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  “Sure are.”

  Harry grinned. “Me too, Gwen.” He motioned toward the picture of Senator Green that had made the front page of the Miami Herald this morning, a photograph in which the incumbent politician was smiling at a less than impressively endowed NAM man who was beating on his chest and chanting. The paper had placed an embarrassingly tiny black bar across the protester’s genitalia. The caption read: Senator Green helps a voter reclaim his manhood. “In fact,” Harry beamed, “I couldn’t be prouder.”

  Gwenyth laughed. She saluted her big brother with a glass of wine, holding it up as if in a toast. “My duty as a patriotic citizen.”

  The Jones family settled down to a lively dinner of lasagna and sourdough bread, with tossed salad as the appetizer. They spoke of the impending election for over half of the meal, each of them offering Harry their individual predictions of how wide his winning margin would be on Judgment Day.

  “I still say twenty percent.” Granddad Willy crossed his arms over his chest and glared at his disagreeing family members.

  “Twenty percent!” Harry shook his head. “I’d love it, Granddad, but I doubt it. Even with Larry’s latest scandal, it will still be a tight race.”

  Verlene looked thoughtful. “I doubt the margin will be as wide as twenty, but it won’t be as slim as you think, Harry. I vote eight percent.”

  Gwenyth nodded her head up and down as she dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Grandmama’s right. Eight percent is what the pollsters are predicting as well.”

  “I still say it will be more.” Willy opened up a second bottle of Chateau Blanc and poured a glass for his wife. “Y’all are forgettin’ that Harry hasn’t pulled out his really big gun yet.”

  Gwenyth smiled wickedly. “Gee Harry, I didn’t think they’d let you show that on TV.”

  Verlene and Granddad Willy laughed. Harry turned a delightful shade of pink. He’d always been a bit of a prude. Much to Granddad Willy’s never-ending disgruntlement.

  Gwenyth’s dimples popped out as her mouth curled wryly. She patted her brother on the arm. “Just teasing. What’s your big gun, Bro?”

  Harry’s intelligent eyes lit up. “Sam Tremont.”

  Gwenyth’s hand stilled. She removed it from her sibling’s forearm. Now there’s a name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud in years. Outside of what one hears on the TV and in the papers that is. “Sam?” She held out her wineglass to Granddad Willy for a refill. “I didn’t know that you and he were still friends.”

  Harry shrugged absently. “We haven’t talked in a few years, that’s true.”

  Verlene inclined her head gracefully toward her grandson. “You’ve heard from him again I take it?”

  “Uh huh.” Harry forked up a bite of lasagna and chewed thoughtfully. “You know how it is when you grow up and your life changes. You lose touch with your old friends and whatnot. But Sam called my campaign headquarters downtown after seeing me in the papers.” He shrugged again. “Said he’d like to help out.”

  “When was this?”

  “Maybe a month ago.”

  Granddad Willy whistled through his false teeth. “No kiddin’? And here I thought your big gun was to be the fact that you’ll look better on TV during the debates than that geeky Green dude.” He snorted with an air of grateful relish at his grandson’s good luck. “Hell, Sam alone can help you in the polls, son. You’ll get the youngsters out to the votin’ booths with a star athlete like him peddlin’ for ya.” Willy smiled gamine-like. He threw the females of his clan a look of pure male ego. “Anybody care to recant their less than twenty percent prediction?” He waggled his eyebrows in challenge. “I won’t think less of you for it.”

  Verlene rolled her eyes. “No.”

  Granddad grunted.

  Gwenyth dabbed at her mouth and rose up from her place at the table. She kissed Harry on the forehead, then offered the rest of them the same. “I have to catch an early flight,” she informed the group between smooches. “I better head back to my apartment and get some shut-eye.”

  Harry stood up and sighed. “Me too. I’ll drive you home, Sis.”

  Verlene rose from her place at the table to see her grandchildren to the front door. “Call me as soon as you finish tomorrow’s shoot, sugar. I want a full report.”

  Gwenyth smiled. “Will do, Grandmama.” She offered Verlene one last peck on the cheek, then strolled out of the front door as Granddad Willy yelled something behind her to the effect that she better not forget to buy him a present.

  Gwenyth glanced up at Harry and chuckled. Granddad was quite a character.

  * * * * *

  “You’re certain you won’t mind seeing Sam again, Sis?” Harry kept his eye on the road as he continued to ease down Swann Avenue in his American built sedan.

  Gwenyth glanced absently at the road in front of them, then did a quick study of the interior of Harry’s new car. Her brother had traded in his stylish, imported automobile months ago for this domestic monstrosity so voters wouldn’t cast him aside for not “buying American.” That the maker of this particular sedan imported the majority of the factory work from overseas was somehow lost on the voting populace. If it carried an American label, it was an American car. Period. “Harry, get real. I’m not a little girl anymore. I don’t think the sun shines and sets on Sam Tremont’s biceps.”

  Harry’s lips curled with amusement. “I didn’t think so, but I had to be certain. I remember that day he brought his ex-wife Stacy over to the house all too well.” He grimaced, as if the memory of having offered his sister unmanly consolation still pained him. “Don’t want to repeat that.”

  Gwenyth rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Then she frowned. Good lord, the beige sedan’s overhead interior was blue. Yuck! Talk about visually mismatched. “You worry too much, Bro. Besides, I’m dating someone right now if you will recall.”

  Harry made a small sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disapproval. “If one can call Trevor a date,” he muttered.

  The brow above Gwenyth’s good eye rose up a notch. “Meaning?”

  “Let’s just say that I hate lawyers.”

  “Harry, you are a lawyer.”

  “Yeah, well, that means I’ve dealt with enough of them to know you shouldn’t be dating one.”

  Gwenyth decided against commenting on that particular observation. That she had been suspecting the same thing of Trevor was beside the point. She would deal with that revelation later. “So how exactly is Sam helping the ‘get Harry Jones to Washington’ cause?”

  Harry’s right hand absently thumped on the steering wheel in time with the rock song playing quietly in the background. It was a shame that voters weren’t allowed to see this playful, boyish side of him, Gwenyth mused. She was certain they’d all fall in love with him if they did. “He’s coming into town to attend that dinner and speech my campaign is throwing at the University of Tampa in two weeks.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sam’s going to give a little speech on my behalf.”

  And she would have to look her best. That disquieting thought rumbled through Gwenyth’s brain like shock waves. Not that it mattered what Sam thought about her looks, she told herself. What mattered was that Sam see the brilliant, respected photographer she’d become, that he realize she was a woman of the world, a woman to be reckoned with. A woman whose looks meant nothing to her. A woman who had made it on ambition and grit alone. A woman who…

  Bah! Okay, so she wanted Sam to think she looked good.

  But only so he’d realize what he’d given up eleven years ago when he’d broken a sixteen year old girl’s heart. Not because she still cared. Not because she was still in love with the man. It wasn’t like she still slept in his #33 jersey or anything. Well, unless she had nothing else to wear. Or unless she was feeling particularly under the weather.

  Sighing, Gwenyth pondered the man known as Sam Tremont as she watched her brownstone apartment loom into view. She wondered what he’d think when he next saw her. She wondered if he’
d like what he saw. Gwenyth called herself ten kinds of a fool for even thinking about him. Still, she couldn’t help but to wonder what it was Sam was doing right now.

  Chapter 2

  Sam “The Slam” Tremont woke up with a bitch of a headache. Disregarding the telephone whose rings were grinding into his skull like a battle axe, he pulled himself up from the hotel room’s king-sized bed and made his way to the bathroom—and the aspirin.

  Sam flipped open the medicine cabinet and grabbed hold of one of the aspirin packages, ripping it open with his teeth as if it was a gift from the gods. Sweet Jesus, he should never have bet a week’s pay that he could drink Brian Goodman under the table. He’d done it alright, but damn was he paying for his sins now. He groaned dramatically. He was getting too old for this shit.

  Closing the medicine cabinet, Sam ran his fingers through his tousled hair and called it a comb job. He’d worry about grooming after his head quit pounding. He stomped out of the bathroom and toward the phone, his goal being to put an end to its incessant, damned ringing, when he was intercepted half way by a knock at the door.

  Sighing, Sam stopped in his tracks and made his way back to the door. “Yeah, who is it?” he barked.

  “Room service,” a breathy voice returned.

  Sam didn’t remember ordering any room service, but maybe he had. It was just as well. Not only was his head pounding, but his stomach was damned hungry. He opened the door, then cast a quick but thorough glance over the hot redhead who’d brought up his food. He flashed her his million-dollar smile. “Bring it on in, honey. Put the tray by the bed.”

  “You got it.”

  Sam nodded. That quickly, the redhead was forgotten and the still blaring telephone was remembered. He strode toward it and picked it up, bringing an end to the goddamned noise. “Yeah. Sam here.”

  “Hey Sammy. It’s Lee.”

  Sam grimaced. The last person he felt like talking to right now was his overly tenacious manager. His head was still throbbing as it was. “Hey Lee. I’m kinda busy. Mind calling back?”

  “This will only take a minute.”

  Sam sighed. He just wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s up?”

  “Quite a lot, Slam Man, quite a lot.”

  Sam grunted. Lee took it as a cue to continue. “Got a call from Vantry Sportswear this morning. They want you to model their new swimwear line. I think it would be an excellent career move, Sambo. They want to start shooting a month from now.”

  Sam shook his throbbing head. “Forget it, Lee. You know how I feel about modeling.”

  Hell, everyone knew how Sam Tremont felt about modeling. He hated it. Actually, hate wasn’t strong enough a word. He detested it, felt like a fool sitting there striking a bunch of ridiculous poses. The cereal and shoe ads were okay because there wasn’t any acting required—he could just be himself—but he’d never forget the time he’d agreed to model for a cologne manufacturer’s new line called “Obsessive.” Their art director had wanted him to pose naked with another guy… said it looked artsy. Sam might not know much about art, but he knew when he felt stupid. Needless to say, he’d told them to forget it. He was not, after all, an actor.

  Lee apparently wasn’t interested in hearing his chief rainmaker say no. He plowed determinedly on. “Why don’t you take a few days and think it over? The shoot doesn’t begin for another month so you don’t have to make an immediate decision, Slammy.”

  Sam grumbled something imperceptible into the phone line. At this point he’d say anything to quit Lee from yappin’—and to get him to quit calling him by all those dumb names he always made up. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

  Lee knew when to apply the pressure. Conversely, he recognized when it was time to ease up. “No problem. I’ll be in touch, Samarino.”

  Sam grunted, then returned the phone to the desk. A hunger pang jolted through him, causing him to remember his breakfast. He whirled around to find it, then frowned at the sight that greeted him.

  The redhead. Very much naked. Very much lying on his bed spread eagle. Very much playing with her engorged clit. And apparently very much without any food whatsoever in tow. Odd, but it was the last revelation that got to him the most.

  She smiled sinfully from the bed. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Tremont.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I have something for you here that’s better than bacon and eggs.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” he mumbled under his breath.

  The redhead’s smile wavered. “What was that?”

  Sam shook his head. He was just too damn old for this shit. “Nothing. But if you don’t mind, I need for you to leave.” He placated her with his pearly white smile. “I never have sex before a big game.” He batted his sinfully sexy eyelashes. “Kills all my energies.”

  “But the game isn’t until tomorrow night, and it’s for charity, not a real game,” she determinedly argued.

  Sam’s smile faltered. Apparently Red wasn’t as dumb as the usual groupie. “Yeah well, I never have sex for two full days before a charity game. Makes me work out all my frustrations on the field.” His grin was breathtaking. “For the little kids and all.”

  Red was apparently appeased. She sat up and crossed her legs. “If I leave my number, will you call me?”

  “Uh huh. Yeah. Sure.”

  She bolted up from the bed, threw back on the waitress garb she’d obviously pilfered from the hotel, and handed Sam a card. “There’s my number. Call me after the game.” She winked provocatively, running her tongue across her lower lip. “I’d love to help you celebrate.”

  It took five minutes and lots of evasive answers to get Red out of his hotel room, but once Sam did she was forgotten as though she’d never been. He plopped down on the chair nearest the desk phone and stretched out his long, muscular legs. Damn but his head was killing him!

  Picking up a room service menu, he mentally listed the goods the hotel offered for breakfast. Quiche? Tarts? He glowered at the menu, his mood taking a turn for the worse. This just wouldn’t do.

  Oh and looky here, Sam snorted to his self, bran muffins and fresh berries. Well yeeee-haw. Maybe if he was real lucky they’d be sure to serve it to him on one of them doily doo-hickies.

  Disgruntled and seriously considering writing a scathing letter of complaint to the hotel’s president, Sam scanned the menu thoroughly for something he could eat. Something that might actually fill up his gut.

  Ahhh. His eyes at last settled upon a feast of fortune. Bacon, eggs, pancakes, and grits.

  Hell yeah!

  Nothin’ artsy here. It was just what a man with a bitch of a headache needed.

  * * * * *

  Sam picked up the copy of the Los Angeles Times that had been left for him alongside his breakfast. He opened it and immediately turned to the sports section, because hey, that was really the most interesting thing about the paper.

  Not that Sam didn’t like to be well informed. People would be surprised if they realized just how informed he really was. Most thought he was merely a dumb jock, and in many ways he probably was, but there were some things he was definitely smart about. Especially anything that dealt with old civilizations.

  The Mayans. The Incas. The Egyptians. The ancient Greeks and Romans. Fascinating mother fuckers, all of them. Seeing as how there was nothing in the paper referring to any dead civilizations— no new museum exhibits, no new archeological symposiums planned this week—Sam closed the paper after reading the scores on the sports page. Throwing the paper on top of the table, he picked up his coffee cup and chugged down what was left of the Colombian brew. Glancing absently at the newsprint he’d just cast aside, his eye was then snagged by a photograph on the front page of some naked guy—and oh baby!— wasn’t that Senator Green, the guy running against his old pal Harry, standing behind him?

  Grinning, Sam picked up the discarded copy of the LA Times again and took a closer look at the picture. Man oh man, must that loser be embarrassed! He actually fe
lt kinda sorry for the guy. Maybe he’d have his people contact the dude and recommend a plastic surgeon friend of his who specialized in penis enlargements. This picture would do wonders for Harry’s campaign and all, and for that Sam was grateful, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t afford to be generous. After all, this loser would probably never score again with the ladies after they caught wind of that photograph. Sweet Jesus! Sam was suddenly thankful he’d been born hung like a bull.

  The photo having peaked his interest, Sam decided to read the article in its entirety. He grunted his disapproval when he realized the naked guy with the little worm was a NAM protester. Let him find his own plastic surgeon, damn it. He couldn’t stand those people. And he definitely didn’t appreciate how they cashed in on the familiar term of NAM at the expense of men like his dad who had fought and died there. None of these pussies would have fought there. They were too busy bemoaning the fact that they were born privileged and misunderstood to anyone who’d listen.

  Sam’s stomach clenched when a particular paragraph gained his attention:

  Three people were arrested on assault and battery charges, including Senator Green’s aide, Webster Carr. Carr, 35, allegedly blackened the eye of fashion photographer Gwenyth Jones in an effort to wrestle her camera and the incriminating photographs from her (see picture on 10-b). Jones, 27, is the sister of Harry Jones, the incumbent Green’s chief rival for the upcoming senatorial election.

  Gwen? He hit little Gwen? Sam’s free hand unconsciously balled itself into a fist as he flipped to 10-b. Carr better pray he hadn’t hurt her too bad. Otherwise, he just wouldn’t be liable for his actions.

  His jaw tensing in anger, Sam located the photograph and caught his breath. Cupcake’s face was black, blue, and puffy as a blowfish.