Late that night, the lights were still on in a three-story redbrick row house on First Street. In the bedroom, Maddie smiled at Tug and said, “Well, how did I do?”
His hands curved around her waist as he drew her to him. “You did real well. I don’t think a single one of those uppity women had an inkling.” He laughed as he tightened his hold on her. “I promised you, didn’t I, that I’d show you Washington society? And you saw it tonight.”
“You sure do keep your bets, Tug.”
“And now it’s time for you to show a little gratefulness. Sashay out of that new dress, gal. I like you better without a corset on.”
She turned her back to him. “Then unbutton me, Tug. Or you want me to wake that Irish maid you hired?”
“We’ll probably wake the maid, anyway,” he said. “I never knew an old man could get so excited over a woman.”
“You might have a few years on you,” she admitted, shimmying out of the dress the senator had bought for her. “But you’ve got the staying power of a rutting buck I once watched at mating season in the canyon.”
She stood poised against the gossamer curtains of the bed and waited for Tug to remove the last vestige of her clothing—the silk chemise that barely covered her well-formed body. As he cupped one breast in his large, rough hand, she whispered, “What’ll it be this time, Tug?”
He reached under the bed pillow and took out the long, thin rope that he had hidden early that evening. “Spread-eagle me to the bed, Maddie, the Indian way. I want to be love-tortured tonight.”
Maddie giggled as she complied. From the drawer in the nightstand, she pulled out the feathered Indian headband. After setting it on her red curls, she crept up to the side of the bed, slid over the sheet, inch by inch, until she reached him, and began the slow, sensual torture with her mouth.
A half hour later, the maid in the attic bumped her head as a bloodcurdling sound caused her to sit up straight. The two in the bedroom below her were evidently at it again.
Young Meara McClellan pulled the pillow over her head and began to recite a psalm. Tomorrow, she would give notice and start looking for another job. She couldn’t take this another night.
At the same time of the evening, in the Meadors’s white clapboard house, the air stirred by the ceiling fan brought little relief to Rad. In the darkness, he could see Allison’s outline and hear her steady breathing. If it had not been for her headache, he would have found comfort long ago in her sweet body. Instead, he got up, drenched his face with cool water, and then went back to bed, unassuaged.
CHAPTER
6
The rains had ceased. The slight motion of Benedict’s pristine white yacht, Oneida, anchored in the East River, lulled its passengers with a gentle, soothing roll, unlike the bombarding fury of the earlier storm.
All of the doctors were now assembled: the plastic surgeons, the anesthesiologist, the dentist, and the nurses. Only the patient was missing.
That afternoon, for the first time, Charles had met with the other members of the operating-room team. The sterilizers, the auxiliary generator, and the medical equipment, dressings, and drugs had all been checked over. The entire ship had been disinfected from top to bottom, and one of the staterooms converted into an operating theater.
As Charles sat in his cabin and listened to the night sounds across the water, he rehearsed every step of the operation. The trial run that afternoon had gone quite smoothly. But he knew that the real test would come the next morning when the president was actually under the scalpel. Cleveland was a huge man—he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. That in itself was a surgical danger.
Charles recalled his internship under the eminent Harley Street surgeon, Gaylord Runyard. He remembered the man’s words, spoken so long ago. “Mr. Forsyte, your operation was a success.” His pride was struck down in an instant by the indicting words that followed. “Unfortunately, your patient died.”
That had been a severe blow to his ego, for nothing could be more heartrending to a young surgeon than to lose his first patient. Unless it was his present one—the president of the United States.
Charles glanced at his watch and then got up to wash his face and hands. The president should be coming aboard at any moment with his personal physician, Dr. Bryant, who was traveling with him. Keeping a man who loved food, especially Polish sausages, as much as Cleveland did on a strict diet was not an easy job. But the president had been made to realize the harm of overeating prior to an operation.
Wiping his hands on a towel, Charles heard the creak of the yacht and footsteps on the deck. And a few minutes later, someone knocked at his door.
When he opened it, Bennett Jamison said, “Our patient has just come aboard with Lamont, the secretary of war. He’s asking for you. Are you ready?”
“Yes, as soon as I get my coat and stethoscope.”
The two walked to the stateroom, where the president sat in an oversized chair that was suitable for his oversized figure. He was surrounded by the other doctors in their white coats, and Charles, seeing the scene, was reminded of the ancient medical painting of patient and consulting physicians that hung in his private office.
“Good evening, Dr. Forsyte.”
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
Charles had already done his homework, going far beyond the president’s case history. He knew he was
