12

THE NEXT MORNING, MERCEDES woke up to nothing but a Sam-sized dent on the pillow next to her. She stretched out on the bed, amazed at how far an arm could actually extend in a king-size bed. She kept scootching and reaching over the side, like Christopher Columbus, just to see how far it was before she found the new world, and her hand eventually dropped off the edge. She wiggled her fingers in the air, and was rewarded with a wet lick of a tongue on her palm. Mercedes lifted her head, opened her eyes, and peeked.

Max wagged his tail at her, hope shining in his dark eyes.

“Good morning, Max. I suppose you’re hungry.”

His tail wagged even faster.

Next to her pillow was a note from Sam.

Mercedes kept rereading the words over and over. It was no declaration of love, but in many ways, it was scarier. He was establishing her here at his house, as if she belonged. It wouldn’t be hard to belong here, she thought to herself, picking up his pillow, holding it close.

Max looked at her, and barked.

“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you? I know.”

She sighed, and started to get out of bed, but she wasn’t dressed. She looked at Max and considered. Mercedes was something of a dog novice, and she debated the effect of female nudity on a dog’s fragile psyche, but eventually concluded that she was being ridiculous.

She got up, and went to the window, looking outside at the trees. Max followed her, sniffing.

Mercedes stared balefully. “Horny like your owner, aren’t you? Can you go away while I get dressed?”

Max barked.

“Yeah, Sam wouldn’t have bought that either. Fine, just grow up to be damaged goods, but don’t rat me out, huh?”

She threw on some clothes and wandered through the house. It felt strange being in a house, not weird strange, but unfamiliar strange. She’d lived her entire life in an apartment, and never thought twice about it. But this…

He wasn’t kidding about the trees and the foliage. The leaves were beginning to turn for fall, green and gold and brown, all mixed together, colors as far as the eye could see.

And the quiet. A writer could get some serious work done out here, with nothing but trees, and one hungry dog.

“Where’s your food?” she asked, and he led her out to the door between the kitchen and the garage.

She opened the door, and Max ran out into the garage. She looked around, and then noticed the rows upon rows of boxes lined up neatly against the wall. There must have been two or three hundred boxes there, all the same. And familiar.

Mercedes went over to one, looked at the label. These were her books. Thousands of copies.

Oh.

Her hand lifted to her chest, because her heart was filling so quickly, and she knew it would burst. Knew that no small organ could contain that much and survive. She stayed there stupidly frozen, one hand to her heart.

He’d done this for her. Mercedes.

Sam Porter, America’s conservative talk show host, had bought over ten thousand copies of a book that some people considered pornographic. He hadn’t done it for a sexual thrill. He’d done it for her.

 

THAT NIGHT, SAM CAME HOME to a dark house. His first thought was that Mercedes had left, but then he saw the candles flickering on the table, and he smelled the aroma of something warm and Italian.

“Hello, Sam,” she said, and he turned to see her, not nearly prepared for the sight of Mercedes standing in his kitchen, holding a wooden spoon, and wearing—nothing.

“I looked for an apron, but you didn’t have any, so I improvised.”

He nodded stupidly.

“Why don’t you sit down and eat?” she asked in a husky voice that slid down his spine.

Obediently Sam sat.

She put down a plate of food in front of him, and he wasn’t sure what it was, because he could feel her nipples burning a hole in his back. She handed him a fork, and then sat in the chair next to him, long dark hair falling over her breasts, her legs slightly parted, exposing a dark, downy triangle, and Sam, finally unable to deny what his cock was crying for, put down his fork with resolute purpose.

He had priorities; food wasn’t one of them.

When he stood, she pushed a hand against him in mock protest. “No, not yet.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No,” she answered, and turned to walk away. His eyeballs were glued to her bouncy butt hypnotizing him with the sexy pitch and roll.

Having no choice, Sam followed.

She took him over to the couch, and with a one-finger press knocked him down. Then her hands were at his fly, pushing at his jeans. She reached beneath his boxers and freed him, her hands cupping him, stroking, and Sam groaned from the velvet touch. She licked her lips, slowly, deliberately, and leaned over and took him in her mouth. He shuddered in relief at the softness of her lips, the cunning of her tongue. She was thorough, sending him beyond reason. He knew he was close to coming, and he didn’t want to, didn’t want to. He pulled back, but her hands held him down, her lips moved down further on his cock, and he had no choice. He shuddered from the intensity, and Mercedes took from him, her mouth sucking hard, until he had nothing more to give.

 

IT TOOK A MOMENT FOR SAM to recover, but when he did, the green eyes (not hazel) were lit with wicked intent. Mercedes arched a brow.

He shook his head slowly.

Mercedes took a step back, preparing to flee.

Sam swept her up in his arms, Rhett Butler to her Scarlett, and took her to the bedroom, where he dumped her on the bed.

“What was that for?”

He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t talk.”

He was back in a moment, lying down on top of her, pulling her hands over her head. He kissed her then, a fierce, opened-mouth kiss that took her by surprise. He probed her with his tongue, one knee parting her thighs, and she moaned into his mouth. She pulled at her hands, wanting to touch him, hold him, but his hands were tight on her wrist. Her blood pumped like hot oil, pouring fire through her veins.

There was a wildness about him that she’d never known before, and it called to an answering wildness within her. Her body was throbbing with need, and she rubbed against the hard ridge of his flesh, desperate to have him. His mouth clamped down on one nipple, sucking hard, and Mercedes nearly flew off the bed. Oh, it was almost painful, but such a perfectly beautiful pain. All she wanted was to relieve that ache. Relieve that pain. Her back arched, and she stretched, finding….

…her hands were tied to the bed.

Sam smiled. “Payback,” he said, in that beautifully modulated voice. A voice that on its own could bring her to orgasm at certain times—like now.

He kissed her again, not quite so fierce, but she still could feel the edge inside him. His lips suckled against her neck, against her ear, whispering words she wanted to hear. Then he moved to her breasts again, pulling, and she felt liquid pools of pleasure, dripping within her. Inside her. Around her. Through her.

She kicked up against him, but found his cock instead, and she nestled against him, wanting to feel him inside her. Around her. Through her.

His lips moved down lower, his tongue trailing over her skin, shooting sensation wherever he stroked. His hand parted her thighs, her folds slick and plump, waiting…. His tongue traced up her thigh, his stubble rasping against her skin, hard against soft. She wanted so much, wanted his mouth, wanted his touch, wanted him. All the want piling inside her, waiting…

Ice. He touched her with his tongue, and she nearly flew out of her skin. His mouth was so cold, so liquid, so painfully beautiful. He had ice. He sucked against her clit, slower now, but the cold was making her shake, making her shudder. She rolled against him, needing this, needing to come, and he stroked again, the water mingling with her own juices, and he held her close, pulling her over, pulling her over, pulling her over the edge.

 

THAT WEEKEND, HE TOOK HER up to his cabin on Lake George, their last time alone before the press conference on Monday. Mercedes didn’t want to think about the looming complications, and actually not thinking about it fit well into her current emotional platform: One day at a time. Not in a relationship. Someday he’ll be gone, but this isn’t it.

The cabin sat on the east side of the lake, reclusive, and set far from the main road, with several miles of woods in all directions. No doubt about it, Sam liked his privacy. When they pulled up the long, gravel drive, Mercedes eyed the rustic structure nervously, but after they went inside, she was pleasantly surprised.

“What? You expected post-1970s Deliverance?”

Mercedes blushed. “I expected something less comfortable.”

And it was comfortable. There was a huge cedar and stone fireplace that ran to the ceiling. Great beams spanned the top of the room. The floor was wooden, covered in a woolen Indian rug, and the walls were sparsely covered in old landscape photos. “No hunting trophies? Deer heads, stuffed bears?”

“They don’t impress the ladies.”

It should have been a joke, should have made her laugh. Instead it ticked her off, pricked at her insides like ten thousand tiny needles. “So you take all the ladies up here?”

“You’re the first,” he said, the words thrilling her and scaring her all at the same time.

“The first ever ever?”

“My mom came here when she was alive. So, if you want to be precise, you’re the second female.”

“Precise is important,” answered Mercedes, trying to ignore the supremely satisfied look on his face, and she wondered if she’d fallen into a skillfully executed mind-trap. They had tea on the couch, made love in front of the fireplace, and Mercedes fell asleep wrapped up in his arms.

The next morning, he woke her up at five. In the morning, not the evening. Mercedes whapped him in the chest. “It’s too early.”

“Not for the fish. Come on. You’re the second female to be up here with me, don’t make me second-guess my decision.”

“Blackmail is a very low tactic, Sam.”

“But effective?”

She glared. “But effective.”

“Dress in warm stuff. It gets cold out there.”

A small boat was docked a good walk from the house, and he explained the basics of the sport, although she drew the line at baiting her own hook.

Once on the lake, everything was quiet, the wind blowing through the trees. He didn’t take them very far out, the cove was fairly small, and although she could hear some boat motors in the distance, nothing came close. Just the two of them on the water, the boat rocking gently.

“How long does it take to catch a fish?” she asked, getting used to the feel of the rod and reel in her hands.

“However long it takes. But the point of fishing is not to catch fish.

“Ah. Silly me. All those poor, misguided fishermen.”

“You know what the point is?”

“You’re going to tell me?”

“It’s hearing the quiet lapping of the water, seeing the blue of the sky, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves. It gives you time to think. People don’t think enough.”

“There’s no blue in that sky. Just fast-moving clouds.”

“We’ll have rain soon. But for now we fish.”

“And think,” she reminded him. “What do you think about?”

“Whatever I want. Peace in the Middle East or what I want for dinner.”

“Deep stuff.”

“Not always.”

“Does it bother you if I talk to you while you fish?” she asked, watching the dark clouds bearing lower in the sky.

“Nah.”

“But I don’t have to.”

“Mercedes, you can say what you want.”

“Right now, you have your show, and tens of millions of people listen to you every day, and they listen to what you say, and you know how much influence that is? And when you get to Washington, because I know you’ll get to Washington, then suddenly your influence dives down to 435 WASP-y men, of which only fifty percent would give you the time of day, so now we’re down to 217, give or take a few seats, and they all have their own agendas to push, so you’re really only one voice in 435, versus one voice that’s influencing tens of millions. Isn’t that a step down for you?”

“Very deep question for five-thirty in the morning.”

“Thank you, I do my best thinking in the morning.”

“I’ll remember that, but to start with, my viewing audience isn’t close to tens of millions, we’re still in the single digit million numbers—”

“But still sizeable.”

He nodded. “Still sizeable. But in my seat in the studio, I can talk, I can whine, I can argue, I can debate, I can opine, but at the end of the day, it’s just talk. A man shouldn’t be judged only by his words.”

“But I get judged only by my words?”

“That’s different,” he said, as the boat rocked harder, the waves lapping higher against the sides.

“No, it’s not. At the end of the day, I don’t do anything. I talk on paper. You talk on television. Apples to apples.”

He frowned. “Okay, maybe. But it doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Sometimes,” she answered, “but I’ve got lots of time left.”

“I don’t know, Mercedes. I just get mad, and I want to fix things, and my father taught me that a leaking pipe never got fixed by standing around and talking about it.”

“Sheldon’s doing something now.”

“Summerville?”

“Brooks, thank you very much.”

“Sorry.”

“S’all right. She’s funding music education for kids. What’s your stance on public funding for the arts, Sam?”

“To be honest, I haven’t thought much about it. Math and science is where most of the emphasis should go.”

“But to cut it off completely?”

“You want to have this debate at five-thirty in the morning?”

Mercedes sat up as straight as possible when rocking on water. “Yes, yes, I do.”

“You’re with Sheldon, I take it.”

“I think I am.”

“First thing, you have to make a definitive opinion. Not wishy-washy, no fence-straddling. You state your case, your arguments for the cause, and then you stick to it.”

“Kids need music. There’s causal connections between math and music, and where would the United States be without music? There’d be no “Star-Spangled Banner,” no “America the Beautiful,” and no Elvis. If you don’t stop the cuts in funding for music, that—that’d be esquivalience on your part.”

“Esquivalience?”

“I know big words, too. I’m a writer.”

“I think you made it up.”

“It means the willful avoidance of one’s official responsibilities.”

“I still think you made it up.”

“Look in the dictionary, Sam. I’m highly educated, you know.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “So what did you think?”

He nodded with approval. “You did that well.”

“Do you find yourself swayed at all?”

“For you, I could be swayed.”

“Maybe I should find a cause, too.”

Sam made a face. “Here’s the thing, Mercedes. If you don’t believe in it, really, honestly believe in it, it’ll never work. Wait until something finds you, hits you over the head. You’re right. You are young.”

“But not too young,” she reminded him, feeling a fat raindrop on her face.

“Not that young.”

“Are you one of those hard-core he-man types who fishes in the rain?”

“Not on your life,” he said, and cranked up the motor.

They made it back to the dock as the rain started to fall.

She raced up the path, Sam not far behind, but by the time they were inside, both of them were soaked.

“How fast can you get a fire in that thing?” she asked, pulling off her jacket, shivering from the cold chill of the rain.

“Four minutes, and the clock starts now,” he replied, and in short order the flames was blasting heat into the small room.

Mercedes sat closer, hands outstretched. “Much better, and a minute left on the clock.”

She watched him then, the heat of the fire lighting his face with a ruddy glow. His hair dripped with moisture, his eyes narrowed, and the air in the room got very still. The rain pounding on the roof, the crackle of the fire, the insanely loud beating of her heart.

“You look like a mermaid, your hair wet like that.” He reached out and caught a stand between his fingers.

Her eyes locked on his, and she began to unbutton her shirt. “Clothes are wet,” she whispered softly.

“I could help,” he offered.

“Let me,” she said, sliding the shirt off her shoulders. Underneath her shirt was a plain white T-shirt. His hand reached out, and touched her through the shirt. Then he lowered his head, using his mouth to wet the fabric even more, pulling one tightly beaded nipple into his mouth.

Mercedes bit back a moan, and he hauled her close. It was supposed to have been a slow seduction, but when she was with Sam, slow had left the building. She wanted him with an urgency that never seemed to stop. His hands pulled at her jeans, and she lifted her hips, as he jerked them off her. His hand parted her thighs, pushed inside her like a spear.

She gasped, not with pain. Not nearly from pain.

“You,” she managed, her mouth tightly clenched, because she wanted more than this, her body poised on the edge, needing something more. Needing him.

He lowered his jeans, sheathed himself, and then he entered her. Her senses went on alert, the smell of wet wool, the sound of his words whispering against her neck. Her hands pulled at him, needing to touch him, and not buffered through layers of clothes.

There was something raw and primitive about the feel of wood at her back, the hardness of Sam over her, inside her. The rain beat even louder, and she knew that she could scream here, and there were no other tenants, no other neighbors, no one else but Sam. There was no one else in the world but Sam.

Her hands clawed at the buttons on his shirt, needing to feel his flesh against her. Finally, she found the heated skin, and sighed as he pressed against her, flattening her breasts. It was sex as she’d never known before. Ancient and exposed. No cars, no skyscrapers, no lights. Just a man’s carnal possession of a woman.

Her hips lifted, and he took her legs, balancing them on his shoulders, thrusting deeper inside her. Mercedes couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, she only knew him. This breaching of her carefully built defenses. He kept pounding, turning her inside out, and she could no longer deny him.

Mercedes opened her mouth, and screamed.

 

SAM NOTICED THAT SHE WAS quiet for the rest of the weekend, and he didn’t ask her to explain. She would watch him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her eyes soft and curious. If he caught her gaze, the look would change to something more womanly, more wicked…more calculated. On Sunday night, he drove her back to her apartment, and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll pick you up tonight after taping is done.”

“You have the press conference tomorrow. I don’t think that’s very smart, Sam. What if reporters are there?”

“I’m running for the House, not the Presidency. And besides, the day I give up my privacy, is the day I’m dead.”

“You’re being naive.”

“Optimistic.”

“Naive.”

“When a reporter shows up, just let me know. I’ll deal with it.”

She stopped arguing with him, but he could read the disagreement in her eyes. “There won’t be any problems,” he said, needing to convince her, only hoping he was right.

 

MERCEDES watched the press conference from the cold comfort of her own apartment. It wasn’t long, a few questions, a few pithy remarks from Sam, and then boom—he’d moved from Sam Porter, ordinary television talk show host, to Sam Porter, the Candidate.

Her stomach clenched up like a fist, and she sat on her couch, and pretended like it wouldn’t matter. In the long run, it wouldn’t, because there would be no long run. Only a short run. A fire that would eventually burn itself out. Sam would work in Washington, and Mercedes would spend her days writing erotic blog entries about a tawny-haired man with green eyes she wanted to wake with forever.

Oh, God. The f-word.

For the rest of the afternoon, she wrote crappy sexual fantasies that involved no heart. After all, that was her specialty.

He picked her up that night, exactly as he’d promised.

“I saw the press conference. You need a better tie,” she said.

“You’re going to take me shopping for a new tie?”

“We can’t go shopping anymore,” she reminded him.

“We can shop again, not that I will, but we could if we wanted, which I don’t. What did you think?”

“You’re going to win,” she answered, looking out the window, watching the trees of New Jersey pass by. He was going to win unless something got in the way. Her.

They didn’t talk about it anymore.

She stayed the next few days at his house. She didn’t spot any reporters, which made it easier to pretend that there was no campaign. Sam would be gone during the day. Lunches with rotary clubs, teas with the local library. She wanted to see that one, just to watch Sam handle a china teacup, but wisely she stayed away, and every day, when the sun rose up over the small corner of Bergen County where Sam resided, she would find herself a little more entrenched into this world.

She and Max bonded, although she was careful to keep the bathroom door closed when she dressed. She was brewing some tea when she heard her cell ringing.

“Why aren’t you home?”

“Hello?”

“This is Sheldon. Where are you?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Max barked.

“Is that a dog? For seven days people have been looking for you, and you’re spending your nights at a place with a dog?”

“There’s nothing wrong with dogs.”

“I know, but a person with a pet, well, that implies a heart. You don’t spend the night with people with hearts.”

“I want you to know that you’re not a blood relative. Only my brothers can insult me like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ha. Got you. It’s okay. You’re learning the ways of the brood.”

“Where are you?”

“You were supposed to forget that question.”

“Nope, sorry. No forgetting here. I’m dying to know. I’ve got suspicions.”

“I don’t want to know about your suspicions.”

“You’re confirming my suspicions.”

“Don’t tell Jeff.”

“I’ll try to resist, but he has ways of making me talk.”

“I don’t want to hear this, Sheldon.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s the latest on the wedding?”

“Dresses are done.”

“Yay!”

“Flowers are not done. Andrew wants to fly in some Hawaiian flower, which Jamie said is ridiculous, that roses and daisies will be beautiful. Jeff and I started a pool on which flowers will be at the altar. Want in?”

“No.”

“You don’t sound good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Not being kidnapped, or taken over by pod people?”

“Nope.”

“I was watching the news yesterday and saw the new candidate for the House.”

“Oh, who’s that?”

“We don’t have to talk about this, but I thought you’d want to talk about this.”

“Was there a purpose to this call?”

“Yes.”

“And it is?”

“You promised to do work for me. I expect you at my apartment on Sunday, eleven o’clock.”

“’Kay.”

“I can’t believe you’re there.”

“We covered that territory already. Anything else?”

“Sordid details?”

“None to share.”

“You could write about it in your blog, you know.”

“No.”

“Damn, Mercedes.”

“I’ll see you on Sunday.’

“But—”

“Hanging up now.”

Mercedes put away her cell and looked into Max’s ever-hopeful eyes. “What are we supposed to do?”

And just like she did every morning, she went back into the bedroom, picked up Sam’s pillow, held it close, and smiled.

 

THAT AFTERNOON, THE doorbell rang. Mercedes wanted to answer it, wanted to tell the stupid reporter to get out of Sam’s private life, but she didn’t. That wouldn’t be smart, so she opted not to answer, and hope the unknown door-knocker would go away. Those hopes were dashed when she heard the key in the lock.

“Damn boy doesn’t even bother to set the alarm. Somebody’s going to rob him blind…”

Mercedes realized that this must be a repairman; he looked like a repairman in his faded work shirt, his greased denims, and the shock of gray hair. She smiled politely. “Hello.”

“I’m here about the leak in the shower.”

“Yes,” said Mercedes, not realizing that Sam had called someone about the leak in the shower.

“Sam’s not here?” asked the man.

“No. He’s at work.”

“When he gets home, you ask him why the hell he called Pete Connelly to fix his shower. I told him he needs to replace that thing. Doesn’t have the decency to call his own father for help? What sort of son does that?”

“His father,” repeated Mercedes, as the green (not hazel) eyes cut in her direction.

“Yeah. Who’re you?”

“I’m the interior decorator.”

Sam’s father snorted, and Mercedes pretended not to hear.

“You’re here to fix the shower?” she repeated, for lack of something more intelligent to say.

“Well, yeah, don’t have enough time to stand around chatting.”

“I’ll get out of your way,” she said and rushed to the back of the house.

Immediately she called Sam on her cell. “Your father is here,” she whispered into the phone.

“My dad?”

“Your dad.”

“Wow.”

“Sam, he looks like he knows.”

“Knows what?”

“Knows that we’ve had sex.”

“I guess I’ll have to make an honest woman out of you then.”

“Sam!”

“You can go and hide in the basement. That’s what I do when Olga comes to clean.”

“It’s your father.”

“Do you want me to tell him to leave?”

“God, no. He’ll think I’m rude.”

“I’m sure he’ll really like you, Mercedes. Why don’t you talk to him?”

“He’s a little gruff.”

“Yeah, that’s my old man. Listen, we’re going to meet Tony tonight. Is that okay?”

“We? Me. You. Us?”

“That’s an affirmative.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sam.”

“As much as the idea is tempting to me, I can’t just keep you tied up in my bedroom forever.”

“Can you not joke about bondage when your father is in the house?”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I did, but I don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

“Mercedes, you write erotica. Why can’t you have a sensible discussion about sex?”

“Because it’s our sex life, and it’s not made up.”

“You’re a very complicated woman. But I’m okay with it. Tell Dad hello.”

And he hung up.

 

IF MERCEDES WAS A MORE discreet human being, she would have hid in the basement until Sam’s father was gone, but curiosity finally took hold, and she ventured into the guest bathroom, where Mr. Porter was removing the showerhead from the wall.

“You’re Sam’s dad?”

“Yup. Some of us tell the truth about who we are.”

“You don’t think I’m an interior decorator.”

Mr. Porter looked at her and snorted with laughter. “Sam?”

Damn. “I probably should have thought of something better.”

“I would have,” he answered, peering at the spout.

“You must be very proud of him.”

“Proud? I suppose so, but that would mean that I had doubts about him, and I don’t. We raised him better than that.”

“I’m Mercedes Brooks,” she said, holding out a hand.

He looked at it, looked at the grease on his palm and nodded. “Sam Porter.”

“Wow. There’re two of you in the world.”

For some reason, Mr. Porter thought that was funny. “He never did like Junior. Call him that sometime if you want to make him mad.”

“I don’t think I want to make him mad.”

“Too early in the relationship?”

“We don’t have a relationship,” muttered Mercedes.

“Just decorating, huh?” he answered, going back to work. “Not good for a political candidate to be shacking up with an interior decorator.”

“We’re not shacking up. I have an apartment in the city.”

“He shouldn’t be in politics anyway. A bunch of do-nothin’, money-grubbin’ tax-hikers, that’s all the politicians are anyway.”

“I guess you’ve influenced his political outlook.”

Sam Sr. nodded. “Guess I have.”

Mercedes decided to leave Sam’s father to his work. “I don’t think Sam will be needing my services for very long, so I don’t think it’ll affect the campaign.”

His father studied her from beneath gray brows, and for a moment, Mercedes saw exactly what Sam would be like fifty years from now. She could see an older version of herself, standing here, arguing with him. Then in a flash the vision was gone.

Sam Sr., green eyes recognizing much more than Mercedes wanted, answered, “We’ll see. We’ll see.”