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“Flying is safer than driving.”
“I live in New York. I don’t drive. Flying is not safer than not driving.”
“Okay. Rephrase. Flying is safer than jaywalking on Broadway, and I know you jaywalk on Broadway.”
“I can’t believe you. I’m going to die, and you don’t care.”
“Can we not talk about airline crashes? I have to go work up a proposal for an airline, and this is really putting me in the wrong state of mind.”
“Go. Go off and do whatever you need to do. Forget about your family, the people who love you and have stood by you all these years. The people who worked hard to get you with the love of your life.”
“You trashed her in your blog.”
“Because it was the only way to get you two together.”
“You’re going to keep throwing that in my face until I’m old, aren’t you?”
“No. Maybe.”
“I have to go, Mercedes. Really this time. I’m sure you’re not going to crash, but in case you do, I want you to know that I love you, and you’re the best sister I’ve ever had.”
“We’re not going to crash,” she muttered tightly.
“Well, you might. And if you do, I don’t want to live with crushing guilt, so I love you.”
“You do not,” she said, and then quickly hung up. There. If she was going to die, he was going to have to live with crushing guilt.
She powered off her phone, opened her computer, and prepared to work, picking up at the spot where she’d last written…
There were times when she wanted to go into a bar, find a man, and screw his brains out. Not for the sex, not for the intimacy, but for the shock of adrenalin to her system. The danger, the mystery, the feeling of taking a step off a cliff into the air, not knowing if you’ll fly or fall. He was that cliff, that leap of faith, but deep in her heart, she knew she couldn’t fly. Was it worth it to begin a love-affair doomed from the start? She opened the curtains on her apartment, letting the warm rays of the sun touch her. She loved the morning, loved the feeling of a new beginning. She looked to the building across from her, and noticed the man. He was there everyday, sitting at his desk, talking on the phone, typing. A boring, nondescript existence.
She smiled to herself, smiled to him, and began the morning ritual. Her fingers worked the buttons on her pajama shirt slowly, parting each one, letting the fabric caress her skin as she peeled the shirt back. From beneath her lashes she peeked across the way, feeling his gaze on her. The sun touched her as a lover would, tracing a path across her belly, her breasts, her shoulders.
Carefully she folded the top, putting it on the back of her couch, before slipping her fingers under the edge of her bottoms and pushing them down to the floor. For a moment she stood, framed in the window, nude, enjoying the warm rays on her skin, enjoying the feel of a man’s eyes on her body.
She looked up, and met his gaze, and felt the urgency inside him. It echoed the urgency in her. The need to do more, to drink life in long, dragging gulps.
Normally, this was where she stopped. Her body was one thing, to share her secrets was another. But today she could taste the thrill of adventure on her tongue, in her nerves, pulsing through her blood. Across from her, the man wasn’t smiling, merely watching. Waiting.
When she hesitated, he picked up his phone and began to talk, his fingers dancing on the keyboard. Back to his meaningless, nondescript existence. Back to her meaningless, nondescript existence.
It was time, that moment of stepping to the edge of the cliff.
She sank into her chair, the comfortable old chair that kept her from being alone, and parted her thighs. His head turned, his fingers stilled, and even from here she would see how his conversation slowed. She leaned back, arching into the soft cushion. At first, her fingers stroked her breasts, gliding over her nipples, back and forth.
Gently, as if she were—
A nervous cough jerked her back to reality. She looked over to see McCreepy ogling the words on her computer. Gah! She slammed the lid shut and stared. “Do you mind?”
“What was that?”
“I’m an author,” she stated flatly, her tone missing the usual zest that she put in the words.
“That’s going to be in a book?” His eyes widened, in such a hopeful manner, she almost forgave him. Almost.
“Yes.”
“What’s the title?”
Mercedes debated, her sense of security vying with her sense of marketing and sales. Marketing and sales persevered. “The Return of the Red Choo Diaries. It’ll be out in the fall of next year.”
“I’ll buy it.”
“Thank you,” said Mercedes, putting on the complimentary headphones. She didn’t dare open her computer again all the way to San Francisco.
3
THE RITZ-CARLTON SAT HIGH on Nob Hill, the city laid out before it like a serf at the feet of his liege. Sam stood at the window, watching as tiny pinpoints of silver moved through the sky, planes approaching the airport. She was out there. Somewhere.
Sam frowned. He had work to do and he couldn’t stand here daydreaming. He, Kristin and Charlie were camped out in his hotel suite, planning for tonight’s show, but Sam was having a mighty hard time concentrating.
“What time is the judicial expert scheduled at the studio?” he asked, letting the curtain fall, covering the sky.
“Six,” Kristin answered.
“And Ms. Brooks?”
Kristin checked her watch. “Her plane just landed.”
“Where’d you book them?”
She looked at him, confused. “The supreme court expert? He lives here.”
“Ms. Brooks?”
“At the Lafayette, down by the wharf.”
The wharf. That was a long away. A good twenty minutes by cab to the Ritz-Carlton. It wasn’t a sterling reflection on his character that he was planning a seduction with all the precision of a military campaign. His viewers would be shocked, hell, even he was shocked. It shouldn’t be like this. A man shouldn’t feel this internal combustion inside him once he got out of puberty. He was too old and too settled. A thirty-nine-year-old man should be contemplating his sanity, his golf game, and his retirement package.
“The Lafayette?” he asked, forgetting about his retirement, and wondering why Mercedes wasn’t staying at the Ritz.
“Yeah. Why?” Kristin asked. “It’s four stars, Sam, and I love their desserts. You should try the crème brûlée. Fabulous. She’ll love it.”
Sam pulled a face, not wanting to hear about four stars and fabulous crème brûlée. “The last time I stayed there, I really hated the room I was in. Heater didn’t work, and there was some dark stain on the pillows that I didn’t want to know about. It’s a dump. We should move her. I don’t want to give that place any more business. Exercising my consumer rights, and being a good American.”
“The Lafayette? We’re talking about the same hotel?”
“It’s a dump,” he lied.
“Okay, Mr. Good American, her plane’s at the airport, driver waiting. Where do you suggest I move her to in the next five minutes?”
Sam pretended to think over this problem. Then he got a look in his eyes that he hoped looked like enlightenment rather than ball-busting lust. “Call downstairs. I bet this place has an extra room available.”
Kristin grinned. “I’m at the Lafayette. Can I move, too?”
“Sure,” he said, knowing the bean counters would have a fit, but he could handle them. Sam looked at Charlie. “You’re here, right?”
Charlie didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
“Good,” said Sam, nodding. “So, we’re all settled in the lodging department. You have the video of the judge’s confirmation hearings?”
“Yeah, we’ll cut to that after you finish with the discussion of the affirmative action ruling.”
“Charlie, did he weigh in publicly on the age discrimination case against the State of Massachusetts?”
Charlie shook his head once. “I don’t know, but I’d be surprised.”
“Find out, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
“Good, the bit with Mercedes should be easy. We’ve got what, ten minutes, with one break?”
Kristin nodded, so Sam continued on. “And then there’s seven minutes of commentary on alternative energy and nuclear power?”
“I thought that was six.”
Sam looked at Charlie. “Six or seven?”
“Seven. Definitely seven.”
“Okay, all, I think we’re set. Great job as always. Will see you in the studio at five.”
They left Sam alone, and he went back to the window, not thinking about judicial confirmations. What started as an ache had changed into something more, and all because of a book. That damned one-dimensional book was a peek inside her mind and her fantasies. She had opened that door, and Sam couldn’t bear to close it. It sounded like the first throes of a midlife crisis.
Or at least he hoped it was.
MERCEDES SAT IN THE television studio’s waiting room, listening to the quiet tick-tick-tick of the clock on the hospital-white wall. If she were a dedicated writer, she would have remembered to bring her computer with her so she could work while she waited, instead of listening to the constant beat of the chronographic version of Chinese water torture.
Tick-tick-tick.
She wiped her palms on her knees, wishing there was a mirror in the place to check her make-up. This wasn’t a room designed for comfort, the sterile interior was designed to maximize nervousness—and it was working. Any second now her make-up was going to smear from her sweating—and that was in spite of the forty degree ambient temperature in the room.
Man, she was a basket case. She should have brought Jeff with her. He could have sat next to her, argued with her, and in general, keep her relaxed. But Mercedes was alone in the panic room. Where was Sam?
And then there was the matter of her wardrobe.
She’d packed three outfits for the show, trying to decide between Donna Karan professional or Fighting Eel sultry. And then she’d thrown in an Ella Moss blouse and skirt because wardrobe choices shouldn’t be a life-altering decision, but it felt like one. What if her career tanked because she wore a buttoned-up blazer, rather than opting for a little cleavage?
Back at her apartment, she tried on all three, finally zeroing in on the cleavage. Nothing slutty, of course. She was a professional, but if she was the face of the sexual white noise of her generation, she needed to look the part. But she packed them all. And when she got to the hotel, she’d stuck with her original decision. Cleavage.
Tick-tick-tick.
Where the heck was Sam? The other time she’d been on the show, he’d seen her before the show started. What did it mean if he wasn’t going to see her this time? Was that a bad sign? It was probably a bad sign. It’d been twelve months, twelve months was a long time. He probably had a girlfriend now. Hell, what if he had a wife? He hadn’t had twelve months of monk-like celibacy, he’d been going at it like bunnies with his new bride!
No. He wasn’t married. She was getting spazzed up over nothing. Mercedes took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to assume the worst. And who said that if he was married now, it was the worst? She didn’t need him. There were lots of single men in the waters of Manhattan. Lots. She was single, attractive, and had a certain je ne sais quoi that men seemed to go for. Sam was nothing to her.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Oh, God. She was going to scream and she hadn’t even pondered the matter of the hotel yet.
Her hotel had been changed to the Ritz-Carlton, so what did that mean? It had to be a good sign, and she had to admit that her room was nice and cheery, and then there was the small fact that it was the Ritz. The Ritz.
Where was Sam?
“Ms. Brooks?”
She flew out of her seat, realized it wasn’t Sam, and took in more oxygen in her lungs.
“Mercedes Brooks?” he asked, his face creased into a tired smile.
“Yes,” she answered, casually sitting back down and crossing one leg over another.
“I’m Jacob. Sam won’t be here to talk to you directly, so I wanted to go over the instructions. Have you ever been on television before?”
A confident laugh emerged from her lips. “You didn’t see me on the show last year, did you?”
“Sorry, no. I’m local to the San Francisco area, so I don’t get to see it much,” he said. “Bet you were great.”
Mercedes made a circle with her hand. “Thanks.”
“So, you write erotic fiction, is that right?”
“Yes, I have a copy of the book if you’d like to read it?”
He looked around and then smiled in a secret manner. “I already have. Very. Very. Hot.”
“Really?” she asked. “Wow.”
“My girlfriend loved it and she gave it to me.”
“Wow,” Mercedes repeated, sounding just like a gauche, non-sophisticate, but okay, it was cool.
“Oh, yeah. You’re going to have to autograph one later.”
“Not a problem. So you have instructions for me?” she asked, because as much as she liked the little ego-bits, she needed to stay focused, sharp, and ready for action.
