"I knew this would be more fun. I wanted to see you with your face all scrunched up, trying to keep yourself calm and collected when faced with all this healthy human s.e.xuality."

"Oh, get over yourself," muttered Sam.

"Mandy, this mellow example of wasted manhood is Sam Porter."

"Hiya! You're the TV guy?" she asked.

"Sometimes," he yelled back.

Right then, Tony and Mercedes came back. Tony's face was flushed with excitement and sweat. If Sam were a good friend, he'd tell Tony that he was too old for this nonsense. Instead, Sam kept his mouth shut.

"Franco, Mandy, this is Mercedes. And Tony."

"Nice to meet you," said Mercedes. "I'm here with some friends of mine, they're-" she pointed across the room "-on the far side, and then I took pity on these guys, because they didn't know anybody."

Sam rubbed his eyes. "Mercedes. It's okay."

She looked at Sam, looked at Franco, and then stuck out a hand to Mandy. "Hi, Mandy. How're you? You look like you could use a drink. Can you use a drink? I know that I could use a drink. Let's go get a drink, if that's okay?"

She grabbed Mandy's arm and led her toward the bar.

"Is she the hired gun?" asked Franco.

"Nah. She's a friend."

Franco leered. "You've got good taste in friends, Sam. An ever-expanding taste in friends. I approve. She's a lot better than the last blonde you dated. Does she know where China is on a map?"

"Certainly. I think. I'm sure she does. She's very bright."

Then Franco snapped his fingers. "That's the writer."

"What writer?" asked Sam, pretending ignorance, which was not something he normally pretended, but right now ignorant seemed the best way to be.

"The s.e.x books."

"She writes fiction, yes. I wouldn't call them s.e.x books, though."

"They're full of s.e.x?"

"Yes."

Franco stayed silent.

"Yes, she writes the s.e.x books," admitted Sam.

"Does Charlie know about this?"

"He knows what she writes."

"No, does he know that you're nailing her?"

"My private life stays private, Franco."

Franco flagged down a waiter and ordered Sam a drink, a stiff whiskey and water. "You're going to need it."

MERCEDES WAS HAVING AN amazing time. She liked clubs, she loved people, and she got a chance to help out one of Sam's friends. It was a win-win-win. Tony was doing better. She'd worked to pull him out of his sh.e.l.l, although Sam wasn't helping much. He stood, stared, his face immobile.

She went up to him, tugged on his shirt-the black one she picked out for him, she was pleased to note.

"If you're not careful, people will think you're a prude."

"I am a prude. You should know that about me."

"You can't do bondage and still be a prude."

His eyes got bigger. "I thought you didn't want to talk about that."

"n.o.body can hear. And that's around your dad. Family is different. You should dance," she told him, crooking a finger in invitation.

"Don't make me dance."

"Why?"

"I'm a mature, intelligent human being, set apart from the animals by my ability to choose not to make a fool of myself in public."

"You should dance," she said, pulling his hand.

"You're not listening to me, you're just using that wicked mind-control look in your eyes to make me think that I could never make a fool out of myself."

"You could never make a fool out of yourself," she said, pulling him farther into the crowd, where he had to either move or be trampled.

And then he was dancing with her, watching her with hungry eyes as their bodies moved in perfect sync.

"This is not the behavior of a mature, intelligent human being. I look just as bad as Tony."

"You're not doing bad. For an old man," she teased.

He caught her close against him, all that merciless, hard muscle pressed against her, breast to chest, thigh to the hard, thick, bulge that made her want to sink against him more. Her s.e.x throbbed in time to the music, pulsing with a heavy beat of its own. Each time his hips moved against hers, she closed her eyes, her mind escaping to a place far away from the dance floor, far away from the public eye.

The public eye. She groaned in frustration. They were dancing closer than they should be. People might think this was taking compa.s.sionate conservatism a bit far.

She spun around him, putting some distance between them, but her hands slipped lightning-fast into places they shouldn't be slipping to in public.

He caught her back, their hips locked together, and she didn't fight. It felt too good. Right now her body was in control, not her mind. "I like the dress," he whispered in her ear.

She reached in between them, and pulled the zipper down an inch lower. "It's versatile."

"We'll talk about it later," he said, a warning in his voice. His body moved away from hers, and she felt the loss instantly, but he had done the right thing, d.a.m.n him.

"See, you're not a prude," she said, s.e.xual frustration coloring her voice, and not in a nice way, either.

"Oh come on, Mercedes. This is all commercialized s.e.xuality."

"So?"

He brushed back the hair from her face, his thumb lingering. "You better rescue Tony, I think he's getting lost again."

Sam was right. Tony was hovering closer and closer to the edge of the wall, nursing a drink in his hand. There was a lot here to overwhelm someone. The crowd of people, faceless, and nameless, the flash of the lights that matched the beat of the music. Everyone was here for one purpose. To meet someone for tonight. Not tomorrow, but only tonight.

Mercedes brought Tony onto the dance floor, searching out the women in the club to find his perfect match. It wouldn't be easy because Tony was too sensitive for most of the barracudas here. They would chew him up and spit him out, but Mercedes was on a mission. A mission for Sam.