THEY’D PUT HER IN FIRST CLASS. First class. If Sam Porter wanted to impress her, he’d certainly started out right. Not that she could be bought, but she could certainly be pampered. Okay, he was conservative. Okay, he was a few years older (and more experienced). Okay, he was unbendable. Nobody was perfect. And what he lacked in other areas, he made up for in physiology.

      The flight attendant approached. She knew Mercedes by name, knew her meal preferences, and Mercedes suspected the flight attendant knew her zodiac sign, too. That was service. Not that she could be bought.

      “Something for you to drink,” the attendant asked.

      Mercedes thought for a minute. Unlimited alcohol. Work. Unlimited alcohol. Work. Eventually her puritan work ethic smacked her party girl self into submission.

      “Water, please. I have to work,” she said, frowning to express her extreme displeasure with the situation.

      The man in the seat next to her ordered a scotch and water. “I don’t have to work,” he told Mercedes with a grin best termed lecherous.

      “That’s very nice of you. I don’t mean to be rude, but I do need to work,” she told him, keeping her face airplane-attendant polite.

      “You don’t mind if I watch, do you? I bet you’re really fun to watch. Go ahead, unwind, relax. Make yourself comfortable. When the ladies are hot as you are, I love to watch. Everything,” he added, like she really needed that bit of personal info.

      A four-hour flight to SFO, and she was stuck next to Mr. McCreepy instead of Dr. McDreamy. Or for instance, Sam?

      Mercedes gave the man her cold, formal smile—a smile learned when her mother had tried out for the Broadway version of My Fair Lady. Her mother hadn’t got the part of Lady Ambassador, but Mercedes had learned how to chill out the world with one look.

      McCreepy didn’t take the hint. “Are you going to San Francisco for business or pleasure?” he asked, his voice lingering on “pleasure.”

      “Business,” she answered briskly, not quite the truth. There was a good shot of pleasure in the motivational equation for this trip, and she hoped that Sam was equally motivated. There had been sparks when they’d met a year ago. Huge, galaxy-bending sparks, and he’d felt them, too. But Sam was a master of self-control, or he must be to deny the pull of animal magnetism that drew them together. Actually, it wasn’t as much animal magnetism as it was his voice, his eyes, those long, capable fingers—okay, maybe it was animal magnetism. Maybe he had endured twelve, long torturous months of monk-like celibacy, because there was only one sultry siren that was woman enough to satisfy his manly urges. And maybe he had come to the realization that a night of passion was their destiny. Sam and Diane. Sam(pson) and Delilah. Sam and Mercedes. Fate. Kismet. Karma. As a card-carrying member of the creative arts, Mercedes believed strongly in the power of all three. Finally he had decided to sample her wares, swim in her unchartered waters, or pluck the nectar from her core. Either way, whether sampling, swimming, or plucking, she was wild about the possibility.

      “…and then I was out drinking with this Hollywood movie star…”

      Mercedes emerged from her Sam-induced haze and realized McCreepy was talking—strike that—lying to her.

      “Were you speaking to me?” she asked, as if there was some possibility that he wasn’t.

      McCreepy’s mouth tightened into a single, hard line. Yeah, well, he’d get over it.

      Mercedes’s face cracked into a smile and then she pulled out her computer. She had written seventeen pages of her next manuscript, with only two months left to go. And three hundred and thirty-three pages. Softly she hummed “To Dream the Impossible Dream.” Not that it was impossible, but late nights and caffeine were definitely on her schedule. Definitely.

      The flight attendant returned with her water and McCreepy’s drink. “We’re going to be stuck on the tarmac for another twenty minutes, are you sure you don’t want anything stronger?” the attendant asked.

      Mercedes shook her head, noticed McCreepy’s wayward gaze, and took out her cell as a further instrument of deterrence. Quickly she dialed her brother.

      “Jeff,” she said loudly, happily, and hopefully deterrently.

      “What are you doing? What do you want?”

      Jeff mistrusted his sister more than the normal level of sibling distrust, perhaps due to some past entries about him—anonymously—showing up in her sex blog. However, she had done it all to further the course of true love for Jeff and Sheldon—and perhaps further her own career. A win for all involved, though Jeff didn’t see it that way.

      “I’m sitting at JFK, waiting for takeoff. A big yawner. Thought I’d kill some time, and you were first on the speed-dial list.”

      “You’re going to be okay on the show?”

      “Oh, yeah. I mean, I thought about asking you, but then, what if you hit him again? Then where would I be?”

      “It was only one shot, and I didn’t even hit him hard.”

      “Yeah, you say that now that you’re safely married. I remember you telling Sheldon how you were ready to kill the guy. Remember that?”

      “Maybe I exaggerated.”

      “You’re in P.R. Exaggeration is your life choice. However, I don’t think you did that time. What’s your better half doing?”

      “Sheldon?”

      “Well, yes, she is the better half in your matrimonial partnership.”

      “Love you, too, Mercy.”

      “What’s she doing?”

      “I can’t tell.”

      “Of course you can tell, I’m your sister. We must share all. Especially secrets.” Sheldon always had the best secrets.

      “So you can post it on the Internet? Sorry. Been there, hated that.”

      “I don’t talk about hausfraus in the blog. They’re boring unless they’re on Wisteria Lane. Not good for getting the eyeballs into my space. What’s she doing?”

      “Can’t say.”

      “Can to.”

      “All right. I could, but I won’t.”

      “That’s so mean.”

      “That’s me. Your mean, elder brother, Jeff.”

      “No,