"I didn't know mine. Mom says he's a good-for-nothing son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h. I want to be something. Something that makes the papers. Something that makes him turn to the New York Times, or Newsweek, or even the Sam Porter show, and see me, his daughter. Watch me. Realize what he walked away from. If I'm not famous, he'll never know me."

Sam followed her into the blankets, wanting to hold her. His arms slid around her and he wished he could meet the man who had hurt her so badly, but all he could do was talk. "Your father was a jerk. You're shaping your whole life around someone that shouldn't matter."

"He doesn't matter to me," she answered, all bravado, most likely fake. "I don't think about him enough that it can bother me. He left us, that's ancient history. I just want him to know. I want him to feel bad for what he's done. And that's why I want to be famous."

She grew quiet then, and Sam didn't press her anymore. She had so many things that she wanted to prove to the world, and Sam didn't have the heart to tell her that life didn't work that way. You played with the cards you were dealt. She fell asleep, dreaming of the world she wanted to conquer, while Sam lay awake, staring at the ceiling, sad that somewhere along the way, he'd lost the all-consuming fire of his youth.

MERCEDES WOKE TO THE sound of Sam's voice. At first she thought someone else was in the hotel room, but his was the only voice she heard. He was on the phone.

She slipped out of bed, pulled on the thick, fluffy robe, and opened the curtains, letting the sun warm her face. Last night it had been so easy to get carried away on the fantasy, but in five hours she would be on a flight back to New York, hopefully seated next to someone other than McCreepy.

This was the afterwards she had dreaded, only Sam had gotten the timeline all screwed up. Oh, well. She knew the drill.

She dressed in a hurry, finding her clothes stacked neatly in a chair. How did she know he wasn't a slob? After a check in the mirror, a fluff of her hair, and a dab at the mascara smudged on her cheek, she looked full of confidence, and ready to face the world. Or at least him.

She practiced her smile, and then listened outside the bedroom door, making sure no one else was around. Satisfied, she took one deep breath and entered the main room of the suite.

"Good morning," she chirped, sounding like an actress in an orange juice commercial. He had pulled on a pair of jeans, and an old flannel shirt hung open. Two newspapers were spread out in front of him, CNN was on TV, and there was a cup of coffee by his side. He looked like an average American male. So why did her heart go b.u.mp?

No, just one night. She was going to leave, and put everything behind her. "I wanted to pick up my purse, and I'll be off."

He rose, stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Did Kristin arrange for a car to take you to the airport?"

"Oh, yeah. Got that covered. We're not in the middle of nowhere."

"Mercedes?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

She could see the confusion in his face, in those marvelous hazel eyes, and understood. Theirs was a relationship based on l.u.s.t and nothing more. He was fun and chatty, and told good stories, but he wasn't for her. No, Sam deserved someone less flighty, less self-centered, probably someone who did charity work or taught school, and certainly didn't spend two days picking out the perfect pair of shoes.

Not every story had a happy ending. She gave him her most mature smile. "See you around, huh?"

"Yeah."

Then she walked out on her fabulous Jimmy Choo sandals, leaving Sam Porter, and one night of life-altering s.e.x behind.

6.

FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Mercedes padded around her apartment, trying to ignore her silent phone. It wasn't easy. They were ships who happened to pa.s.s through San Francisco on the same night, in the same bed. It'd been great, a chance to do something that would happen in her books, but now it was history. It all sounded really good, but didn't help ease the empty spot inside her.

When the phone finally did ring, she told herself it wasn't Sam, and miracle of miracles, it wasn't. Jamie had called about dressing fittings (oh, joy), and her mother reminded her about Sunday dinner (Mercedes pleaded jet lag, and begged off).

She didn't want to face her family. Didn't want to see Sheldon happily in love with Jeff. Or Andrew and Jamie, who weren't nearly as silly as Sheldon and Jeff, but every now and then Mercedes would catch them staring at each other, and felt like a person on a galaxy far, far away.

Everyone had someone but Mercedes, and on most days that didn't bother her, but right now, it stung.

Monday morning dawned in the Big Apple after several long, sleepless nights, and her agent called and asked her to meet her for drinks at Michael's restaurant. Drinks with her agent. Now that should cheer her up. Mercedes wasn't cheered.

On a good day, Michael's was the be-all, end-all for the literati. The A-list book people got the tables near the window, and the little guppies got the tables in the back. The host showed Mercedes to a table near the front. Okay, things were looking up.

Portia McLarin was the perfect literary agent. Tall, New York slender (possibly size 2), always dressed in designer black, with these big round tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses to signify her smarts. She hung up and looked at Mercedes over her gla.s.ses.

Normally, Portia's mouth was compressed into a tight line; today, it was so tightly compressed, it totally disappeared from her face.

And when Portia wasn't happy, Mercedes was even unhappier. "Did you see the show last week?" she asked, trying for a smile.

Portia's mouth appeared again. "Yeah, you were good. Sparks. Definitely sparks, and I'm sure you moved some merchandise."

"Always a good thing, right?"

Portia nodded once. Not a good thing. Once the drinks were on the table, Portia got to the black heart of the matter. "I've got some bad news."

"Go ahead," answered Mercedes.

"Look, doll, I don't know exactly what happened here, or who dropped the ball, but we need to perform triage on your sales efforts."

"My sales efforts?"

"Mm-huh. Something to give them a boost, bring your name to the forefront. Got any ideas?"

Sure. Just slept with conservative talk show host, Sam Porter. Had wild, wonderful s.e.x that meant absolutely nothing to him. And meant nothing to her, too, she reminded herself. Other than that, not so much. "Portia, I'm not sure exactly what I can do. The book is already on the shelves now."

"I know. If that wh.o.r.emonger of an actress hadn't published her memoirs at the same time as your book hit, we wouldn't be having this conversation. I tell you, it's always something. What about your blog? Got any juicy stories, or rumors? What about your sister-in-law?"

Mercedes sipped at her cosmopolitan, which was going down like battery acid. "I can talk to Sheldon, but she's not exactly in the spotlight anymore."

"Oh, such a waste. All that fame-poof."

"I'll find something, Portia. I can write some new stuff for the blog. Pure fiction. No gossip, just some stories."

"That would be good. Freebies. People always like freebies."

"I'll post something tomorrow," she promised.

"Oh, wait. I do have some good news!"

Well, Hallelujah. Mercedes managed a smile. "Good news would be good."

Portia grabbed her glorious Hermes bag from the floor and rummaged through the b.u.t.tery-soft goatskin leather interior. Eventually Portia pulled out an envelope and handed it over. "Got this today from your ed. Fan mail, doll. Get used to it."

Mercedes stared at the simple white envelope. Okay, her personal life was a wreck, her career was in the dump, but oh my G.o.d, a fan letter. A concrete affirmation of her life-long dreams to be a famous writer. Portia jabbed scarlet-tipped nails in her direction. "Go on, don't leave us hanging. Open it!"

Mercedes bit her lip, torn between a genuine desire to find something uplifting in her life, and fear that this was another thunderbolt from the G.o.ds. "But what if they hate me? What if it's a listing of every typographical error ever known to man, or a dissertation on the various tenses of the word 'lay'?"

"Should I read it for you?"

"Please," Mercedes said, happy to have the choice taken away from her.

Using her talons like a letter-opener, Portia ripped into the paper and pulled out a single type-written sheet of paper.

"Dear Ms. Brooks, I wanted to compliment you on your debut work. It is very rare that an author can convey such an intimate look at erotic behaviors with such finesse, capturing the subtle nuances such as the feel, smell and taste of a man.

You have a new fan, and I look forward to discovering your next work of erotica.

Yours, Jane in Rhode Island."

"Look at that! Jane in Rhode Island. A new fan."

Mercedes gazed in awe at the sanitized courier font, the plain sheet of paper, and smiled a big smile. Okay, maybe the day was getting better after all. Just a little bit.

SAM GOT UP EARLY ON Tuesday, earlier than usual, mainly because he hadn't slept. He considered going back to bed, but it was almost 9:00 a.m., and if he really believed everything he told America on a nightly basis, he should be working.

He started to make notes on the senate race in Minnesota, and instead made up notes of what he wanted to tell Mercedes.

Say h.e.l.lo.

How was the flight back?

Sam's a jerk.

Sam's an old jerk.

Sam has a recliner. Does this bother you? You probably don't like recliners, do you? You probably have a modern white couch, uncomfortable as h.e.l.l, and if Max jumped up on it, which he would because he's not very well-behaved, you'd have black dog hair all over it. You're allergic to dogs, aren't you?

He sighed, and threw the paper in the trash.

Work was the last thing he wanted to do right now, but he didn't have a choice. Except for the one favor he needed to take care of first. He called Franco, his ex-business manager, who never rolled out of bed before noon, and woke him up. What were friends for?

"Yeah, sorry about the early call, but this is important. I have a friend who needs to climb back into the wonderful world of women, and I want to take him someplace where he can meet lots of babes. Easy. Low-stress, ego-enhancing atmosphere."

"Is he cool?" mumbled Franco.

"Average."

"Good average or bad average?"

Sam thought for a minute. "Good average."

"You should hire a wing lady."

"What?"

"A wing lady. It used to be a wing man, but now the ladies are doing it, too. You get a hot lady to come out with the guys and she'll bring the traffic in his direction. Works like a babe-magnet."

"That's more Machiavellian than I was hoping for. I could just bring a date." Mercedes would like a club. He could ask her out. And he would be helping Tony out, too. Mercedes would do that. Help out a friend of Sam's. a.s.suming that she was still speaking to Sam.

"No dates, my friend. Big mistake. Big. Mistake. Then you have complications. Expectations. Tribulations. And finally-commiserations."

"This is not a contract negotiation, Franco."

"I know, a contract negotiation involves much less blood."

"Just give me a place to go."

"Trident."

"Where's it at?"

"Lower East Side."

"Not the Meatpacking District?"

"That's pa.s.se. L.E.S. is where stuff's happening."

"Okay," he said, writing it down. "Hey, got something I want to run by you."

"At nine in the morning? Can't it wait?"

"Yeah, it can wait."

Silence. "Okay, what is it?"

"Do you think I'd be good at politics?"

Franco laughed, which was, in a way, an answer. Not the answer Sam was hoping for, but an answer. "Why do you want to torture yourself?"

"It wouldn't be torture. I might do some good."

"Sure, if you were Jimmy Stewart, and the year was 1940. In this day and age, you'll get raked over the coals. Political operatives will be combing through your trash to find something to use on you, and lobbyists'll be sending you to golf courses in Scotland and asking you to build polar bear museums in Atlanta."

"You're making this up to scare me."

"The polar bear museum is true."