Jeff grinned. "Morton's then. I think steak sounds good." He looked at Andrew's dark face. "To celebrate."

Jamie nudged Andrew in the ribs. "Not a problem."

Jeff smiled happily. "I think you'll fit into the family just fine." He looked at Andrew. "I like her."

16.

THE ST. JAMES THEATER WAS one of the grand dames of Broadway. Mercedes wasn't the fan of cla.s.sical music that Sheldon was, but she supported her family, and it's not as if she had a million other places to be. No, she belonged here at the concert for Sheldon's foundation.

Andrew's box seats were on the first tier, and had a perfect view of the orchestra. Sheldon came out, elegant and gorgeous, and thanked the audience, still nervous. The great velvet curtains lifted, and thirty of New York City's most talented student musicians proceeded to play.

Okay, they were good. Heck, they were great. Mercedes closed her eyes and let the music carry her away to another place.

The kids, and they were kids, played fast songs, slow songs and sad songs. She didn't want sad songs, she wanted the fast ones, and happy ones. And for a while, everything was fine, but then, it got too much for her. Quietly she excused herself, and stood in the hallway outside.

"h.e.l.lo, Mercedes."

She knew that voice. That beautiful, husky voice. She didn't want this right now. This was Sheldon's night.

"I knew you'd be here. You're a tough lady to find."

"I was staying with my mother." Her eyes wandered up over his face, because she couldn't resist. It'd been three weeks, but it felt like years.

"You could have at least said goodbye."

"I did, Sam."

"Most people don't a.s.sume that 'I love you' is synonymous with goodbye, Mercedes."

"It wouldn't have worked."

"You could have tried."

"No, I couldn't. There was too much at stake."

He swore under his breath, and looked at his watch. Applause sounded from the theater, and Mercedes started to walk back into the box.

"No," he said, and then he caught her in his arms, tipping her towards him, and he was kissing her. It took less than a beat of her heart for her arms to steal up around his neck, as if they belonged there. He pressed her against the wall, crushing her there. All control was gone, and she could feel the hunger inside her, the answering hunger that matched his.

All she could think, all she could feel was here. The lights began to flash in her mind, in her eyes. A prism of colors exploding, blinding her. She worked to see, saw only a myriad of colors, and then she heard the voices.

"Sam Porter?"

"That's the writer!"

She put up a hand to block the lights, and her vision returned. A pack of reporters was jammed in the narrow pa.s.sageway of the theater.

Not this, not now. Sam put an arm around her, keeping her hidden. He looked at the reporters and spoke. "Listen, guys, I've worked with most of you and I'm asking a favor. I need a few minutes alone. In the morning, you can ask me all the questions you want. On the record."

There was some murmur of disagreement, but Sam knew how to get what he wanted, and he led Mercedes through the crowds of people now streaming from the theater. She and Sam exited through a side door that opened onto the street.

She looked up at Sam, ready to apologize, but he didn't look mad. He put his coat around her, looking remarkably calm.

Calm? Shouldn't he be upset? She was upset. She was furious.

They walked down into the heart of Times Square, past the marquees, past the news crawls, past the five-story advertis.e.m.e.nts. As soon as they made it to the corner of 47th, she had put two and two together, and smelled a conspiracy. "You set that up," she accused, her voice starting to get a little loud.

"Mercedes, not here."

She put her hands on her hips. "Why not here, Sam? I mean, if you want the entire world to know we're sleeping together, then why not here?"

"Mercedes, we can wait to have this conversation."

"No, we can't. This is what you wanted."

"To be frank, this wasn't what I wanted. I had thought we could talk in private because the cameras will always bug me."

"Well, h.e.l.l, Sam, let's put it up on the marquees. Sam Porter screws erotic writer. I can see the crawl on CNN, now. Your campaign manager will be laughing his a.s.s off."

"You're mad."

"Of course I'm mad. You were supposed to win. What are you doing?" She couldn't believe this. She hadn't walked away from the best thing in her life, so that he could throw his chances out the window.

He grabbed her arm, fingers tight and painful as they dug into her skin. She glared at him, trying to channel some intelligence into that normally whip-sharp brain of his.

Instead of backing off, he glared in return. "Maybe I can't win with you, but I know I can't win without you. I need you. Those are the facts."

As the pressure of his fingers diminished, the pain and anger dimmed, and something new began to creep inside. Hope.

She stared at him, working to keep her eyes hard and firm. Somebody needed to be smart in this relationship. "What are we going to do, Sam?"

"It's not that big of a deal."

"But Martin said..."

"I fired him. You'll meet my new manager tomorrow. Part of the agreement was that you're part of the campaign. I can't change my heart, Mercedes. I can't create love by the polling numbers. I don't want to be that kind of candidate. You don't want me to be that kind of man because that's not who you fell in love with."

"Sam..." she pleaded, knowing that she was weakening. It was the voice, that one-in-a-million voice, that slayed her. And the name on his lips was hers. Only hers.

"Come home with me, Mercedes. Max misses you. And there's a toothbrush with your name on it, and I miss your ziti." He stood there, saying the words that at one time she would have run from. They were permanent. As unchanging and as stubborn as he was. She wanted to believe him, she wanted to trust him, but there was a defenseless kid inside her, who knew with an absolute certainty that Santa Claus didn't exist, Cinderella had been a wuss, and that men would always run away. Mercedes couldn't understand why he didn't want to run away from her, too. "Why do you love me, Sam?"

"Because I can't not love you, Mercedes. It's just there, inside me, inside my heart. You're there."

"Sam..."

He put his arm around her, guiding her to 8th avenue. "Now don't talk, you'll only confuse yourself by arguing. I've got this all worked out. You keep your apartment in the city. We'll get you a driver's license with a Manhattan address on it."

"I don't drive."

He stopped. "You're kidding."

"No."

He shook his head, started walking again. "If you live in Jersey, you have to learn how to drive. But okay, we're getting off-track. You keep the New York address, so if anybody asks, you can tell them you're a New Yawker, why, I don't know, but-"

Mercedes stopped, smiled, and he looked at her. "What?"

"You're not going to leave me, are you? Ever."

"No. Heck, I wouldn't have made a spot for your toothbrush if it wasn't forever. What sort of idiot does that? I know you think I'm just a pretty face, but give me some credit for having some smarts, huh?"

She flung her arms around his neck, and planted a kiss on him. A long, wet, smoochy kiss. Taxis honked, people yelled, and Mercedes kissed him as if her life depended on it.

Finally, she lifted her mouth from his, and met his eyes. His green (not hazel) eyes looked a little drunk, a little bemused.

"What was that for?"

She grabbed his hand and started to walk. "Forever."

THE DAY OF ANDREW and Jamie's wedding was chilly and clear. The skies were cast-iron gray, the leaves were long gone, and the first hint of snow flirted in the air.

It was a perfect day.

The bride was beautiful in a Vera w.a.n.g dress that was cla.s.sical, yet modern. The groom looked amazingly handsome in an old-style Oleg Ca.s.sini tux accessorized with a goofy grin, and everyone in attendance agreed the day was perfect.

For Mercedes, it was.

She cried during the ceremony, laughed when Jamie stuffed Andrew's mouth full of cake, and coughed nervously when Jamie blasted the bouquet right at her.

There were no white doves, the bride did not arrive in a horse-drawn carriage, although Andrew had still arranged to have orange blossoms scattered down the aisle, and Jamie didn't seem to mind.

Now it was almost time for the bride and groom to leave in their white Hummer limo, modified with all sorts of obscene suggestions appropriate for the occasion. It'd taken Mercedes and Jeff three hours to perfect the car, any opportunity to make Andrew blush was a chance well taken.

At the foyer in the hotel's reception hall, Mercedes picked up ten bags of rice, mainly to pelt her brother with, and smiled as Sam swung open the door.

Maybe there was another reason today was perfect. Maybe it wasn't just about Andrew and Jamie. This was about yesterday, and the yesterday before that, and the yesterday before that. Every day was the same. He was there, as reliable as the sunrise and sunset. Always there. And as the yesterdays started to stack up, fears for the tomorrows weren't quite so nerve-racking. She knew he was going to be there tomorrow, too.

At the sight of Sam on the steps, flashbulbs popped, reporters jockeying for position to get photos of the official Congressional challenger for New Jersey's Fifteenth District.

Mercedes moved back, out of habit, out of fear, but Sam smiled, tugged her hand, and pulled her forward.

"Not today, guys," he told the news crews, with his usual cheery grin. The cameras still followed, though, and the Star-Ledger ran a front-page picture of Sam Porter holding the hand of one Mercedes Brooks for all the world to see.

Epilogue.

SAM'S CAMPAIGN KICKED into high gear. His television show was changed from a daily to a weekly, and he spent the next two months leaving the house before sunrise, and trudging home long after the sun had set. Mercedes stayed away from the cameras as much as possible, letting him steal the time that he needed.

Election night came, and Mercedes went with Tony and Sam to the ballroom at the Trenton hotel where the huge television monitors displayed the latest polling numbers. It was closer than Mercedes would have wanted, closer than it should have been, but in the end the people of New Jersey spoke and agreed with her. Sam Porter was their man.

When the other candidate conceded, reporters gathered around Sam, peppering him with questions, Mercedes discreetly stood back and watched, but there was a proud smile on her face. A big smile. How could she not love him? How could anyone not love him? He talked about politics at first, but then the personal questions started.

"Congressman, what about your affair with Miss Brooks? Do you think that affected your campaign?"

It was the moment she'd been dreading, this wasn't fair to Sam, and her stomach clenched.

Sam looked at Mercedes, then looked at the photographers. "I've always believed in being honest and calling things like they are. I know Mercedes affected the campaign, but not in the way you're expecting. A man needs to hear the opposing viewpoints, or he can't represent all of the people of this great state. A man needs to listen to opposing viewpoints, or he'll never learn. And sometimes, a man should agree with the opposing viewpoints, because it's the right thing to do. Mercedes keeps me honest, and gives me the hope I need to try and change things, try and make things work better. And one last point. Don't call this an affair. That implies something temporary and brief. This is neither temporary, nor brief. I'm in love with Mercedes and plan on marrying her as soon as humanly possible."

Instantly, the bright lights turned in her direction, blinding her momentarily. Here was the fame and recognition that Mercedes had always craved. But she didn't notice. Not now. She moved toward Sam, and smiled. He was all she craved, all she noticed.

He stared at her with green (not hazel) eyes, a question there.

"What about it, Miss Brooks? Is this true?"

She ignored the microphone and looked at Sam. "Yes. It's true. Today, tomorrow, forever."

ISBN: 978-1-4268-0100-6.

BEYOND SEDUCTION.

Copyright 2007 by Kathleen Panov.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

www.eHarlequin.com