Beyond Daring

“Oh, I can’t wait. And I bought a new bikini. With strings.”

“You and Lance will have a great time.”

Playfully, Sheldon kicked some sand in Cami’s direction. Sheldon didn’t have any of Cami’s important things to worry about. Yeah, no muss, no guilt. Until the day she was engaged, she was as free as the bird still perched nearby, waiting patiently for crumbs.

Sheldon fished in her pocket and tossed the bird an Altoid’s mint. Not a piece of bread, but he’d have great breath. He flew down and picked up the mint.

Cami shook her head.

“You know, you and Josh should get married in the Caribbean. Barefoot. Maybe some quiet guitar music in the background. What do you think?”

“Yeah, maybe,” answered Sheldon. “Let’s go inside. After all, don’t want to keep Josh waiting.”

THE FORMAL DINING ROOM SEATED forty when necessary. Tonight the table was set for eight, but Sheldon really wished they’d put in the extra leaves so that conversation would be kept to a minimum.

The four extra seats were occupied by the Conrad family: James Conrad, his wife, Marge; their daughter, Jennifer; and the favored son, Josh, Sheldon’s soon to be fiancé.

She picked at her peas and watched Josh from the corner of her eye. He was handsome, with sun-bleached California hair, earnest blue eyes, a dimple in his chin and a mouth that was a hair too wide, but it fit him. Josh was the eternal optimist. For some reason, every time Sheldon laid eyes on him, she wanted to kill him. Not the best start for a marriage.

“Sheldon, how’s your steak, honey?”

Sheldon smiled at her father. “I think I’m going to become a vegetarian. Do you know how they make steak? Cutting up the cows, all that blood—”

Sheldon’s mother held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Not at the dinner table, Sheldon.”

Sheldon blinked vacantly. “Sure, Mom.”

Her mother, ever the peacemaker, turned to Josh. “So, Josh, what’s new and exciting at Con-Mason?”

He speared a piece of meat with his fork, his mouth curved into an even bigger smile than usual. “Sales for the new line of bathroom cleaners are up seventeen percent, and we’ve put some incentives in place for the sales team. Very exciting stuff. I think third quarter growth will surprise everyone—especially the analysts.” Then he took a bite of his steak and chewed. Still smiling.

“Isn’t that nice?” Sheldon’s mother, Cynthia, looked every bit the Hamptons matron. Golden blonde, tanned and still gorgeous. That would be Sheldon in about twenty years, although Cynthia was missing Sheldon’s vacant expression. Her mother actually cared about things.

Then Cynthia turned to her oldest daughter. “Isn’t that nice, Sheldon?”

“Better than nice, Mom.” She looked in Josh’s direction. “Nuclear.”

He met her eyes, smiled, and then went back to his dinner. Oh, yes, theirs would be a match made in heaven.

The dinner conversation followed a well-established order. Gossip, excluding the Summerville and Conrad families, of course. Next up was the polo season. No one at the table played, including Josh, who was a golfer like Sheldon’s dad. However, lack of participation never stopped a heated discussion about how disappointing last season was.

Over dessert, Marge Conrad and Cynthia would launch into a full critique of the fall fashion season, each woman bemoaning her loss of figure. Both were size four.

Scintillating stuff, and after twenty-six years of it, Sheldon knew it all by heart.

After the last of the plates had been cleared away, her father opened a bottle of wine, pouring everyone a glass. Then he moved to stand behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “I have an announcement to make. I think y’all are going to be seeing a new side of Sheldon. Gave me a big surprise when she came to me and talked about expanding her world. Giving back to the community, trying artistic endeavors, taking an interest in New York’s fine array of sports offerings, turning her personal life into something more meaningful. I was tickled pink. And then, she told me about her favorite idea, sticking up for the ‘little man.’” He raised a glass. “To Sheldon, apple of my eye and owner of my heart.”

Sheldon raised her glass, pasting a smile on her face. So Jeff was that confident of his five-point plan that he’d pitched it to her father like a new advertising slogan?

Rage burned inside her, an oddly unfamiliar emotion. She’d be damned if Jeff was going to treat her like dishwashing powder.

Maybe she had a meaningless existence, maybe she was a black hole of humanity, but this time he had pushed her too far. This was a new and improved Sheldon with extra strength for tackling stubborn PR flacks where they lived.

Little did he know it, but Jeff Brooks had just issued a declaration of war.

MERCEDES BROOKS WAS JEFF’S younger sister and partner in crime, usually against Andrew. Then, when they were done with that, they’d turn on each other in that genuine, loving yet exquisitely painful sibling way that had endured since the dawn of time.

If she’d been homely or fat, Jeff might have cut her some slack, but Mercedes had looks. Not model looks, like Sheldon, but she had a unique I-can-kick-your-ass glint in her eyes that seemed to drive guys wild.

Jeff, having been the recipient of said glint more than once, was immune.

Currently, his pain-in-the-butt sister was curled up in his office, hogging his favorite chair, reading the New York Times—not her usual reading material. She pushed her dark hair out of her eyes and continued to bitch. Another one of Mercedes’ finer qualities.

She pointed to the article she was reading and scowled. “I don’t think sex is cheapening America, do you?”

“What?” asked Jeff, the word sex capturing his interest.

“They’re talking about my blog.”

“Oh,” muttered Jeff, going over his notes. Mercedes had a sex blog that she wrote anonymously. The Red Choo Diaries. Most of his friends’ sisters wrote their secrets in their diaries. Not Mercedes. No, the whole freaking world had to know about her secrets.

“I don’t have time for this, Mercedes,” he said, sending off an e-mail to a reporter at the Daily News, his last reminder before today’s event.

“Why not? Don’t you care about the freedom of the press? You, of all people, who depend on the media in order to do your job? I think you’re a traitor in disguise, Jeff. I can’t believe you’re my brother.

“Oh, calm down, Mercedes. You write a sex blog, not Gone with the Wind.”

“And isn’t it a fact that you lie, cheat and brainwash people for a living?”

“On a good day, yes.”

She humphed and went back to the paper. “The least you could do is help me write an Op-Ed piece. You know, something with a great hook and pizzazz. I need to work on my platform.”

“What platform?” he asked.

“A marketing platform. My agent told me that.”

Jeff frowned. “What agent?”

“Do you pay attention to anything I tell you?”

“No.”

“At least Andrew listens to me.”

“I got him the other day.”

That brought the joy back into Mercedes’s eyes. “Really? How?”

“I told him that Jamie wouldn’t wait forever for him to propose.”

“Oh, what did he do? Pale, pasty complexion, the eye dodge, or the back-brace-posture-pose.”

“All of the above.”

“I bet he proposes next week.”

“Nah, three months. At his heart, Andrew’s too conservative.”

“With Jamie? Hello! They played hide the salami in a limo. On a workday. We have to bet. One thousand dollars says he proposes within the month.”

“You don’t have a thousand dollars to lose, Mercedes. You quit your job as a real journalist, who knows why.”

Mercedes gave a careless shrug. “It was too structured. I felt like the paper limited my creative endeavors. I’m an artist.”

“And as an unemployed artist, you don’t have one thousand dollars to lose.”

“Do too. Got my first advance check the other day.”

“Advance for what?”

“My book deal.”

“You sold a book?”

“I told you,” she started, then noticed the smile on his face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“A thousand dollars? You’re on.”

Mercedes laughed. “Putting your money where your mouth is, big boy?”

“’Course I’m in.”

“Now you have to help me write the essay.”

“Can’t right now. Have to meet Sheldon at the electricians’ strike.”

Her eyes skimmed over him, for the first time taking in the faded blue jeans, the Rolling Stones T-shirt. “A strike? What the heck are you doing on a picket line? They fired you at Columbia-Starr didn’t they, and you’ve got this new secret career and never told us. Andrew is going to love this mess, Jeff. I can hear the lectures already.”

“Nice try. It’s for the job.”

“Columbia-Starr is representing the union?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s not that far-fetched, but no. I’m working on Sheldon Summerville’s image. She’s going to go out on the picket line and walk it for a bit.”

Mercedes began to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, it’s part of a new plan to redesign her image.”

“And she’s okay with this?”

“’Course,” he said, although he wasn’t exactly sure she was okay with it. In fact, he suspected that she was not okay with it, but she seemed to be going along with his ideas. So, uh, she must be okay with it.

Mercedes choked on a laugh. “I’ll go with you. Who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some fodder for the blog.” Then she got a faraway look in her eyes. “You know, I should really talk to her, I bet she can give me some great material.”

“Don’t even think about it, Mercy.”

“Alright,” she agreed, but the faraway look never left her eyes.

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Times Square that appealed to Jeff. The lights, the gaudiness—it was commercialization gone wild. When he was a kid, Times Square had been a different sort of place, a little seedy, a little trashy, but he’d watched the transformation take place. A butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Some days he’d take the subway to Times Square just to be in the presence of all that energy.

Today, people were wall-to-wall, a combination of the Wednesday business lunch crowd and the summer tourists, along with some street preachers and the Naked Cowboy, and he thought he spotted a guy walking a llama.

Just another day in the city. And on any given day, a union strike was happening. Doormen, sanitation workers, electricians, babysitters, bartenders and Broadway musicians. Today, in the heart of Times Square, the electricians were up at bat.

The picket signs were out, men in blue-collar clothes fighting for fair wages, and naturally, the giant blow-up rat that looked as if it came out of a Tim Burton movie. No strike was complete without the rat.

He and Mercedes stood outside the ESPN Sports-Zone restaurant, waiting for Sheldon.

And waiting.

And waiting.

She was late.

Jeff checked his watch and was considering calling her on his cell when he spied the blond hair blowing in the summer wind. Heads turned as she walked by, they always did, wondering who she was. Some people knew and whispered. Those were the ones who followed the tabloids.

Yeah, Sheldon drew eyes. She always drew Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t understand her, but he liked to look at her, that was for sure.

There was an energy about Sheldon, an electricity, and no matter how empty and unthinking she appeared, she couldn’t hide the energy. Sometimes, like now, she let it shine, and when she did, even Times Square looked dim.

She saw him and waved, and half of the picket line waved back.

“That’s her, right?” asked Mercedes, poking him in the ribs.

“Yeah.”

“Why’s she wearing a suit?”

Hallelujah, Sheldon was wearing a demure blue blazer and matching skirt. Yeah, the skirt was kinda short, but he’d take his victories where he could.

“Because she’s finally starting to listen to me,” answered Jeff.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sheldon said, coming up through the crowd, flushed and out of breath. She looked at Mercedes. “I know you, don’t I? I really suck at names. I’m Sheldon.”

“Mercedes Brooks.”

“Ahh…” she said, and she looked at Jeff, wheels spinning behind expressionless blue eyes. “This is your sister? The Red Choo Diaries?”

“You know?” said Mercedes.

“Hell, yes. I never miss it.”

And that was a disaster waiting to strike. Jeff took Sheldon by the arm, away from Mercedes’s sly maneuverings before his sister could damage Sheldon’s reputation even more. “Right. Sheldon, let’s go over to the picket line. I’ve talked to the union boss, and there’s some press lined up, too. I wrote a few lines for you. You don’t have to say much. Pick up the picket sign, walk with the workers, maybe do some chanting. Smile and wave. Look pretty. That’s pretty much it. Can you handle this?” Jeff handed her the piece of paper with his notes.

She looked over the paper, looked back up at him, blinking fair, soft-looking lashes. “Smile, wave, look pretty? Sure. Not a problem.”

There was something different about her today. Too eager, too cooperative, too peppy. Sheldon was never peppy. Jeff tried to ignore the pit in his stomach that said something was wrong with this picture. He watched her walk toward the line, brisk, businesslike and completely confident.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.

Cameras started to flash, and she raised a hand and waved to everyone. Tourists stopped in the middle of Times Square, trying to figure out which movie star she was.

Mercedes walked over to where Jeff was standing. “You know, I didn’t give her enough credit. She’s definitely working this, isn’t she?”

Sure enough, Sheldon was shaking hands with the workers, talking to one reporter, and in general, dazzling them all.

The pit in his stomach grew two sizes, and Jeff made his way through the strikers. Just as he arrived at the front lines, Sheldon held up a hand and the buzz of the crowd quieted.

“When I read about the electricians’ union going on strike, I got mad. This city depends on the electricians to keep Times Square lit up, to keep businesses and hospitals going, in fact, electricians keep people alive. The city depends on electricians to handle the millions of dollars that flow in and out of Wall Street every day.”

That was all good, that was all scripted. Jeff began to relax. Then Sheldon turned to the union chief, a grizzled fifty-something with tattooed arms and a blue union cap on his head. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Al.” he answered, blushing.

She put an arm around the man, drawing him into her world. “We’re behind you, Al. The city won’t forget about you.” She pulled a man who was dressed in a suit from the crowd.

“And what’s your name, sir?”

The guy shut off his cell and smiled for the photographers. “Tom.”

“Tom, do you support Al here?”

Tom blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Sheldon smiled. “So do I. In fact…”

She tugged off her jacket, revealing a lacy black bra beneath. Instantly, the men went wild and a million cameras flashed.

“Oh, this is great stuff for the blog!” Mercedes dove into her purse and produced a digital camera.

Sheldon reached around her back and Jeff closed his eyes.

He knew. He just knew.

A huge cheer went up and Jeff opened his eyes.

There was Sheldon, surrounded by two thousand members of New York City’s electricians union, holding the bra triumphantly above her head. Jeff knew their thoughts exactly as they goggled at the golden skin that would never need airbrushing, and the two perfect breasts. Breasts that made his mouth water.

And because of the press he had supplied, invited actually, it was a picture that most of the world would see in tomorrow’s papers.

Sheldon grinned, threw her bra in the direction of the photographers and posed. Then, with a satisfied smile, she put back on the demure blue jacket and walked over to Jeff, confident, brisk. Once again, all business.

She grinned at him. “You know, I gotta say, this was a super-great idea. Score one for the ‘little man,’ right?”

4

SHELDON WALKED TWO BLOCKS before Jeff spoke to her. Even then he didn’t say anything to her, just pointed toward a coffee shop, like an owner disciplining a pet.

Oh, he was furious. Steaming. She could see the heat rolling off him. She should laugh, but that would be petty, so she stayed with the ever-popular vacant and guileless expressions.

Once they were inside the café, he sat her down abruptly. “Don’t move,” he ordered.

Obediently, she sat, her face resting on one hand, watching as he went to the counter. The T-shirt was wonderfully fitted. Knowing Jeff, he had planned it that way, and the jeans—oh, mama. Sheldon didn’t usually find herself leering at a man’s body, she’d always considered herself a face girl, but Jeff’s body was so pleasing to the eye, she could study him for days—and nights. She wasn’t nearly done ogling him when he returned with two lattes.

“That was dirty, underhanded and completely over the top,” he started out.

“You didn’t like it?” she asked, blinking twice.

“Don’t play that game with me, Sheldon. I know you.”

She gave him a slow smile. “Yes, yes, you do. I think the mayor was there. Did you see him in the back?”

“The mayor?” Jeff buried his face in his hands. “My career is shot to hell. Your father is going to fire me.”

She slapped him on the arm. “No, he won’t. The company’s stock has already shot up two points, and I think I saw a CNN crew in the crowd.”

He raised his head, and there was something new in his eyes that made her tingle all over. Respect. Sheldon saw it so rarely, she almost didn’t recognize it. His mouth pulled into a rueful smile, and she got more tingles. This time, the carnal kind.

“You know, when you’re upset, why don’t you say something?”

“I don’t get upset, Jeff. I get even.”

He shook his head and began to laugh.

“So you were surprised?” she asked.

“Not really.”

She put a hand on his bare arm, not necessarily to stroke his forearm, but, well, accidents happen. “Come on, admit it. You were surprised.”

“I was not.”

“Not even a little?” she asked, leaning forward, letting her jacket gape open. His eyes drifted down. Sheldon felt a flush that had nothing to do with the summer heat.

Under her fingers, she felt the tension in him, and she wished he would let go. “Put it away, Sheldon.”

She removed her arm, closed her jacket and crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine. What happened to your sister?”

“She went off to write. Inspiration like you doesn’t happen to her very often.”

Sheldon couldn’t keep her lips from curving up. “What can I say?”

He glared so quickly she changed the subject. “So, what’s next on the five-point plan?”

The glare in his eyes softened, and for a minute she felt that tug inside her. “You really hate that, don’t you, Sheldon?” he asked, his voice lingering on her name.

“No, what made you think that?”

His look said he knew the answer, but he didn’t call her on it. “Fine, let’s move on. The next one is easy. We go to a Mets game on Saturday afternoon.”

“You’ll come with me, then?” she asked, mulling the possibilities.

“You think I’d let you go by yourself?”

“Well, no, but I would like having you there.” It was the truth. Jeff was the first man to see through her. Most men couldn’t get past her veneer, but Jeff had veneers of his own.

“You’ll behave?”

She blinked. “Certainly. I’m a team player.”

THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN JEFF arrived at work, he knew there’d be hell to pay. Although he wasn’t prepared for it that early.

Phil greeted him with a jaunty wave. “Wayne Summerville will be here in ten minutes. I took the liberty of assembling the press clippings from your daytime excursion yesterday. USA Today. New York Times—I like what they did with the pixilation, very natural looking—and here’s a press release from the AFL-CIO. They were very happy with the publicity.” He took out another sheet of paper. “And the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, Local 47, wants to give Ms. Summerville a plaque for her efforts to advance their cause.”

Jeff glanced at the clippings and noticed one piece absent. “Was there anything in The Red Choo Diaries?”

“I didn’t see that in Google,” answered Phil, as he typed in some keys, and then brought up Mercedes’ Web site on his computer. “It’s a story on…oh, my,” he said, leaning into the screen. Finally, he looked up. “It’s not Miss Summerville unless she suddenly took a job as an intern at a brokerage house.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t print the pictures,” muttered Jeff. Mercedes? His sister? Actually practicing restraint? He’d have to thank her for that.

“Do you want me to print this story about the intern, sir? I should tell you that corporate policy forbids the use of the company computers for nefarious means. Page forty-three in the manual. Would you like to read it?”

Mercedes’ good deed notwithstanding, the articles about Sheldon were enough to cause a man serious pain. Jeff took a deep breath. “No, thank you, Phil. I’m going into my office now. Can you bring me some aspirin?”

In less than two minutes, Phil was in Jeff’s office, plopping two pills on the desk, along with a glass of water. “Extra-strength.” Then he propped himself on the corner of Jeff’s desk. “I really like that shirt. Where’d you get it?”

Jeff took the pills and downed them with water. “So you can go out and buy one just like it?”

“I was merely asking. Don’t get snippy.”

“I’m not snippy,” snapped Jeff.

Phil got up in a huff.

“Snippy,” he said, and then shut Jeff’s door behind him.

EIGHT MINUTES LATER—Jeff was counting—Wayne Summerville arrived, his beefy face flushed from the heat. “Morning, boy,” he said, settling himself in the chair opposite Jeff. “I suppose you’ve seen the papers.”

Jeff swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then I suppose you know why I’m here.”

“I can guess. However, I saw where Summerville Consumer Products stock rose two percent yesterday.”

Wayne didn’t look happy. “So, what are we going to do about this problem, Jeff?”

“We’re moving on to step two now. I’ve got tickets to the Mets game on Saturday afternoon. It’ll be good.”

Wayne steepled his fingers. “And do you think my daughter will be able to keep her clothes on for baseball?”

Jeff met Wayne’s gaze evenly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, sir. Are you sure that Sheldon’s all right with this marriage? Have you thought that this might not be what she wants?”

“Sure, this is what she wants. There’s only one thing that drives Sheldon, and that’s Sheldon.”

“Well, yes, that’s probably true, but have you asked her?”

Wayne leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Brooks. I may be from the country, but I know people. I’ve asked Sheldon lots of times if she’s okay with this. I explained to her the advantages, the disadvantages and the realities of the situation. And time and time again, do you know what she’s told me?”

“What?”

Wayne drilled his finger on the desk. “That this is what she wants. I love my daughter, Mr. Brooks, and if I thought she wasn’t one hundred percent on board, I wouldn’t go through with it.”

“And she’s one hundred percent on board with it?”

“Has she told you otherwise?”

“No.” Jeff paused, then tried again. “Have you talked to Sheldon about her behavior yourself, sir? She might listen to her father.”

Wayne’s face twisted into a pained grimace best suited for an antacid commercial. “We don’t communicate much. I love my daughter, truly, but sometimes I think she’s off on another planet.”

“I’m not sure I can get through to her either.”