Spies never forget a name or a face. Burned spies never forget the history behind that name and face. Not if they want to stay alive.

Mercedes Devereaux Devine was her name, although she rarely used her given name. Most folks knew her as Mercy. Yes, Mercy Devine. I couldn't make that one up. Her face? Well, it was pretty, but then again, a female spy almost has to be pretty. And her history? Well, it wasn't nearly as pretty as her face.

When she walked into the bar, I had to wonder what in the hell she was doing there. An ex CIA operative, she threw it all away for love. Or so she said. Personally, I think it was for the money.

"Michael Westen," she smiled, sitting down next to me and removing her designer shades.

"Mercy Devine," I replied, sizing her up. She still looked good, still looked hot. I hoped that Sam didn't walk into the bar when she was there. Of course, he was due to meet me there in five minutes. Poor Sam. Maybe I could get her to leave before he got there, "He's not here."

Her smile faded and her eyes narrowed. "Do you know what I paid for this intel?" she seethed.

"Right now," I clarified, surprised that she looked disappointed. A smile threatened to show on her perfectly lined red lips. "I'm not going to ask how you found him."

"But you will ask why."

I nodded, she wasn't naïve. She had to know what I was thinking.

"You won't believe me if I tell you."

"Try me."

"Roger's dead," she replied, picking up my drink and taking a healthy mouthful.

Roger. The terribly proper, uber rich, former ambassador/husband was dead. The man was 20 years her senior, so it didn't totally surprise me. What did surprise me was that I hadn't seen or heard it on tv.

"It was all over the news," she said, as if reading my mind. She'd always been good at that, anticipating what people thought. "About a month ago."

"And the suitable period of mourning is over." She didn't look like she was in mourning. With her white sundress and heels, she looked like a vacationing tourist instead of a mourning widow.

"That was cold Michael."

Now, this would have been the time for some cutting line about how she ripped out Sam's heart when she married Roger, but before I had a chance to come up with something smart, Sam walked into the bar.

By the smile on his face, I knew he didn't notice her.

"Michael, Buddy," he began, walking to me, "You have to help me out. There's this woman…"

And then he spotted her, the woman he referred to as Satan's Daughter, The Red Headed Demon, and other assorted alcohol induced names had rendered him speechless. I don't think I ever saw Sam speechless. It only lasted a couple of seconds before he said, "Mercy."

Mercy smiled at him, "Sam."

"What are you doing here?"

Good, he wasn't falling for her smile again. Or was he?

"Roger's dead," she said, in a voice better used for simple announcements like "we're out of yogurt".

Sam nodded, processing the info and said, "I'm sorry." Only it sounded more like a question.

"Thank you."

This was my queue to give them some alone time, so I excused myself to get another drink. I didn't go far, just enough to give them the illusion of privacy, but not far enough so I was out of ear shot.

"How'd you find me?"

Mercy answered him with a roll of her eyes.

"Stupid question," he dismissed, looking out over the water.

Look away from the redhead, Sam, don't let her suck you in again.

"Okay," she said, almost to quiet to be heard from where I was sitting, "So this was a mistake. I should have known better than to think you'd be here waiting for me like you said you would. I'll go."

And she did. She stood up, picked up her purse and walked away.

It took Sam nearly 30 seconds to realize that she was really leaving, but once he did, he was on his feet and following her out the door.

"Mercy," he called, walking double time to catch up to her. Even in heels she was a sprinter like no other.

"Forget it, Sam," she said, stopping by a white Jag. "I was wrong to come."

"You could've called first."

"My intel didn't give me a phone number."

Sam looked pained, "Who'd you use?"

"Max," she shrugged.

Max Weinman was one of the original cold war spies and Mercy always had a soft spot in her heart for him. Apparently that hadn't changed. Unfortunately, Max was so old that most of his contacts had dried up. Even burned I had more contacts than Max did.

"I know, he's old, but I feel for the guy."

"I didn't even know he was still alive."

She shrugged, suddenly finding her car keys very interesting. "So, about coming to Miami, I guess I thought…."

She was doing that sad thing with her eyes. Sam never could resist that sad thing, no matter how much trouble it ended up getting him. This time was no exception.

"Hey," he said, causing her to look back at him. He smiled at her, "I'm glad to see you."

"Coulda fooled me."

Despite the pout, he knew he had her hooked. Then he threw in the clincher, the old nickname. "Come on Giggles, you just surprised me, that's all." Sam had his bearings back and turned the tables on her, charming her right back. This earned him a smile from he read head "That's better. Why don't we go somewhere and talk?"

"Your place?"

"I'm staying with a friend," he said, leaving out the fact that his "friend" was my mother.

Mercy might have been a lot of things, but a fool wasn't one of them. She knew Sam like the back of her hand. "Ah, a woman."

"Yeah, but it's not like that," he said, and she laughed before the words were out of his mouth. "It's not, I promise."

"Then I guess we can go to my hotel," she said, tossing him the keys to the Jag, "I'm staying at the Mandarin Oriental."

Suitably impressed, Sam opened the car door.

XXXXX

The Mandarin Oriental is one of those over priced, over trendy hotels that most people stay at just so they can say they are staying there. Mercy didn't care about that. She stayed there for the Thai Massage, something that Roger, the terribly proper; uber rich, former ambassador/husband had turned her on to.

She walked around the room like she owned the place, going right for the refrigerator and taking out two really overpriced bottles of beer. Handing one to Sam, she walked out onto the balcony and sat.

The Miami skyline at night is a glittering mass of light and metal with some really bright color thrown in. It could be hypnotic if you let it be. It can also be downright distracting when the person you're trying to talk to is hypnotized by it.

"No offense, Merce," Sam began, "But are we just gonna sit here all night or are you gonna talk to me."

She turned to him, "Sorry. I forgot how pretty it looked."

"Yeah, from this side," he snorted, taking a drink.

"My my we're bitter."

Sam just shrugged and drank more beer.

"Okay," she said, taking a sip of her beer. "You want the story? Here it is. About a year after we got married, Roger was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. We did the whole regimen, chemo, drugs, everything. And after a very long year, he was pronounced cancer free. We decided to live our life like there was no tomorrow. We traveled, we partied, we went and did whatever we wanted. For six months it was great and then he got sick again. The cancer came back…he lasted four months after that." She took another drink, then, looking back out at the skyline, "For the last two months, he kept telling me that I needed to start again, that I needed to find a new man, that he wouldn't want me to be lonely. Then at the very end, he started telling me that I should call you."

Sam was falling for the whole story, until she threw that nugget in. That one went too far.

"Me?" he laughed.

"Believe it or not, yes."

Apparently, she was telling the truth. Sam still wasn't ready to believe it.

"Why would he tell you to call me?"

Mercy didn't answer, didn't even look like she was thinking of one.

"I asked you a question," Sam repeated, "Why did your husband tell you to call me?"

Her voice was quiet, "Because even Roger knew that I should have stayed with you."

"But you didn't."

"Come on, Sam. I wanted out. You were still in deep, you couldn't help me. Roger was the perfect doorway out of the Agency."

"Wait a minute; you're admitting that you married him just to get out."

"You make it sound like I used him. I didn't! It wasn't that way at all. I cared for him…a lot. And yes, I loved him…" She looked away. "Just not in the same way I loved you."

"Love is a subjective thing," he dryly returned.

Sam was holding his ground, staying tough, not letting her admission of love break him down. Until she worked those sad eyes on him and gave him one of those dramatic sighs made for tv movie heroines.

"This was a mistake," she said, standing up. "I shouldn't have come."

Sam finished his beer, waiting to see where she went next. He was surprised by her direction.

"You were the one who told me that if it ever ended between Roger and I, all I would have to do is call. You were the one who said that, Sam. The same night you said you'd always love me. Guess that all changed, huh?"

"Oh, no," he said, standing. "Do not turn this on me. You left, not me."

"I told you why I left, I told you that I still loved you and you told me…"

"I know what I told you!" he snapped, wishing she didn't look so damn sexy.

"And did you mean it?' she challenged, staring him down.

The stood, toe to toe, squaring off like a couple of prizefighters. If Sam was standing toe to toe with some piece of hired muscle, my money would be squarely on Sam. Sure, he was older, but he also knew how to fight dirty.

But Sam wasn't squared off against any hired muscle. This situation was much worse. He was squared off against a hot redhead who not only had a very steamy history with him, but also didn't give in to any of his slick lines or moves. She didn't have to; she'd been one of the very few women who'd ever seen Sam Axe cast aside the whole lothario façade. And she was actually coming back for more.

"Tell me, Sam," she coldly said, "Did you mean it?"

He narrowed his eyes, "Damnit, Mercy, you know I did."

"And I'm back," she said, with a smile, "And it can be just as good as before…even better. Come on, we're both out and I am one very, very, rich bitch…." She slipped her arms around his neck and kissed him softly. "We can go where we want, do what we want…" She kissed him a bit more surely.

Sam was losing this battle, but his pride wouldn't let him just roll over and play dead. In a really bad attempt to sound bitter he said, "So I'm just supposed to forget about the fact that you left me for Roger?"

But Mercy was good and she was on the trail of something she wanted. Any one who'd ever worked with or against her knew just how much of a bulldog she could be, especially when she wanted something.

"I came back, Sam," she practically purred, "You told me you'd be here and here I am. Let me make it up to you…"

He kissed her roughly, taking her off guard, but just for a moment. She wrapped herself around him and returned the kiss.

Backing her to the bed, he said, "You can start making it up to me now…"

As she fell back onto the snow white duvet cover, she gave a throaty laugh. "I hope you took your Viagra, because I've got a lot of making up to do…"

"I will not, do not, and have never needed Viagra," he said, between kisses.

"Prove it," she challenged.

And for the rest of the night and into the morning, my friend Sam did just that.