There are times -- and believe me when I tell you they are few and far between -- when I miss my old assistant.

Raymond Jeremiah Cortale.  A somewhat short, well-muscled blonde man in his mid-twenties, who looked like a young, handsome surfer, but whose intelligence was astounding.  He was relatively efficient, had excellent penmanship, and could type 85 words per minute.  Ray was my de facto assistant throughout the beginnings of my participation in the Bartlet for America campaign.

Of course, he was also delusional, paranoid and obsessed with a TV show.

He loved The X-Files so much that the lines between fiction and reality kind of... blurred.  Ray spent many of his office hours writing something I think he called fanatic fiction; stories about Special Agent Dana Scully.

Leo was understandably unhappy about this turn of events when an audit of the computer logs turned up several stories in which Scully had graphic, gymnastic sex with an original character named Rhett.  Yes; Rhett.

Raymond was put on probation by Leo, with the caveat that he would be booted out on his ass if he so much as opened up Word.  Ray ceased writing himself into sexual situations with a fictional TV character, which was good.  Of course, I had to type up all my own memos, which was bad.

But no matter; it didn't last.

With the computer skills he picked up from a 17 year old campaign volunteer, Raymond attempted to hack his way into the FBI database.  I believe he was searching for Dana Scully's new address (she moved, he explained, in The X-Files movie).

Needless to say, Ray was fired immediately, and I heard the FBI questioned him for 72 hours.

I believe Ray is currently residing in the Woodland Hills Mental Health Center, just outside of D.C.

So you'll understand why I say it's rare for me to actually miss Raymond Cortale.

I miss him desperately, however, when I wander out into the heat of the hotel's pool area and spot Donnatella Moss sunbathing in a bikini.  I'm sure Ray has a perfectly nice body, but Donna's long, shapely, pale limbs and tiny, rose-covered swimsuit cause me to experience a temporary meltdown.  I attribute this entirely to shock.

I grind to a halt just inside the little gate, sweating profusely and staring at my assistant.  She isn't doing anything; just lying there.  I attribute my sudden fascination with my trying day; from Universal City to Bel Air to Anaheim to Santa Monica, and back to Universal City.  In eight hours.  And that's not even taking into account the company I kept at lunch.

I give myself a mental shake and head towards her lawn chair, her pager in hand.

She looks so comfortable, I almost feel bad disturbing her.  Almost.

No one should look that amazing and that content, all at one time.  Not when I spent the last hour listening to Al Keifer yammering on about sewing up reelection with a flag-burning amendment.

I lob the pager at Donna's head.

She effortlessly snatches it out of mid-air, then throws me a questioning look.

"You forgot your pager," I say.

"Josh."  She glares at me.  "Why would I want my pager?  In the eighteen months that I have had this thing, you are the only person who has ever paged me."

She has a point.  I smirk down at her.  "All the more reason you shouldn't be without it."

"But you're here, Josh."  Donna shifts on her chair, which draws my attention to her legs.  Thank God I still have my sunglasses on.  She says, "You don't need to page me if we're both sitting right here."

Oh, to have a short, surfer dude assistant.  I need to get Donna into some more clothes as soon as possible.  Preferably ski-pants and a winter jacket.

"Geez," I say inanely, "it's hot out here."  It's sometimes hard to believe I was a Fulbright Scholar.

"This is my personal time," Donna says with a stubborn shake of her head.

"What?"  I can't seem to concentrate with acres of alabaster skin on display in front of me.  I step closer, my shadow looming across her midsection.

"Between two and four is personal time.  It's on the schedule," Donna says.  "I am using my personal time to work on my tan."

"You have no tan to work on."

"Quit blocking the sun, and I will have."

I perch uncomfortably on the lawn chair next to her.  God, the sun is annoyingly hot.  I loathe the outdoors.

"As your boss," I say, "I feel the need to ask whether you think your outfit is appropriate."

"Appropriate?  It's a bikini," she states unnecessarily.  I am painfully aware that she is wearing nothing but two scraps of cloth.  Small scraps.  Tiny, even.  She continues, oblivious to my distraction.  "I'm working on my tan.  Yes, that seems appropriate."

"What I mean," I say, "is that, as part of the presidential party, you have to be image conscious."

"And you have to be kidding."

"No, I'm serious.  I'm not sure you should be wearing that in public."  Not in public places where I might happen upon her.  Especially not this soon after our ill-fated kiss on Christmas Eve.

"I happen to look good in this," she says.

Quite possibly the understatement of the year.

"I didn't say you don't look good. In fact, you look--"  I cut myself off before I give her a cause of action.  "You look not bad."

"Josh," she says, looking disappointed.  "Again I point out the concept of personal time.  It's not like I'm wearing a button that says 'I work for Bartlet.'"

"Where would you stick it?"  Oops.  That is probably a bit out of line.

Donna glares at me.  "I can tell you where to stick--"

"Bickering again, children?"  CJ stops next to my chair, clad in what might charitably be called a string bikini.

Donna gives CJ a look.  "Josh says I'm dressed inappropriately."

"He's wearing a suit by the pool," CJ laughs.  "I'd say he's the one who needs to change."

"I am making a point about the need to present ourselves as professionals."  There is far too much coworker skin being flaunted.

"Josh, get a life."  CJ saunters off.

"Yeah," I stand up and yell after her, "that's a real witty comeback there, Claudia Jean."

Well, if that isn't the stupidest thing I've said all day, I don't know what is.  I drop back onto the chair, sweating and trying somewhat unsuccessfully to avert my eyes from the nubile body of my assistant.

The silence grows uncomfortable as I examine a wilting palm frond with undue intensity.  There has to be something I can say to get her inside.  "It's too damn hot out here."  Nothing like stating the obvious.  "Come on, Donna, let's go inside."

"No, it's my--"

"Your personal time," I say.  "So I've heard.  You know you're going to get sunburned, don't you?  You'll probably try to take a sick day because of it."

"You're right."

I am?

"I am?"

"Yes," she smiles up at me.  "I should turn over and do my back now."

Donna shifts on her chair, rolling over onto her stomach and exposing what might just be the best ass I've ever seen in person.  I think I may have whimpered.

Donna looks over her shoulder.  "What did you say?"

I swallow and fumble for something to say.  "You need to put some lotion or something on your back so you don't burn."

Lotion.  On her back.  I absolutely cannot be involved in this process.  It will end badly, and probably with me cowering in the nearest room with a locking door.  There's actually a small shack just on the other side of the pool that I can only assume houses the filtering equipment.

Not that I'm looking for the nearest room with a locking door.

"I can't reach," she says.

Oh, no.  This is most definitely Not Good.  First lunch with Al Keifer, and now this?  I must have been a real bastard in my last life.

Leo would actually kill me if he knew what I am thinking right now.

But wait -- maybe I have misunderstood the meaning of her comment.  That has been known to happen.  I tear my eyes from her body and locate the sunblock.  "It's right there on the table," I say.  My voice sounds funny.

"No," she says.  "I mean I can't reach my back."

Shit.

Donna doesn't say anything for a long moment, and I'm unable to speak.  Again.

This is getting ridiculous.

She sighs and begins to move, "I'll get CJ to help me."

"No," I yelp.  I pause for a second, and regulate my voice.  "No, I'll do that for you."  What am I saying?  Am I actually offering to rub lotion on Donnatella Moss?  On all of that luscious alabaster skin?

Calming breaths.  I can do this.  "Yeah," I say, still trying to convince myself that I won't jump her right here in front of God, CJ, and the rest of the sadistic, sun-tanning hotel guests.  "Yeah, I can do that."

Okay.  First thing's first.

I shrug out of my rumpled jacket and fold it very precisely.  There's no reason for this, other than to buy time.  I have to get myself under control before I slather lotion--

"Did you bring another suit?" Donna asks.  "Besides what you're wearing to the fundraiser, I mean."

What the hell is she talking about?

"Why?" I ask.

She answers me, but I honestly have no idea what she's saying.  I'm running out of things to do, here.

I roll up my sleeves, and then there's nothing left but to get to it.

The sunblock, I mean.  Get to rubbing some sunblock into Donna's alabaster skin.  Which is not at all inappropriate.

Just a favor for a friend.  A good pal.

Okay.  Here we go.

I get a nice big blob of lotion in one hand, then realize that her hair is splayed over her shoulders.  I reach for the blonde locks and am embarrassed to note that my fingers are shaking.

I am so smitten.

Her hair is like silk, pardon the cliché.  My usually impressive command of the English language seems to have deserted me.

The lotion is surprisingly warm in my hands, but it's nowhere near the temperature of her skin.  She is hot, almost liquid beneath my fingers.

I get a sudden image of another reason for my hands to be clutching her naked back.  I close my eyes and whisper, "Donnatella."

Donna tenses up beneath my hands and I realize what I've said.  I scramble for something else, something to add to her name just dangling out there.

"You were right," I say.  My voice definitely sounds funny.  Kind of high pitched and quavering a bit.

"Huh?"

I clear my throat.  "You do have alabaster skin. I never noticed."

Not precisely a lie, since I've never before encountered the vast majority of Donna's alabaster skin on display to be noticed.  Acres of it, in fact.  Acres which I would like to--

I stand abruptly.  I cannot be this close to her anymore, or I might actually implode.  "Well, this is all of the great outdoors I can take."  Or at least all of the The Rosebud Bikini and its attendant acres of alabaster skin I can take.  "I'm going back to the room to work.  You have forty-five minutes of personal time left."

"Slave driver," Donna says.  Her voice is a tad higher than normal.  But I attribute that to, you know, heatstroke or something.

"Layabout," I return.  See?  I can do this.  Everything is normal.  Just because I slathered warm lotion on her alabaster skin--

I've got to get out of here.

I am almost back to the wonderful, artificially-illuminated, air-conditioned indoors when Donna yells my name.

I turn around and she is sitting up, one leg bent upwards and her hair dancing in the slight breeze.  She looks like some kind of goddess.  I note this in a purely aesthetic way, of course.  "Yeah?"

"I forgot to tell you," she says.  "I saw Joey Lucas."

Who?

It takes me a moment to process her words.  "Joey Lucas?" I repeat stupidly.  "She's here?"  Why is Donna telling me this?

"Yeah," Donna nods.  "She said she'll be at the party, and she can't wait to see you."

Okay.  That's interesting.  Joey Lucas.  An attractive, intelligent woman who is not my assistant.  Not that my assistant is an attractive -- Oh, hell.  "Good," I answer, stupidly.  "Well, that's--good."

"Gather ye rosebuds, Josh," Donna says quietly.

I bite back a comment about gathering the rosebuds on her bikini, give a strange little wave, and head for sanctuary.

I may have to submit to some sort of mind-wipe to erase the sight of Donnatella Moss and her bikini from my memory.

Or maybe if I just focus my amorous attentions elsewhere...

Joey Lucas is here, is she?

Interesting.

***

So getting work done is completely impossible, and contemplating the possibilities of a flirtation with Joey Lucas doesn't even come close to being enough of a distraction.  I sit in my room for 45 minutes, jumping at every sound and waiting for Donnatella Moss to get her alabaster ass back into some clothes so that I can banish the image of that bikini--

Well, you see how successful I've been at getting some work done.

At 4:15, I can take it no longer.  I pull out my cellphone and page Donna.  Not that I'm desperate to talk to her or anything.  I have, you know, work stuff.  To discuss with her.

Patience is not a virtue I possess in abundance.  So I dial her cellphone from my cellphone, then pick up the room phone and call her hotel room.  You know, for good measure.

Donna answers with "Go away, Josh."

I can't help but grin.  "Your personal time was over thirty minutes ago."  So I exaggerate.  Sue me.

"I'm getting ready for the fundraiser," she says, sounding irritated.  "Go away."

"But don't you want dinner?"  There is a tone to my voice that is unusual.  I would hesitate to call it "desperate," but it's somewhere in the neighborhood of needy.

"I was going to order room service."

An opening if I've ever heard one.  "Great.  I'll have the prime rib.  Well done.  And get me a baked potato.  Maybe some cheesecake."

"Josh!" Donna protests.  "Doesn't the president need you?"

"He's having dinner with Zoey."

"What are CJ, Toby and Sam doing?"

I don't want to eat with CJ, Toby, or Sam.  I want to eat with Donnatella.  "Didn't ask them."  I am not examining my motives too closely.  If I do, I fear that rosebud bikinis and alabaster skin will be somehow involved.

"Don't you think you should?"

"I don't know, Donna.  Your room's awfully small.  I don't think we can all eat in there unless we get pizza and sit on the floor.  And I'm not much in the mood for pizza."  Or other people.

I am pretending I don't understand what I mean by that.

Donna says, "You could call your friend Joey Lucas."

What does that mean?  Why is Donna obsessing over Joey Lucas?  "She left me another message," I answer with a mental shrug.  "Well, Kenny did.  She won't be back to the hotel until after the fundraiser."

"All right," Donna says, but she sounds funny.  "But I just got out of the tub.  I am standing here soaking wet.  Give me an hour to get dressed and dry my hair."

She just got out of the tub.  The tub.

She's soaking wet.  And, one can only assume, naked.

Naked.

Donnatella Moss is talking to me on the phone while standing naked in her hotel room.

I think I need to sit down.  Also possibly a defibrillator.  Definitely a cold shower.

It dawns on me that her comment probably requires some sort of response.  "Half an hour," I manage.  "We have work to do."

Right.  Work.  I am eating with Donna so that we can work.  Not because she looks amazing in a rosebud bikini.  Not because her verbal sparring makes me tingle.  And certainly not because I have any feelings other than friendly towards her.

Work.

We are going to work at dinner.

***

By the time I arrive at Donna's room, I have managed to get my sudden and irrational attraction to Donna out of my mind.

Until she opens the door, anyway.

"Hi," she says.  She is in slim black pants and a black t-shirt that just barely clings to her curves.

Curves that I recall with great detail thanks to our time by the pool.

"Lunch sucked," I say by way of greeting.  Avoid the subject; that's my motto.  "Dinner better be good."

"At these prices?" Donna grins, closing the door behind me.  "I would hope so."

"How much is the lovely Sheraton Universal charging the government?"

"My chicken Caesar salad was $11.99," Donna gestures at the tray resting on the bed.

The bed.

I glance around, but the tiny table in the corner is already covered with files and books and other work-related detritus.

The bed it is.

I can do this.  Work.  I'm here to work.

"Did they burn my food?" I ask as I approach the bed somewhat skittishly.

"I have no idea," Donna answers, from very close behind me.  Her room is significantly smaller than mine.

I take a step away from her and sink down on the mattress.

Donna slides my food towards me on the tray, rescuing her salad and retreating to the corner of the bed.  I pull the cover off of the largest plate to reveal my prime rib.  Burnt.

I give Donna a grin.  "Excellent."

She smiles back, then takes a bite of her salad.

I watch the way her lips wrap around the fork--

Okay.  Time out.

I force my gaze back to my own food, boring as it may be in comparison.

I am not here to further indulge my sudden fascination with my assistant.  I am here to work.

"Keifer claims we can sew up re-election by 'leading the charge' for a flag-burning amendment," I comment around a mouthful of meat.

Donna swallows hastily.  "That's ridiculous."

"That's what I said."

"What'd the president say?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"You will?"

"You should've seen Toby's face," I grin.  "He hates Al Keifer."

"So do you," Donna counters, thrusting her fork in my direction.

"The man's an idiot."

"So why does the president--?"

"Who knows, Donna," I shrug.  "The president is a glutton for punishment."

Donna wrinkles her brow.  "I don't think that's true."

"Donna, Toby and I told him about 387 times that Keifer's numbers have nothing to do with our position on flag-burning, but he insisted on taking the meeting anyway."

"Who did Keifer sit with?"

"What?"

"You heard me," she repeats.  "Who did Keifer sit with during lunch?"

I stare at her for a moment.  "Me and CJ and Toby and Sam," I answer ungrammatically.

Donna smiles at me and I am unable to resist grinning back at her.  For no reason other than she is amazing when she smiles.

"See?" she says, triumphant.

"What are you talking about, Donna?"

"The president is not a glutton for punishment," she explains patiently.  "In fact, he is a master of inflicting punishment."

"Donna--"

"What'd you do, Josh?"

"What do you mean?"

"To make the president want to punish you."

"Nothing!"

She smirks at me. "Okay."

I ignore her and concentrate on my food.

"It was Toby, wasn't it?"

I give her a long-suffering sigh.  "If you must know, Toby made fun of the guacamole."

She has her skeptical face on.  "Toby made fun of guacamole and you had to sit with Keifer?"

"The president is an evil, evil man, Donnatella."

Donna grins at me.

And all is right with the world.

At least until she reaches for my cheesecake.

"Hey!" I yelp.  "That's mine."

"But it looks really good," she says with this indescribable look on her face.  "And I'm still hungry."

You don't know the half of it, Donnatella.

"Yes, but I know you," I argue.  "You'll eat my entire dessert while I'm still on the main course."  I point to the phone on the nightstand beside me.  "Have them send you up another one."

Maybe she'll climb over me to get to the phone.  Where are these inappropriate thoughts coming from?

Unfortunately, Donna doesn't move.  She just gives me a pout.  "It'll take an hour, and I only want half.  God, Josh, you're so damn selfish sometimes."

I give a nice big sigh and clear the plates -- including my not-yet-empty plate, I should point out -- off the bed.  Then I look at Donna and I can't resist.  I pat the bed beside me and hold the cheesecake hostage until she is sitting beside me.  Her arm is touching mine and I'm as giddy as a schoolboy.

And we eat cheesecake.

Nothing more.  We just share a piece of cheesecake in relative silence, our forks clanking the only sound in the small room.

This is surprisingly nice.  Relaxing, even.  I am not accustomed to periods of time without frenzied activity -- or at least a rousing argument.  Especially not while in the presence of Donnatella Moss.  But I am very much enjoying the feel of her arm against mine and the smell of her hair and the tiny drop of sauce at the corner of her mouth.

I weigh my options for a moment, but I have very little self-control.  My mother always told me it would get me into serious trouble one day.

"You've got strawberry sauce," I say, my voice husky. I lean a little closer to her, breathing her in, and wipe it from her mouth with my fingers.  She is staring up at me, her eyes wide.  I have a nearly insatiable urge to replace my fingers with my mouth.

The ferocity of my hunger for her scares me.  How can I want her so badly?

I am so close to kissing her right now.

But how can I take this wonderful, amazing thing we have and poison it with my horrendous luck?  I am not relationship material, as Mandy so helpfully pointed out when she dumped me.  The only woman besides my mother to care about me for longer than a year is Donnatella Moss.  And I can't take the chance that I'll screw up what we have for a fleeting affair.  I care far too much about her.

I realize belatedly that I am still leaning towards her, and I have to look away to catch my breath.

I can do this.  I can teach myself not to want her.

I inhale shakily.  "So how long's it going to take you to get ready for this thing?"

***

This thing is really boring.  Terribly boring.

I'm not really into the whole Hollywood scene.  I can't imagine drawing your whole sense of self-worth from the amount of money a movie you had a tiny involvement with made its first weekend in release.  Sounds like I almost know what I'm talking about there, doesn't it?

Donna -- who, I must point out, looks incredibly hot -- is explaining box office to me, even though I keep telling her I don't care.

"So," I ask in a resigned tone, "a movie has to do well its first weekend--"

"Open well."

"Huh?"  See?  I can do this.  I sound as lost as I always do when Donna goes off on one of her tangents.  I do not sound at all smitten.

"They call it 'opening well,'" Donna explains.  "When the first weekend's box office--"

"Exceeds, what, ten million?"

"There's no real set figure," Donna shrugs.

"Why not?"

"It depends on the weekend."

Well, that just sounds stupid.  "Why does this matter at all in the grand scheme of things?"

"It doesn't," Donna admits.

"So why are we talking about it?"

"It's interesting," she answers.  I give her a dubious look, which she ignores as she presses on . "Titanic opened poorly."

"What?" I scoff.  "Titanic made, like, a gazillion dollars."

Donna smirks at me.  "A gazillion?"

"Shut up."

"Titanic opened poorly," she repeats.  "The movie's over three hours long, so the theatres couldn't play it as many times per day as a movie that runs only an hour and forty-five minutes--"

"Is there a point to this?" I interrupt loudly.

"I'm saying Titanic didn't make very much its first weekend because of its length, so Twentieth Century Fox -- which co-produced it -- panicked and sold the TV rights to NBC for only twenty million dollars."

"Twenty million dollars is a lot of money, Donna."

"Not when the movie cost $200 million to make."

I stare at her for a moment.  "That was your point?"

"It's an anecdote, Josh."

"It's really not."

"It's small talk.  We're at a party."

I shake my head in disbelief.  "How do you even know this stuff?"

"I read," Donna replies haughtily.

"What, exactly, do you read?"

"Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Entertainment Weekly."

"Donna--"

"Seriously, Josh, their Power Issue kicks ass."

Before I can begin to think up a response, David Hasselhoff introduces himself.  David Hasselhoff!!  Then, to my utter horror, he strikes up a conversation about the First Amendment.  And Donna is flirting with him!  The mastermind behind Baywatch Hawaii is attempting to discuss the First Amendment with us and Donna is flirting with him!

So much for my overblown ego and its insistence that I should have kissed her over cheesecake in her hotel room.  Clearly, she doesn't think of me like that or she wouldn't be flirting her little heart out in front of me.

Nevertheless, I pull her away from David Hasselhoff.  I think she's had too much champagne.

"You're frightening the guests," I admonish.

"David Hasselhoff, I'm just saying."

I give her an odd look . "He's married."

"This is California, Josh," Donna answers airily.  "A girl can dream."

If I didn't know better, I'd think Donna was getting tipsy.  "Stop drinking, now," I order, confiscating her flute just in case.  But she flounces off in search of some other TV star before I can complete my lecture.

And then I hear a familiar voice.  Joey Lucas.

Well, to be precise, the voice is that of Kenny, Joey Lucas's interpreter.  But you see my point.

She's wearing some sort of sparkly dress, and I can't help but compare it to Donna's sleek, elegant cocktail dress.  But, hey, if Donna can flirt with other people, so can I.  The childishness of my reasoning doesn't bother me, for some reason.  Perhaps it's the champagne.

But it's not the champagne that makes me think Joey Lucas is flirting with me.  She is actually flirting with me.  I admit, I have a horrible sense of these things -- not as bad as Sam's, but horrendous nonetheless -- but she really is flirting with me.

Okay. I can do this.  I have nothing to feel guilty about.  I can flirt with a pretty woman anytime I want.  So I do.  I turn on the charm, give her that irresistible (or so I'm told) grin, and make her promise not to leave before talking to me again.  Just call me Josh Lyman, Ladykiller.

An hour or so later, I end up at a table with Joey Lucas and, of course, Kenny.  It's hard to flirt with an interpreter sitting there watching your every move.  Makes me very self-conscious.

But I do find it relaxing to be having a conversation with someone who doesn't make me crazy.  I refer, of course, to Donnatella Moss and her infuriating ability to make my head spin.  With Joey, there's simply not that kind of tension.  It's refreshing.

And so I keep the charm working right up until she tells me she's here with someone.

"I'm sorry?" I say stupidly.

"I came here with someone," Joey answers.  Well, Kenny really.

"Okay."  I am a complete idiot.  She wasn't flirting; she was just being nice.  "I should go.  I have to go."

I have almost gained the sanctuary of Ted Marcus's mansion when Joey -- Kenny -- calls out, "Wait."

I turn back.

"Will you call me sometime?" she asks by way of Kenny.  "Next time you come out here?"

Well, next time I get to LA will probably be months from now.  I decide not to share that with her.  And this is definitely flirting.

"Absolutely," I grin like an idiot.  "I will call in advance of my coming."  Apparently I speak like an idiot, too.

"It was really good to see you," she says.

"You too," I answer, then turn and ride my wave of victory through the doors and into the house.  I am still grinning.

Then Sam grabs my arm and pulls me into a corner.  "Donna's gone."

It's amazing how much panic two little words can produce.  "What?" I ask.  Shriek.  Whatever.

CJ glides over to us.  "She went back to the hotel, Josh."

I turn my attention to her.  "Why?"

CJ glances at Sam, who gives her a small shrug.  "She had a headache," CJ explains.  "From the champagne."

"I knew it," I grin  "I told her to stop drinking -- why are you looking at me like that?"

"No reason," CJ answers too quickly.

I glare at Sam.  "Sam?"

"Nothing.  We're not looking at you."

"Sam."

He cracks, like I knew he would.  "She was upset."

"Why was she upset?  The David Hasselhoff thing?  Because--"

"Joey Lucas," CJ interrupts quietly.

I am dumbfounded.  "Joey Lucas?"

"Yes."

"Donna is upset about Joey Lucas?"  I am having trouble figuring this out.  Perhaps I should have followed my own advice regarding the champagne.  "Why is Donna upset about Joey Lucas?"

CJ looks at me like I am the stupidest man ever to inhabit the earth.  "Never mind.  You were ignoring her--"

"I was ignoring Joey Lucas?"

"No," CJ answers sharply.  "You were ignoring Donna.  She had too much to drink, so she went back to the hotel."

"I was ignoring Donna?" I sputter.  "She's been bouncing around between celebrities all night and I'm ignoring her?"

"Josh," Sam says, "I don't think--"

"Oh, that is too much," I say.  "I'm going to go talk to her."

CJ frowns at me.  "She's at the hotel, Josh."

"So?"

"The hotel is in the valley," Sam says.  "The eastern valley."

"So?"

"We're in Bel Air," CJ says.

"I fail to see your point," I say, looking around for the front door.  It's easy to get lost in this monstrosity.

"The party will be over by the time you make it back here," CJ explains.

"I'm not coming back."

Sam and CJ exchange an inscrutable look.

"What?" I demand.

"Nothing," they answer in unison.

"Fine," I head for the door.  "I'll be at the hotel."

***

I fidget the entire way back to the hotel in the cab.  CJ and Sam were right; it is quite a trip.  I honestly hadn't noticed on the way there, but it takes nearly ten minutes to wind our way down to a main road from Ted Marcus's palace, and twenty more to get back to the hotel.  It's mind-boggling to me that there's traffic after midnight.

When I reach the hotel, I head straight for Donna's room and knock sharply.

She opens the door and I notice she has changed from her amazing dress into that black ensemble from before.  And she looks like she may have been crying.

"Are you okay?" I ask.  I want to reach for her, but she seems somewhat standoffish.  "'Cause CJ said--"

"I had a headache," Donna interrupts, her voice tired.  "I'm better now."

She doesn't look better.  She doesn't invite me in, either, but I brush past her and stop in the middle of the room.  "Donnatella, did you get drunk?"

She looks like she might cry again.  Assuming I'm right and she was crying before.  "Why do you do that?" she demands.

I am at a complete loss.  "Do what?"

"Call me that.  I hate when you call me that."

What is she talking about?  I shake my head slightly.  "Donnatella?"

She certainly looks upset now.  "You only do it when you're making fun of me.  Or when you're angry.  Or giving orders."

I honestly didn't realize it bothered her.  "Do I?"

"Yes, you do," she answers with a small swipe at her eyes.  "And I've decided I don't like it.  I think it shows a lack of decorum on your part, Joshua.  I think it blurs the lines."

Lines?  What is she talking about?  "What lines?"

"The lines," she repeats insistently.  "The lines between employer and employee."

I don't want lines.  I didn't know Donnatella wanted lines.  The only line I think we need is that whole 'don't kiss your assistant' line, and I've got that under control.  But I don't think it wise to mention that to Donna.  "I didn't know we had lines," I answer truthfully.

"Well, we should have."  Donna gives me her earnest face.  "You're my boss, Josh.  You're not my friend; you're not my brother; you're not -- you're my boss."

Well. I think I'll be replaying that lovely speech for years to come.  I'm not her friend?  "I'm not your friend?" I ask, with a pathetic note of pleading in my tone.  My heart hurts.

"I don't mean-- I just mean--"  She breaks off with an irritated look.  "Just don't call me that if you don't mean it, all right?"

If I don't mean it?  It's her name; how could I not mean it?

I think I'm grinning.  She is so illogical sometimes.  "You do realize that made no sense whatsoever, don't you?"  I watch her for a moment, but I can't help it.  I take my life into my hands and say, "Donnatella,"

Donnatella Moss glares at me for a long moment, then shrugs.  "You are impossible, Joshua, you know that?"

"Just one of my many charms," I answer with a grin.  I am unsure if she wants me to stay, but for some reason, I don't want to leave.

She crosses to her luggage and tosses the last of her incomprehensible feminine accoutrements into the top.  "Did you pack yet?"

"Nope," I say.  "Not one thing."

"Josh," Donna gives me an exasperated look.  "We're supposed to leave soon."

"Come help me."

"I am not helping you pack," she says, her hands planted on her hips.

"Come watch me, then."  My tone is somewhere between imploring and begging.  Probably closer to begging, to be honest.

There is the slightest hint of a smile lurking about her mouth.  I feel ridiculously relieved.  Donna narrows her eyes.  "Why would I want to watch you pack?"

"Because I asked you to," I answer.  "Come on."

Donna zips her suitcase and turns to me.  "Fine," she answers.  "But you're carrying your own damn luggage."

***

So the packing went quite well.  Donna seemed more like her old self, she was making fun of me.  Things were normal.

And then she convinced me to go talk to Joey Lucas.  Pestered, really.  I don't know why I listen to Donna sometimes.  She notoriously dates idiots and jerks, yet I'm following her dating advice?

I'm pretty sure if I sat down and gave it some thought, I'd have to admit that I was reacting more to the idea of Donna urging me to pursue someone else than any actual attraction to Joey Lucas.  Something to the effect of, 'well, fine, then I will go ask her out.'  But I am studiously avoiding giving the situation any thought whatsoever.

At any rate, it is horribly embarrassing when I knock on Joey Lucas's door:  Al Keifer!  Joey Lucas is sleeping with Al Keifer!

And I choose to blame it all on Donna.

Think about it:  Donnatella Moss breaks out this incredible bikini, implores me to rub lotion on her naked skin, shares cheesecake with me, and then encourages me to go after another woman.  How am I supposed to untangle her motives, never mind deal with these irrational feelings I'm experiencing?

Clearly, Donna doesn't return my sudden sexual attraction.  Just as clearly, Joey Lucas does have some level of interest in me.  Only problem with that is she's fucking Al Keifer.

Al Keifer!  That blustery, under-educated (Southern Methodist University? Please!), number-loving, flag-burning-amendment-supporting idiot!

She'd rather be with Al Keifer than me?  The revelation is devastating.  To my ego, of course -- my heart is not involved.  But still, this is a traumatic event, to be tossed over for Al Keifer!

And so, in inimitable Donna fashion, she makes fun of me upon my return.

"That tramp," Donna says, and I swear she is very close to laughing.  "That slut.  That hussy."

I glare at her.  "You have a deeply disturbed sense of humor."

She looks slightly repentant.  "Maybe you were misreading the signals," she suggests.

Donna's signals, maybe.  Joey Lucas's?  Not a chance.

"No," I answer stubbornly.  "No, I'm sure I wasn't."

I swear I wasn't.  Joey Lucas told me to call her next time I was in L.A.  She flirted.  She did, dammit.

Donna shrugs, "Then I repeat -- tramp, slut, hussy."

"You're mocking my pain, aren't you?"

"Maybe just a little," she answers with a small smile.

Suddenly, it's too much.  The emotional rollercoaster of the past ten hours is too raw and too fresh and I can't figure out what the hell I'm feeling.  There are thoughts of Donna tied up with thoughts of Joey and I'm confused as hell.

And Donna is making fun of me.  It hurts.

"I love you, Donna."  Did I just say that?  My mouth keeps right on talking without permission from the rest of me.  "But don't make fun of this, okay?  I'm not ready for fun to be made of this."

I'm also not ready to define what "this" is.

"Okay," Donna answers quietly.  She looks somewhat shell-shocked.  And I swear I see the glitter of tears in her eyes.

I reach out without thinking and take her hand.  We stare at each other for a long moment before I can make myself release her.

***

By the time we reach Air Force One, I am in full recluse mode.

I find retreating inside of myself and sulking really helps me figure stuff out.  Well, that's not precisely true, but I sulk anyway.  Then Donna usually harasses me into sharing, talks incessantly, and ends up helping me figure stuff out.  However, I'm assuming I can't really count on that outcome considering my current problem.

Not that it's a problem.  So I have inappropriate and unrequited feelings for my assistant.  Also, a woman whom I can actually pursue a relationship with flirted shamelessly with me, but left the party with Al Keifer.  This is not a problem.  More of a challenge.  Or something.

I have decided that I hate Los Angeles.  Nothing good happens here.

And so I sit by myself and stare blankly out of the window.  Can't really see much at 37,000 feet, other than the stars.  I've always liked stars.  Comforting in their permanence.

Comforting until you're old enough to learn that we're not seeing stars; we're seeing stars from hundreds of thousands of years ago.  The constellations are all illusions, a memory of something wonderful from long ago.

It occurs to me that I'm becoming maudlin.  I'm one step away from comparing Donnatella Moss to the stars.  I refuse to contemplate what that means.

So I glance around the darkened plane.  CJ, Toby, Sam, and Carol are all reclining, asleep.  Donna, however, is slumped in her seat wide awake.  She looks depressed.

I am, too.

It doesn't take much to convince myself to go over to here.  Misery loves company and all that.  I'm an easy sell when it comes to spending time with Donnatella.

She looks up as I approach and gives me a sad little smile.

"Still got a headache?"  I sink into the seat beside her.

"Actually, I think I may be a little sunburned."

I wonder which part of her body is sunburned.  I smile at her.  "Alabaster skin.  Who knew?"

Donna frowns back.  "I hate when you're sarcastic."

When am I not sarcastic?  Luckily, I manage to keep this thought from tumbling out at her.  I really hate when she's upset.  "I wasn't--"  I stop, because I was.  "Okay, sorry."

She stares at me for a long moment, then gives a slight nod.

We sit there, slightly awkward, until I make a decision.  I am a tactile person.  I can touch my assistant.  I always have touched Donna, and she's never minded before.  So I carefully place one arm around her shoulders, hoping I'm not irritating her sunburn.  "Go to sleep, Donnatella," I whisper.

She slides down a bit in her seat and rests her head against my chest.  I close my eyes; the familiar scent of her hair is almost overwhelming.  It reminds me suddenly of the cheesecake incident.  Or almost-incident.

When did life get so complicated?

I hold her as she falls asleep, wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do with my newly discovered attraction to Donna.

Maybe she's right, I think.  Maybe we do need those lines.  Maybe if we had lines, I would be able to banish the image of Donnatella sitting on a hotel bed with me and laughing, a tiny smudge of sauce at the corner of her mouth just begging for me to lick it off.  Maybe I would be able to sleep on Air Force One with Donna in my arms and not wonder what it would be like to hold her every night.

Maybe.

THE END

12.17.00