"So this would be a bad thing?"

"Yes. The absolute worst."

"You're right," Sam agreed. "Definitely not smart. You want to head out with us when we hit the club?"

"Can't. I'm responsible for cooking dinner."

"Cook? Isn't that a four-letter word for you?"

"Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"Mandy."

"I don't talk to you for two days and you're cooking dinner for a female? What happened to the whole 'women as a fruit orchard' mentality? Remember that, moving from tree to tree, sampling their fruit, drunk on their nectar? That was you who said that, wasn't it?"

"Mandy's nice. She goes to Columbia."

"How old is Mandy?"

"Twenty-eight."

Sam groaned. "I feel like I'm a dying breed, Franco. A dinosaur among men."

"You are getting old, Sam."

"Don't say that. Thirty-nine is not old."

"Thirty-nine is old."

"It's too early for this much depression. I'm hanging up, Franco. Trident, right?"

"Yeah. And hire a wing lady. I know a service, if you need a number."

"Goodbye, Franco. I can find a woman all by myself. Even if I am old."

With that, Sam hung up and pulled his notes from the trash can.

She knew that he wasn't her perfect man. Her perfect man didn't exist, but this one, this one with the placid green eyes that were marked with crinkles at the corner. He was strong, his body long and lean, with muscles that didn't come from the gym, but from the outdoors. His face showed lines of wisdom and character, the brown hair touched with gold from so many hours in the sun. He was the man you wanted with you in troubled times; he was the man you wanted with you in bed.

He captured her thoughts and her desires in a way that she'd never expected. She'd never made love to him before, but she could imagine him lying over her, covering her with his hard length, his c.o.c.k thrusting inside her slowly. He would be slow, methodical, patient, she knew. Everything he did was slow and methodical. She hummed to herself, already antic.i.p.ating the time that she knew would come soon.

She dressed for their date carefully. It wasn't supposed to be a date; after all, they were nothing more than friends. He thought he was too old for her, she knew better, and tonight she would seduce him and let him realize he was wrong. It would be her pleasure. He showed up at her door, and she'd decided to greet him in her robe.

"You're early," she said, watching as his gaze swept over her, feeling each touch.

"I'm on time," he answered, but she noticed the catch in his voice and she heard the edge of his need lingering there as well.

"Wow, I must be running late. Come on in, I'll finish getting dressed." She kept her eyes downcast, hiding her hunger from him. It was too soon, and he wouldn't want to be chased. He was the hunter, and tonight, she would be his prey.

He sat on her couch, waiting patiently, but she ached to do something to jar him out of his placid calm. She went into her bedroom, leaving the door open and slipped the robe from her shoulders, watching him from the mirror in her room.

He gazed at her quietly, not moving, but the air was thicker than before, more heated, and she could feel the swelling in the flesh between her thighs.

She reached into her closet, finding the dress she had intended to wear, laying her bra, panties and hose on the bed.

Egged on by some mysterious spark, she ignored the bra and panties, and went straight for the hose. She sat on the side of the bed, and rolled on the thigh-high hose, slow, seductively, a strip tease in reverse. Still he watched, and even from here she could see the pulse ticking in the side of his jaw. Good.

She pulled her heels from under the bed, and crossed one leg over the other, Basic Instinct style. With shaking fingers, she struggled with the tiny buckle, and she wondered where was her poise, her confidence?

When she looked up, he stood over her.

"Here, let me help," he answered. He bent beside the bed, his hands sliding down her thigh, down her calf to cradle her foot. His fingers were careful and efficient, sliding the buckle home, and he repeated the procedure with the other foot.

Her heart was pounding with awareness as he stood, towering over her and slowly he pushed her back against the bed, parting her thighs. His fingers, still careful and efficient, caressed the agitated flesh, soothing it, melting her until she was damp with need. He didn't say anything, only watched her with his heavy-lidded gaze as he played with her, pleasuring her. Her hips lifted toward his hand, giving him easier access to the hidden places inside her. She sighed with delight, her body dancing in time with the slow waltz that he was leading. Then he removed his hand and she frowned, wondering what she'd done wrong. He sat down on the bed next to her and took the silky thong she had planned on wearing. He lifted her hands over her head and used the fabric to knot her hands to the bed. She looked at him, surprised, but he was implacable, his eyes drifting over her supple body, and she wished she could read his mind. Wished she knew what pleasured him. He was a quiet man of few words, and seeing this secret part of him touched her heart.

He left her tied to the bed, and then returned shortly, bearing a store of her treasures.

She smiled in delight as he opened up the bottle of chocolate. Carefully he drizzled it over her beaded nipples, down her stomach, between her thighs. She would have to launder her sheets tomorrow, but tonight she would live like the G.o.ds.

The bed creaked under his weight, as he lay down next to her. She tensed, waiting, and then his head bent to her breast, his tongue flicking against one nipple, laving her skin, cleaning the chocolate from her. Her body squirmed with delight, her back arching to move closer to him. Next he turned to the other breast and tasted her again. With each stroke of his tongue, she pulled harder against the silken bonds that held her, the torture exquisite.

He followed the mocha trail down her body with his lips, leaving p.r.i.c.kles of excitement in his wake. The hard stubble on his jaw rasped against her skin, and she moaned with the rough pleasure of it. Then he laved her belly, lower still, finding the agitated nub between her thighs. Sweetly, he licked the chocolate from the heated flesh, at first gentle, and then increasing the pressure. She jerked against the bonds, her hands frantic to touch, her body bucking with each wicked stroke of his tongue.

She could feel the climax building inside her, and her thighs locked over his shoulders, keeping him tight against her. His mouth increased, sucking almost painfully now, pulling her deeper and deeper into the vortex of pa.s.sion that was going to-

G.o.dd.a.m.n her. Sam pushed back from his computer, not believing what he was reading. Okay, she was mad at him, and he deserved it. But couldn't she have just called and yelled at him? Maybe written a nasty letter? Or dumped coffee on him? Any of those, including the hot coffee would be preferable to having his s.e.xual performance laid out there for America to read in her blog.

Still, she hadn't used his name, and it wasn't close to what happened, but there was enough there to tick him off.

He picked up his car keys, ready to go into the city early. Right now, he had to go see a lady about a blog.

MERCEDES WAS ON HER seventh game of Solitaire when the buzzer rang. She pressed the intercom.

"It's Sam."

Sam? Mercedes buzzed him in, wishing she wasn't wearing the Juicy Couture sweats. Nothing said mature like having Juicy plastered on your b.u.t.t. However, there wasn't time to change. She'd wing it, she always did.

When she opened the door, she took an immediate step back. It was Sam, all right. A new and different Sam. A mad Sam.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barked.

Okay, that wasn't the way it was supposed to be. "Why are you upset? If we have an upset party, then I'm the one who should be upset."

"Don't say that. What happened to us, just happened."

"Don't be such a hypocrite, Sam. It was planned. The CIA couldn't have executed with better precision."

His eyes lost a few degrees of their heat. The truth could do that. "Maybe so, but the reason I didn't pursue things any further was because of exactly what happened."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your blog."

Mercedes sighed, and began to pace, not caring a bit if Juicy was plastered on her b.u.t.t. "Sam, I write a blog about s.e.x. I've been doing this for almost two years now. I even talked about it on your show. h.e.l.lo?"

"The last entry, Mercedes."

She met his eyes, locked her jaw. He wanted a fight about this? She was more than willing. "What about it?"

"Placid green eyes. Brown hair touched with gold. He thought he was too old for her."

Oh, G.o.d. She licked her lips, and her imagination leapt to her defense, just as it always did. "I write that character all the time, Sam. It's my old boyfriend. And besides, your eyes aren't green, they're hazel."

"You said they were green."

She took a step toward him, her features carefully composed. "You said they were hazel."

"You had an old boyfriend that looked like me?"

"Actually, I think 'you look like him' is the correct way to phrase it. Do you want to see a picture?"

He didn't look nearly as c.o.c.ky. "The shoes, the stockings? Care to explain that?"

"Was there a bath in that story, Sam? Did water figure into it in any way?"

"No."

"A hotel room?"

"No."

"Was there chocolate in your hotel room, did you tie me up?"

"No," he said, his body alarmingly still.

"See. Of course it's not us." Oh, G.o.d. She'd written about him. Her mind didn't use details, just hazy figments of ideas. They weren't supposed to be real people, just creations.

He crossed his arms across his chest, his face still set in stubborn lines. "I don't know why you did it. Maybe it was an accident, maybe you thought it'd be funny, or maybe you had planned to write something all along."

Mercedes jammed a finger against his chest. "Planned! You think I wrote about you on purpose? I've been accused of a lot of bad things, and most of them are true, but not this time."

"What am I supposed to think? Oh, h.e.l.l, the why's don't matter. Find somebody else to write about, Mercedes."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I told you my private life stays private. I knew it'd be a mistake."

After he left, Mercedes fell into a chair. The realization smacked her in the face. All these months. She'd been writing about him.

7.

MERCEDES SPENT THE NEXT two days writing all sorts of steamy fantasies that involved black-haired men, red-haired men, but absolutely no brown-haired men at all. She even dreamed up a guy with a shaved head, just in case Sam was reading.

Green eyes were taboo. She used blue eyes, black eyes, and one with a pirate patch. But no green eyes-or hazel eyes, alternatively-were allowed.

She'd been silly not to see it, but her imagination wasn't like a high-definition television screen. It was fuzzy, a Vaseline-covered lens that was more like a dream.

Sam had thought she'd written about him on purpose, milking his fame for her own purposes. But it just happened, because Sam filled her head, crowding out all the normal made-up characters that lurked there, and that was what bugged her most of all.

When it came to men, Mercedes didn't have a brilliant track-record. h.e.l.l, it wasn't even a poor track-record and it traced all the way back to her father. A man she'd never known. A man who stuck around when Andrew and Jeff were kids, but had elected to bolt when Mercedes was born.

Her mother had said he wasn't a good man, his eyes always searching for some new horizon. However, Mercedes wasn't sure. It always seemed to her that Mercedes was the problem. When you were a kid, it wasn't hard to make that leap, and after you got older, the rational brain explained it away, but the kid's brain still made that leap that somehow you were the reason he was gone. After all, he'd stuck around for Andrew and Jeff, but when Mercedes had been born-boom, out the door, don't forget to turn out the lights.

Just like all the men she dated.

But she suspected that Sam was different. Deep inside, hidden away from the world, hidden away from her mind, she knew he was different. He was a good man, he was a man that stayed around, and she didn't date that sort of a man-the kind you could fall for. She didn't want to fall for him, but that didn't stop her from writing in her blog, knowing that he was reading her words. It didn't stop her from wanting him to call.

Distractions came on Thursday, the appointed day for bridesmaid dress-shopping with Jamie, AKA Bridezilla Takes Manhattan.

The Bridal Stop was the go-to spot for all things wedding, although the store was enough to turn anyone off the inst.i.tution of marriage. The displays were accented with baby's breath and pearls, and cute ring-bearer pillows. Dresses covered the walls, in colors from pastels to pinks, lilacs to lavender, and the forty-seven shades of pale purple in between. Even the air was scented with Bridal Mist fragrance, that smell of excitement and smug accomplishment at having snared a man for the kill. Whoever said men were the hunters had never watched a bride planning her wedding.

Mercedes didn't like weddings. They made her nervous. People made promises they wouldn't keep, promises for forever, or eight and a half years, whichever came first. No, the whole wedding business gave her the w.i.l.l.i.e.s, but not Jamie. Oh, no, Jamie was in her element, her PDA stylus pushed behind one ear, and the checklist of items in her hand.

"Mercedes, I've located three Vera w.a.n.gs in a dark maroon, which should go well with your coloring, I think. Sheldon, for you, I got a Lazaro in royal blue, but I had them bring in two other Alvina Valenta designs, in case the blue and maroon clashed."

Jamie looked up from her checklist, spied the sales a.s.sociate and pointed. "Do you have those silver shoes, two inch heels, pointed toe, but a little wide across the arch? I need to see those in-" She turned to Mercedes. "Size?"

"Seven and a half," answered Mercedes.