Tonight she would see Harriet Tubman.

Tomorrow there would be delicious pancakes.

The absence of a lover would not move my hormones into a state of hibernation. The absence of a lover would not keep this body from needing to experience a sweet release.

Just as my absence didn't move my former lovers to celibacy.

Minutes later I was on I-285, heading back toward Cobb County, but a different desire touched me, a new curiosity, the kind that caused me to switch interstates at the last moment, take I-20 and head west. I exited at Fulton Industrial, turned left, and two lights later I made a left on Commerce, an area zoned for businesses. Motels and fast-food establishments lined Fulton Industrial. Many clubs were in the area, most employing beautiful women who earned their college tuition one dollar at a time.

I came upon a quiet business near the end of the block, a simple structure, its light bricks and dark brown awning and neon sign facing the other businesses in the community, the noise and commotion that was present on Fulton Industrial not present in this area.

I pulled over, parked with my engine running, sat watching people parking and heading toward the building across the street. Couples held hands, exchanged sultry glances designed as foreplay. Europeans. Spaniards. Canadians. Children of the islands. People of African descent. I watched the march of the libertine. Their strides were sexy and sensual, confident and anxious, filled with complete and open abandon, as if each step proclaimed they were not interested in being shackled by the values of others, that they lived by their own rules, their personal doctrine, their every breath filled with anticipation of having a fun evening. I smiled at the unafraid and stayed where I was, a spy in the house of love.

The neon sign read TRAPEZE.

Karl. I heard his voice. Heard what he had told me the first time I went to his home.

"Where women go to celebrate their sexuality. Where women are in charge. It's not always about having sex. Do as much or as little as you like."

I'd never been inside a den of plea sure, a haven of concurring spirits. I had never been in a place where desire was to be unashamed, where it was the religion of choice.

I moved my car to the parking lot, turned off my engine, but didn't get out.

I watched women with the faces of wives, mothers, politicians, and attorneys hurrying toward that neon sign. Men with the faces of fathers, judges, schoolteachers rushed with them. Voyeurs. Exhibitionists. The curious. Without disguise. Without costumes.

No one entered the building alone. They all traveled with a companion.

As did I.

I held Anais's tattered diary in my hand, smiled at her highlighted words, reread a few of the praises I had scribbled in the margins, felt affirmed and powerful, then put her journal inside my purse.

I eased out of my car, hair down and free, skinny jeans, heels clicking as I walked across asphalt.

I lived in mystery. I lived with my choices. I lived with my humanness. I lived with so many things. I lived afraid, yet unafraid. I lived with regret. I lived seeking experience.

I lived in the unknown. I lived knowing. I existed knowing I was growing. And in growth there was pain. Without shame I claimed that pain because that pain was my own.

I paused. Took deep breaths.

Once upon a time an imprudent man named Logan had asked me how many experiences it would take for me to be satisfied, asked me how many lovers would I have to take to end my journey. Back then I didn't know the answer. Now I did. I knew the answer.

I whispered, "As many as it takes."

I said that jokingly, sarcastically, knowing plea sure wasn't about the number of lovers.

Plea sure lived in quality, not quantity. It was just unfortunate quantity and pain had to be endured to achieve quality. I have kissed a lot of frogs. Beautiful frogs. But I have never been a whore.

A hypocrite, perhaps. Never a whore.

Plea sure was carnal love, spiritual love, peace, contentment, fantasy, its journey never-ending.

No man's words or actions would ever be allowed to cheapen my experience, because in cheapening the moments of my life, my life would be devalued, and no man or woman would ever be given the power to make me less than, not when his true fear, her true fear, when unmasked, was that I was greater than. I was resilient. I was sensitive. I was feminine. I was loving. I was sexual. I was giving. And I was stronger. I had weaknesses, but that did not make me weak. This was my life. This was me. My uniqueness. No one would be allowed to castrate my desires, they would not be allowed to diminish my needs. They would not be given power to revise my existence, whittle my spirits down, make me over, put me in their box of comfort. They would not lessen my humanness with their hypocrisies.

They would not pour beer on my caviar.

Warm air moved across my skin, gently removing thoughts of hurt and pain.

I held my head back and gazed up at the stars, many spots of light breaking through infinite darkness, light unseen in the day. So many constellations. Almost as many stars as I owned emotions.

I searched for the stars Castor and Pollux, the mythological twin brothers of Helen of Troy. Gemini. The sign of the twins. My astrological sign. My element air. My Indian sign Mithuna.

I searched for the heavenly representation of me.

One day I would meet a man as powerful and understanding as I. I would meet my mirror image, a hypocritical-idealist who understood that sometimes you had to lose yourself in order to find yourself. I prayed he would be a twin, and not of the astrological kind. I laughed at that selfish prayer.

But behind my soft and delicate laughter there was the echo of a fading pain. Memories of Ogden Circle, memories of the James River, memories of Twitchell Hall would always remain. The pain would fade. Hampton had been my rose, my first love my thorn.

With roses came thorns and with plea sure came pain.

Pain existed, the sting from those unwanted thorns always would exist, yet I remained powerful.

And so it goes. Life, may it go easy on me, most of the time.

I smiled as I took steps toward the neon sign, toward the unknown, toward living paradoxes, knowing the paradox of others would never be as challenging as the paradox that lived within.

I paused in front of the neon sign, deciding, perhaps resting.

I closed my eyes, went inside myself, ignoring the sound of anxious footsteps coming my way. Ignoring the scent of colognes and perfumes, ignoring the sound of intellectual laughter.

If my eyes had remained opened a few seconds longer, if I had kept my attention on the group that came from up the road, I would have seen her walking my way. I would've seen a petite woman, her hair pulled back, dark and modest, would've witnessed the Spanish, Cuban, and Dutch in her features, would have seen lips the color of my heart surrounding beautiful teeth. I would've have seen her and her traveling companions, her lovers, international luminaries, two of them men, both wearing wedding rings, and I would have seen the tall woman journeying with them as well, she too wearing a wedding ring.

I would've witnessed the petite woman pausing and smiling at me before entering the building.

Laughter between anxious lovers and the closing of the door pulled me away from my journey. I opened my eyes, again returning to the world, to the warmth of the night, to the stars.

Handsome men and beautiful women passed me as they entered, unable to take their eyes away from me. Smiling. Hoping I visited their world, entered into their fantasies.

A virgin-prostitute, the perverse angel, the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.

I stood there, unhidden, pulling my hair away from my ears, these ears tilted toward the heavens.

My dog-eared novel tight to the left side of my chest. Holding her words close to my heart.

Listening for Anais.

I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger than reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I cannot transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn't impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.

-Anais Nin (February 21, 1903January 14, 1977).

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Okay, once again, this is a work of fiction. That means I sat down and made it up.

Today it's overcast and I'm sitting in my tiny bedroom looking at TiVo. I've been gone so long I have too many episodes of Heroes, Cold Case, K-Ville, House, CSI: Miami, Shark, Without a Trace, Bionic Woman, Nip/Tuck, Women's Murder Club, CSI: NY, Dirty Sexy Money, Private Practice, Prison Break, Jail, Bones, Smallville, Desperate House wives, Damages, Journeyman... damn, when was the last time I was at home? Too long. I can tell because when I picked up the phone to make a call, I actually dialed the number 9 first, then waited for an outside line.

I guess that means I'll have to make my own twin-size bed...no room ser vice...damn.

Too much hotel living rots the brain. The Courtleigh in Kingston ruined me.

Oh yeah. This book. Plea sure.

While I was in the UK working on SWS/WWE, the plea sure concept became part of its theme. Mrs. Jones, looking for plea sure. Gideon, looking for revenge and, in the end, redemption. Lola Mack looking for...a damn good time. I knew the next book (the one you're holding right now) wouldn't be rooted in crime. And since the last two had a male POV, I wanted to write a female character who was in dependent, in some ways in search of her sexual freedom, yet trapped by the rules and conventions of society. A character not so unlike the one I had seen years ago in the original Red Shoe Diaries, or enjoyed reading about in Anais Nin's diaries, or had watched in so many European films it would be impossible to list them all. It amazes me that people are more comfortable and less critical about books with the details of horrific violence (Hannibal cracking open a victim's head and supping on his brain, the wonderful violence in many crime novels) than sex-the one act that, for the most part, every race or religion has in common-unless a man is the lead character. There was a lot more I wanted to do with Nia, so far as inner dialogue, and some very sexual scenes, scenes I wanted to include at the time, but didn't-I blame that on the twins, the way they showed up and never let her go. Characters have a way of becoming needy. So a lot of my other thoughts and ideas are on hold, remaining in the archives of this good old laptop, maybe never to be seen again.

Monique Pendleton, my UK homie, thanks for reading this as I worked on it, rewrites and all. You saw the first draft weighed in at about 180,000 words (damn! That was longer than the last two books combined!) and you stayed with it as it went through some sort of literary gastric bypass, much smaller, but still heavyweight. God, you read so many rewrites, word changes, scene rearranging, character changes...Nothing but love for you! You're the best.

John Paine, thanks for the wonderful input. The book has changed a lot (hopefully for the better) since those first pages and I hope you enjoy where I decided to take Nia on her journey.

Sara Camilli, my wonderful agent, how many more do I have to go? LOL. Getting closer to book 100. I hope this one keeps your attention as much as the others. Looking forward to the next one already! Time to get back to crime! Violence! Con men! Femmes fatales!

Brian Tart, thanks for believing in me. I've seen writers change teams many times over the last decade. I'm proud to say I've had the same home since day one. I love where I am.

Lisa Johnson and the crew in publicity at Dutton, thanks for keeping the faith and keeping me on the road. I might gripe and complain...wait...I don't gripe and complain. My bad.

Julie Doughty, the editor who has read so many versions of this manuscript that I'm surprised she still talks to me. LOL! Your suggestions were wonderful, as usual. Love ya!

Yvette Hayward and African American Literary Awards Show, thanks for the love. Yvette has been in my corner since the start. Go visit their site at www.literaryawardshow.com.

Rachel Neal, a thousand thanks. Your feedback was valuable.

Tiffany Pace, the bercopy editor. You rock! Hopefully this one will be error-free. LOL. Now go fix all the errors in the last two books, pro bono. I know, I know. Stop rubbing all the number of errors in. Geesh. The fans have spoken. You remain the best. I will write that on the blackboard one million times. Stop smiling. Dammit. I said stop gloating. What ever.

To all the people who showed up during the Islands Tour, thanks for the love. It's hard trying to create characters whose existence is rooted in a different culture, so I hope I got most of it right. Hell, I hope I got it all right, at least enough for that portion of the characters to ring true. Nia Simone, Karl, Mark, The Jewell of the South are not meant to represent the islands, only to be people with roots in a different part of the world, and their actions are not representative, by any means, of people in the islands. (Fiction, remember?) The latter part of the SWS/WWE tour took me through the West Indies, subcultures that I wanted to include in my fictional characters.

Suzzanne and Collette, I had a great time in Kingston and doing the event at the Devon House. It was amazing. The house was packed! I look forward to coming back.

And I had a blast doing the events for Nigel Khan and Nigel Khan Bookseller in Trinidad. Cheryl Ali, thanks for taking me all over. Rhoda Ramkissoon, thanks for setting everything up. Send bake n' shark! Subliminal message: I want to come to Carnival! And of course, many blessings to Dr. Clifford at The Morning Show, thanks for having me on the air.

I met so many wonderful people at the Antigua & Barbuda Literary Festival. Had a chance to hang out with Victoria Christopher Murray and Donna Hill. Also had a chance to break bread with the local writers: Joanne Hill house, J. Nerissa Percival, and Floree Williams; it was wonderful meeting you and so many wonderful authors in Antigua. Same time next year. Until then, keep in touch.

And it was marvelous doing the island tour with the enthusiastic contest winners in Barbados, the land where the name Dickey means...well...Dickey. ROFL! I have never heard so many Dickey jokes in my life. Nor have I ever been in a place where women blushed when saying my name. Cracked me up when I did Morning Barbados with Belle Holder and she opened the interview with a Dickey joke...one that made the island blush at sunrise...now that was special. Love 104.1 and Hott 95.3 FM radio stations, thanks. Katrinah Best at the Advocate (my favorite English girl on the island) and Carlos Atwell at the Nation, thanks for the support. And to the crew who set everything up, I have to sing your praises. Angela Payne (Pages buyer), Andrea Stoute (marketing representative and my driver), Kim Tatem (events coordinator), Michael Maloney (Pages operations manager), Tracey Lloyd (regional marketing director), Kay Wiseman (local media and marketing manager), Rawle Culbard (photographer), Gillian Howard (Pages staff ). And much love to the tour winners: Stacia Browne, Cecilia Walcott, Astrid Bovell, Terry Belgrave, Kathlyn Murray, Sasha Greenidge, and Carmen Grecia.

And I don't think any of the island tour could have been possible without Shanta Inshiqaq, my export sales manager in international sales who exported me to some wonderful places.

To all of my Ca rib be an fans, I look forward to coming back to see my new friends and extended family, hopefully more on holiday than for work, and I definitely look forward to visiting the other islands, each journey a learning experience, each trip taking me closer to my roots.

And the beaches weren't bad either.

Now somebody hook me up with a Visa and find me a place to sleep and write...hurry!.

And, as usual, just in case I forgot anyone, which wasn't intentional, break out the pen and ink yourself into history. LOL. Just kidding. Grab a pen and join the crew.

I want to give thanks to ____________ for ____________, because without your help, insight, editing, professionalism, money, chicken soup, luggage, and/or ____________, I'd be ____________ at the ____________ with a rash on my ____________ wishing I was ____________ with ____________ at Carnival in ____________.

You're the best of the best!.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007.

1:30 P.M.

Latitude: 33.99 N, Longitude: 118.35 W.

63F / 17C.

www.ericjeromedickey.com.

www.myspace.com/ericjeromedickey.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Originally from Memphis, Tennessee, Eric Jerome Dickey is the author of fifteen novels, including the New York Times bestsellers Chasing Destiny, Genevieve, Drive Me Crazy, Naughty or Nice, The Other Woman, and Thieves' Paradise. He is also the author of a six-issue miniseries of comic books for Marvel Enterprises featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. His novel Naughty or Nice has been optioned by Lions-gate Films. He lives on the road and rests in Southern California.

www.ericjeromedickey.com.

Also by Eric Jerome Dickey.

Waking with Enemies.

Sleeping with Strangers.

Chasing Destiny Genevieve.

Drive Me Crazy Naughty or Nice The Other Woman.

Thieves' Paradise Between Lovers Liar's Game.

Cheaters Milk in My Coffee.

Friends and Lovers Sister, Sister.