"I'm trying to be charming."

"Charming? You've just sent Tony off like an errand boy. You're not being a good friend."

"Are you kidding? You're his date. I think Tony's the big winner tonight. Of course, if he laid a hand underneath any of that virginal white lace, I'd have to kill him."

"Why are you in such a good mood?"

"Because you're here," he answered simply.

The words touched her more than she wanted, but she understood. "You look spiffy tonight. No plaid. I'm proud."

And he did look good. He'd worn something dressier than the usual sports jacket he wore on the show. The dark suit made his hair shine with sprinkles of gold, and he'd tamed some of the tousles. His tie was the conservative maroon stripe, favored by most of the men in the room. But her gaze kept wandering back to his eyes, which were actually more hazel than green tonight. Those eyes were bright with excitement, and she knew that not all of that was because of her. Sam wanted this, and she knew it. He loved the idea of duty and honor, of thinking for the good of the country.

"I thought you'd approve," he said.

Tony returned, and Sam mingled, but every now and then, he'd look up, see her. Over the course of the evening, Mercedes met tons of New Jersey's political elites. She wanted to tell them she voted for the other guy in the last election, just for shock value, but she kept her mouth shut. This was Sam's night to shine.

And he shone. All the players were there. The fat cats, the bureaucrats, the other politicians, but Sam stood out. He wasn't worried about pleasing the base, or negotiating deals for dollars. He simply wanted to do right by the state of New Jersey.

Mercedes sighed. It was enough to make her change her statehood. She had just taken a sip of champagne, when a man approached. Shorter, a young ambitious type, with stylish horn-rimmed gla.s.ses, and dark, gleaming eyes.

"Miss Brooks? We haven't had the pleasure. I'm Martin Darcy, Sam's campaign manager."

She nodded politely. "Ah, yes, the campaign manager. I'm here with Tony, Sam's friend."

"I saw the tape of you on Sam's show a few weeks back," he said, and she realized those dark, gleaming eyes didn't miss a thing.

"Oh, yeah."

"That's one of Sam's better qualities, the ability to listen to both sides, find common ground, and move forward."

Mercedes laughed, a delicate, trilling laugh. "I'm not convinced we found common ground. In fact, I'm almost positive that no ground was common at all. Ever. We ended up on an agreement to disagree. I write s.e.x books. He doesn't approve."

Martin smiled. "He's a real a.s.set to the party this year and it'd be a real disappointment if he lost."

"Oh, Sam's gonna win," said Mercedes.

"I didn't think you were a fan."

d.a.m.n. "Oh, I'm not a fan, but the other candidate? He's bathtub-sc.u.m. It's actually a lose-lose situation for me, being the loyal liberal that I am. But if I have to choose, if someone chains me down on a rack and forces me to vote, then I suppose I'll hold my nose, and hope against hope-"

"I get it, Miss Brooks."

"Good," she said. If he wanted to play games, then she could play, too. "Ah, yes. And speak of the devil," she said, spying Tony approaching, and taking his arm. "My date. The love of my life." She gave him a warm kiss on the cheek. "Come, darling, let's mingle."

SAM CAUGHT UP WITH HER at the dessert table. "I understand there's a big riot on the roof. I was going up to take a look. You should look, too," he said, putting a hand in the small of Mercedes's back and guiding her down the hallway, through an old storage room, around an air conditioning service corridor, and then pushing through a metal maintenance-type door.

"I don't think we're supposed to go on the roof," she whispered.

"I know for a fact we're not supposed to go on the roof, but I'm an investigative reporter, and sometimes, believe it or not, I actually investigate the facts, rather than just blindly spew them out on my show. Tonight, we're investigating the roof."

"Sam."

"It's true," he answered, leading her up through one narrow flight of stairs, down another service corridor, and then up a narrow flight of stairs.

Finally, success.

The door opened up to New York at night, dressed in her Sat.u.r.day evening best. St. Patrick's Cathedral was lit up with white spotlights on the gothic towers. The regal structure looked like something out of a medieval fairy-tale. Rockefeller Center was prepping for the weekend crowds, and in the distance, the tiny pinpoints of streetlamps outlined Central Park.

This was the city she loved.

The wind blew around them, but Mercedes didn't really mind the chill. It was so beautiful to watch, so peaceful. So lonely. In New York, it was so easy to feel small, so easy to feel lost.

Mercedes leaned against the ledge, and watched the world, shivering.

Sam came up behind her, strong arms wrapping around her, warming her from the chill, alleviating the loneliness. And who would keep her warm when he was gone? Who would stop the loneliness? There wasn't anyone else.

"You're okay?" he asked. "It's nice, isn't it?"

It was the understatement of the year, but she nodded. "You'll have to go back soon."

"Too soon."

"You're doing very well out there."

"G.o.d," he said, his chest rumbling with laughter. "I didn't realize how many people like me."

She turned in his arms, turned away from the city she loved, and looked at him, looked in his eyes, memorizing every detail, the hard line of his jaw, the once-broken nose, the marvelous, expressive eyes that could trap her with a look.

"You're going to win, did you know that?"

"I like to think positively, so yes, I think I'm going to win."

"You'll be a wonderful congressman. And they're going to name elementary schools after you, and maybe build the Sam Porter Parkway."

"I don't think they should call it the Sam Porter Parkway."

"Okay, maybe not. But you're going to do great. You know that, right?" she said, her voice quivering, and she didn't want it to quiver. Not now. This was supposed to be a perfect time. Their perfect time.

"Mercedes?" he asked, his thumb brushing her tears away.

She sniffed and waved her hand in the air. "Sorry. I'm just so happy."

He tucked her head against his chest, rubbing her back, and once again she was there, leaning against him. It felt so nice. So wonderfully, permanently nice.

"Yeah, I can feel all that happiness radiating from you. I know you hate this, and I'm sorry. We can leave in an hour, I think. Duck out."

"That sounds great," she murmured.

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm great. I love you, Sam Porter."

She could feel the stillness in him. She hadn't meant to say that, but the words had tripped out.

Gently he grasped her chin, and tilted her mouth for his kiss. Mercedes had never dreamed of magical, starlight nights, and the n.o.ble knights who rode on white horses, but he was the stuff that magic was made of. He made her dream. She'd always imagined she was too tough to dream, too tough to love, but now she knew the truth. Love took strength and courage. It was the cowards who were afraid of love. She'd been wrong all along.

She kissed him with all of those dreams, all of that magic, and she hoped he would understand. This night, this kiss, this time, it would be hers, and hers alone.

This time, it was Mercedes who pulled away. "You should get back," she said. When they walked downstairs, her legs were steadier, her back was straighter. She would be fine.

She picked up a gla.s.s of champagne, said a quiet goodbye to Tony, and then walked out of the hotel. She hailed a cab back to her apartment, and before she went inside, she threw her cell phone into a pa.s.sing garbage truck.

She could pack up her things, bunk with her mother for a little, lie low so that Sam couldn't find her.

She would be fine, she didn't have a choice.

15.

SAM TRIED TO CALL HER, HE tried going to her apartment. He sent flowers, he sent e-mails, but it was as if Mercedes had disappeared. Her apartment had been vacated, even her agent wouldn't return his calls.

The one bit of hope was the few lines she'd written in her blog.

The nights were unbearably long without him, without his warmth next to her. She'd grown accustomed to the way he held her, the way his body molded to hers. She'd grown accustomed to reaching out in the darkness and finding him there, a brush of the hand to know he was next to her, a bolder touch if she needed something more. She missed the lovemaking in the dark, in the wee hours of the morning, before the sun would come up through the woods. She missed that moment when he would slip inside her, filling a void that was more than physical.

She'd never known how lonely she was before. But now she did, and the pain was even worse.

The headlines in the Star-Ledger on Wednesday trumpeted soundbites from Sam's latest campaign speech. He made the nightly news, and had a national television interview. He answered all the questions, smiled when he was told to, but in his heart he had a void that he hadn't even known he'd possessed. It was that warm spot in his heart that Mercedes had claimed for her own.

It took two days for Sam to figure it out. At first, he thought he'd done something wrong, but on Tuesday morning, he met Martin in his office, and Martin looked more pompous than usual. A kingmaker moving his p.a.w.ns.

"What did you tell her?"

"Who?"

"Mercedes."

"Miss Brooks? Why should I tell her anything?"

"Because everything was fine before the fund-raiser, and after the fund-raiser, everything was not fine."

"Everything was not 'fine' before the fund-raiser, Sam. You were only pretending it was all roses and kittens. You need to learn to take off the Mr. Smith Goes to Washington gla.s.ses before you hit DC, or you won't last a week."

"What did you tell her?"

"Actually, I didn't tell her anything. I think she was smart enough to figure it out on her own."

"You're fired, Martin."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm the best. At this late date, you can't get anybody else good enough. Do you want to win this election?"

"Right at the moment, no."

"Good luck, Sam. You're going to need it."

Martin was right.

MERCEDES WENT TO SEE Portia in her midtown office. The agency was a busy place, people cranking six-figure deals over the phone, interns in black, rushing to get signatures for contracts.

Portia was talking on the phone, but she waved Mercedes in.

"Listen, Sal. That's too low. I want the rights to UK, Germany and Eastern Europe. You get the U.S. and Canada.

"No, I'm not letting you have Germany. I've already got an editor over there who's ready to hop all over this. You're not taking my piece of the pie. Got it?

"I mean it, Sal. We get Germany, or the deal's off.

"Talk it over with Mary and get back to me. I'll give you twenty-four hours. The clock is ticking, Sal. Tick. Tick."

She hung up, and looked at Mercedes. "How's my favorite hot novelist? And I mean that in terms of dollars, not editorial content."

Mercedes cracked a smile. "Great."

"You should be on top of the world. Things have really picked up on the sales. I think this demand caught the publisher with their pants down around their ankles. They're going back for a third printing."

"You know, I'm not sure that a third printing is a good idea," answered Mercedes. "I don't know how many people are actually reading it."