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.

      Jacob took the chair next to her and proceeded to go over the layout, and while he was talking, all she could think was, “Where was Sam?” She needed someone here. A familiar face. A familiar voice. The familiar brown sports jacket that he wore a lot of times on Thursday nights.

      National TV. Jeez. What had she been thinking? No, no reason to panic, she’d done this before. With a blood relative sitting next to her.

      Jacob droned on, and Mercedes hoped it sunk into her subconscious because her consciousness had left the building.

      “Got all that?” Jacob asked.

      “Oh, sure,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Walk in the park.”

      After that, she sat alone in the room. Alone in the room with the damned clock.

      Tick. Tick. Tick.

      “Mercedes?”

      The voice. She knew the voice. Sam. Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. He was silhouetted in the doorway, his hand holding the doorjamb, as if poised for flight. Her expression was probably goofier than she wanted, but she was so happy to see a familiar face. His face. Okay, there was nothing wrong with goofy.

      “Hi, Sam.”

      “Ready?”

      “Sure,” she lied. Mainly she needed to find a bathroom, because in a few seconds she might possibly lose her lunch.

      “Good. See you in about twenty-five minutes.”

      “Sounds great,” answered Mercedes in a faux-cheerleader voice, even though she had never been a cheerleader, and had never wanted to be a cheerleader. She watched him leave.

      Tick. Tick. Tick.

      Oh, God.