Her first candidate, Dora, was too shy. Mercedes knew it, knew that Tony and Dora would never speak at all, merely avoid glances all night. The next girl was Brittany, who was more outgoing, but she had a hard edge to her, so Mercedes shook her off. The last lady was Sylvia. Sylvia was a little older, more a librarian type, but the fact that she'd come to Trident with some of her friends indicated cajones of a non-librarian level. Mercedes approved.

"Want to meet a nice guy tonight? Somebody who will actually call you and ask you out on dates, probably even spring for dinner?"

Sylvia looked at her strangely, but nodded.

"Come with me," said Mercedes, leading Sylvia to Tony, performing introductions, and hoping that nature would work its wayward course. Then she looked at Sam expectantly. "Problem solved."

"Just like that?"

"Of course."

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Humor me. Why don't we take Tony-"

"-and Sylvia-"

"-and Sylvia, and find someplace to talk. This has been a good first step, but I think we should regress to something less intimidating."

"For him or for you?"

"Him."

Because she was so proud of Sam for actually deigning to dance with her, she chose not to argue. "Fine."

However, they did argue about where to go next. Mercedes wanted burgers from the Shake Shack and Sam wanted someplace more comfortable, so they finally ended up at a Starbucks in Soho, settled around a tiny table in the corner.

Sylvia and Tony were still a little bit embarra.s.sed, and Mercedes did her best to keep the conversation flowing, but it wasn't easy.

"Sylvia, where did you say you worked?"

"I didn't."

"So, where do you work?" asked Mercedes patiently.

"I can't say."

"As in, I don't want you to know, or as in 'I work for the CIA'?"

Sylvia scrunched up her brows. "I work for the CIA."

Sam tried not to snicker. "Nice deduction, Sherlock."

However, Tony looked impressed. "The CIA?"

"I'm only a secretary," she added apologetically, sipping at her coffee.

"But a secretary is a really great thing. I mean, you see all those secrets, and hear all that spy-stuff, and I know the CIA is a much smarter place than they talk about in the press. Right, Sam?"

At the mention of Sam's name, Sylvia's eyes widened. "You're Sam Porter! Oh my G.o.d. My boss hates you."

"Sorry to hear that, ma'am," he said, and Mercedes noticed the change in his voice. He'd changed from casual man-about-town to aw-shucks midwestern boy without taking so much as a breath. Nice job for a man born in Jersey.

Sylvia blushed bright red, and Tony covered her hand. "It's okay. A lot of people hate Sam. He gets death threats on a daily basis."

"You do?" gasped Mercedes.

Sam gave Tony a warning glance. "Not daily, but I have some enemies. Apparently in the CIA."

Sylvia's face returned to its normal shade of pale. "I shouldn't have said anything. I caught your show a couple of times, but I like the silver-haired guy better."

"Sam's much more distinguished looking. He's like the voice of reason," said Mercedes, deciding that someone needed to take up for the underdog here.

Tony laughed at that. "Sam's the voice of reason unless you got on the wrong side of his opinion. Then he becomes the voice of stubbornness."

"There's nothing wrong with knowing your own mind," argued Mercedes.

Sam looked at her, the devil in his eyes. "I can argue my own defense."

"Not now, honey. You sit back and listen."

Even Sylvia laughed then. The conversation slid all over the place, and it was close to midnight when Sam excused himself.

Mercedes watched him walking toward the facilities, just like any ordinary American, and her heart gave a stutter. This was her guy. Her guy.

She caught up to him, inching a little too close for comfort.

Noticing her (not that she was exactly subtle), he asked, "You headed for the facilities, too, or something else?"

"Just wanted to say h.e.l.lo."

His gaze dropped from her face, lower, lingering somewhere in the valley of her cleavage. "I do love that dress."

"I thought I'd point out a dark corner over there, where a person of a devious nature might cop a feel, sneak a peak, steal a kiss, or all of the above."

He pulled her behind the dark s.p.a.ce where the boxes were stored, bringing her to him, his mouth coming down over hers. She didn't notice the zipper sliding down, only the cool breeze hitting bare flesh. He continued to kiss her, his desire apparent in his tongue, in the thick bulge that pressed between her thighs, and then his hands were beneath the material, inside, cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, freeing them.

Such marvelous hands, such talented fingers. She stood on her toes, trying to shift even closer, when she heard him swear. His mouth lifted from hers, her dress zipped tightly shut, and the rest of her was throbbing like a mother.

"That wasn't fair," she protested.

"We have company," he whispered, and there was a sound from nearby. An older woman in party clothes held up her cell phone camera and snapped a picture.

It took a second for Mercedes to process the ramifications of the situation. Governments had been brought down for less.

Sam held up a hand, blocking the woman from them, and tried to push his way out, but this was the thing she had feared most.

Mercedes took a step away from Sam, her eyes wide and alarmed. "Oh, my G.o.d! You're not Phil! Who are you?"

The woman looked at Mercedes in confusion. "I thought you were his date?"

Sam started to speak and Mercedes jammed her heel on his foot. Hard. "I'm with Phil, not this guy." She gave Sam a hard once-over, squinting in the low light. "You look like Phil, but not quite. I think he's taller."

She turned to the woman. "Don't you think Phil is taller?"

The woman looked at her in confusion. "I don't know how tall Phil is. This is Sam Porter. The talk show host."

Mercedes's jaw dropped. "You're on TV? Oh. My. G.o.d. I can't believe it! I was kissing a TV star. Lady, can I see that picture, not that I can show Phil or anything. He'll get like totally P.O.ed and you don't want to be around Phil when he's P.O.ed." She held out her hand, and the woman handed her the camera.

"How can I view the picture?" she asked, and the woman pressed a b.u.t.ton for her.

"Oh!" Mercedes made an approving sound. "Would you look at that?" She grinned at Sam. "You're almost as cute as Phil." Then she slid her fingers across the phone, hitting the delete option, and then hitting another b.u.t.ton to confirm.

"There!" Mercedes said, and handed the phone back to the woman. "I think those phones are so cool, taking pictures with a telephone? Can you imagine? I'm just a big dork when it comes to technology. Listen, I can hear Phil calling my name. Toodles." She waved at Sam. "Mr. TV Star, it was great to meet you, and I hope you never have to meet Phil. He will so jump all over that really tight a.s.s of yours. He's very possessive, my Phil."

Then she lifted her coat from the chair, and sashayed out of the Starbucks, leaving Tony, Sylvia and Sam Porter far behind.

No, Mercedes had done enough damage for tonight.

HER CELL PHONE RANG TWICE before she shut it off. She knew it was Sam, but she wasn't ready to talk to him. What could Mercedes say? She could quit her writing and walk away from her career, which would be a lot easier if her book wasn't currently out in every bookstore in America-going into a second printing.

Tonight she should have known better. Stupidly, she had forgotten they lived in a world where cameras lurked around every corner, and a moment's indiscretion could turn up on the Internet. Majorly stupid, because she wrote about those indiscretions in her blog. Good one, Mercedes. Chalk one up in the idiot column.

She walked up Broadway, and then down Houston, past the Sat.u.r.day night crowds, past the couples, past the packs of smokers that congregated outside the club doors. The fall air was cold on her legs and she was grateful for the warmth of her dress, but it didn't help the cold that was inside her. All those sweet ideas of permanence and security were currently out the window.

She walked past the newspaper kiosk, past the Number One Chinese restaurant. She had known all along that they couldn't be together. She had tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. Maybe now he would listen. Maybe now he would leave her. The hurt pierced through the cold, pierced through the walls she'd built to protect herself. She didn't want to hurt.

Outside her building, her heel got caught in one of the steam grates, and she pulled, trying to get it free. No matter how hard she tried, it was stuck. h.e.l.l.

She jerked again, leaving one broken heel stuck in the sidewalk. She took off the shoe and threw it in the street.

d.a.m.n Choos.

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n.

Why had she thought this could work? It would never work. Sam was honorable, upstanding, and he didn't need someone who wrecked everything she touched.

Mercedes trampled up the four flights of stairs, one heel, one bare foot. When she got to her door, Sam was there. Waiting.

14.

"WHY ARE YOU HERE?"

"Open the door, Mercedes. Let's not talk in the hall. It's late."

She didn't want to let him inside. She wasn't strong enough to resist him. She wasn't one of his politico guests, she was just the woman who loved him.

And because of that, she unlocked the door, and he followed her inside.

He didn't look angry, didn't look mad, he took her in his arms, held her close, so tightly, like he would never leave her.

Mercedes began to cry. She wasn't an elegant crier, it was dramatic, loud and never pretty.

Sam didn't seem to mind. He stood, stroking her hair, making it harder and harder for her to do the right thing.

"I love you, Mercedes."

Oh, G.o.d. That was below the belt, dirty pool and a personal foul. It only made her cry harder.

"I think I knew a year ago. I just looked at you, looked in your eyes and fell. I didn't want to. You were trouble. I knew it, and I spent the last year trying to do my job, live my life, forgetting about you. You know how stubborn I am. But I couldn't forget. You were always there. Always in my head. It took me over a year to come up with a legitimate excuse to see you again. And the first shot I had, I took it. I thought we'd sleep together, and that'd be the end of it. But it was the start of it, not the end. I'd wake up thinking about you, wondering what you would say, wondering which smile you were wearing. You have at least three that I know of. The plain-jane, life is great smile. The snarky little Miss Brooks smile, and then there's the last smile. The one you don't flash very often, but G.o.d, when you do...Every neuron in my brain lights up like a pinball machine on tilt. I stumble over my words, and that from a man who gets paid a lot of money never to stumble over words. I have that picture stuck in my head forever. I know it's fast, I know it doesn't make sense, I don't have any facts to back it up, but I've accepted it. Love isn't logical."

"Sam, we'll get caught. And next time, there won't be a way out."

"Then I'm not in the election. I don't like people intruding in my private life. I don't like flashbulbs going off in my face. I don't want to end up in the tabloids. If I don't run, that problem is solved."

"That's not an option."

"It is for me."

"What about the show?"

"The show will be fine. I'll be fine. We'll be fine."

She cushioned her head on his chest, listening to the quiet thud of his heart, feeling so safe, so secure, but Sam Porter couldn't fix everything, and she knew what was going to happen if they stayed like this. His career would be ruined. His image would be shattered, and there would be no one to blame but her.

All through the night she let him love her, let him whisper in her ear, let him hold her, but this time Mercedes held back a small piece of herself.

It was time to rebuild the walls around her heart.

AN AFTERNOON OF WORKING for her sister-in-law Sheldon should have been exactly what Mercedes needed. Work was a chance to keep her mind off other things, namely her relationship with Sam. The Battery Park apartment Sheldon and Jeff shared had been transformed into a full-fledged activity zone. Sheldon's new project to bring music to inner-city kids was up and running. There was a table with office supplies and a fax spewing pages. Stacks of paper and envelopes were everywhere, and judging by the size of her pupils, Sheldon looked to be on her fifth cup of coffee.

Mercedes studied the place in awe. "Wow. I have to say, that for a pair of slackers, this puts Jamie and Andrew to shame."