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“Barnard left some surveillance gear behind. You might pick it up while you’re down there.”

“She left it behind?”

“Just get it back,” Maxine said wearily. “Everything’s on the map in your kit.”

My kit was burning a hole in a locker at the Miami airport. I turned off the lights and headed into the woods. Whatever Barnard
had left in the jungle, it was more than a camera.

I
HAD STRIPPED
and was about to step into the shower when the phone rang. “Hello, Leslie.” Marvel sounded agitated, as if he had been calling
for hours. “I’d like to see you.”

Shit!
“When would be good, sir?”

“Now. A car’s on its way.” He hung up.

Sixty seconds wet, another sixty yanking on clothes. No time for underwear. I painted the face, blew on a little scent. Just
as I hit the revolving doors, a Lexus pulled up to the hotel. Chauffeur nodded, I got in. No president in the backseat. No
surprise: he’d be the soul of discretion until his reelection. The car sailed past the White House. “Where are we going?”
I asked.

“Out of town.” He joined the Beltway herd. “Sit back and relax.”

City lights eventually faded, as did traffic. Without a word, we headed deep into Virginia. I had been here on the Harley
just the other day, trying to forget about Barnard; now I was rushing into her lover’s embrace. I hoped Bobby hadn’t invited
me out here to take a bubble bath. Maybe he wanted to ask a few more questions about the only woman who had ever dumped him.
Ah, Barnard. Why had she lured him into that bathtub? And who had the original video? Were it with a friend, Bobby would probably
have seen it by now. Foe? He’d have no idea.

Eventually the Lexus turned onto an unmarked dirt road. Pine branches swished at the doors as darkness engulfed us. Many bumps,
one last swerve before a guard with walkie-talkie and submachine gun blocked our path. He checked the driver’s ID, asked me
to step out for a modest pat-down. That done, he unchained the gate. Bobby’s discretion now verged on the paranoid: I liked
that.

The president, plus cigar, waited on the porch of a spacious old house. Since our chat in his limousine, he had changed into
khakis and sport shirt. I stood next to him a moment inhaling smoke and cologne, running my eyes only once over the hair on
his chest. Now that Marvel had put aside the presidential act and reverted to his natural state, stag in heat, he seemed much
more dangerous than he had a few hours ago. “Thanks for coming.” He peered at my face in the dim light. “Can I get you something?”

Gin and a chastity belt. While he was inside, I looked around the yard for Secret Service agents. Exceptionally well hidden,
wherever they were. Maybe in the trees. Over the past three years Marvel had probably asked them to get lost so many times
that invisibility was a job requirement now. As the president returned to the porch, he motioned to a swing in the corner.
“You were out tonight,” he said, serving me.

Zoo. “Rehearsal. I have a concert in New York this weekend.”

Bobby smiled insipidly. “Ah. Will you be seeing Polly?”

“You never know.”

Chains creaked as the swing moved in tandem with our breathing. “Where did you meet her?” he asked.

“On a beach in France. She was with a Hungarian count.” I had been buffing this story for the last hour. “I next met her in
Paris. She was with an Italian from one of the sports car families. Our paths have crossed a lot since then. She was always
with a different man.” I swallowed gin. “If it’s any consolation, you’re her first American. Where did
you
meet her?”

“At a fund-raiser. She was with Fausto Kiss. A different sort of prince.” Bobby chuckled coldly. “What did she tell you about
me?”

“Nothing.”

“Then how did you know my nickname?”

“Polly said I’d be sitting behind a hunk of ice cream. I had no idea she meant you.”

Bobby’s irritation increased. “Did she say why she wasn’t going to be there?”

“She had a date with a football player.” I tried to look embarrassed. “Unlike you, he left his wife at home.”

“That was the problem?
Paula?
”

“You wouldn’t understand. It’s a woman thing.”

“But our going to that play was official business!”

Unless he was the best actor in the universe, Bobby had no idea that Barnard was dead. Why was he so upset now? Did he have
genuine feelings for her? Or was the concept of anyone leaving him insupportable? “Official for you, maybe.”

“Shit.” He got himself another beer. I looked into the trees, around the lawn: no witnesses but the stars. Bobby’s bodyguards
had no idea how easily I could assassinate their charge and slip away into the night. Maybe they did know and were keeping
their fingers crossed. The chains wheezed as Bobby returned to the swing. “You don’t live in America, do you?”

“I grew up in Berlin. It’s home to me.”

“Will you be going back soon?”

“After a few more concerts.”

He laid a warm, thick hand on my thigh. “That’s not much time.”

So much for genuine feelings. I put my drink on the floor and looked Bobby full in the face. His mouth was inches from mine
and closing in fast when I said, “May I use the bathroom?”

It had to be upstairs because of the skylight. Behind the first door I found the marble tub and potted plants I had seen in
Barnard’s video. Camera not too cleverly stashed atop the linen cabinet, aimed at the bathtub: Barnard would have noticed
it within seconds. Maxine was correct: Barnard had made that video on purpose. If I went to the toilet, I’d pass right in
front of the lens: no way Frost would go on record here. Not yet. First I wanted to know who’d be watching. I went across
the hall and saw another camera aimed at the gigantic bed.

Bladder unrelieved, I returned to the porch. Bobby was staring at an airplane as the head on his beer opalesced in the moonlight.
He had slid another five inches toward my side of the swing. I detoured to the railing, inhaled the damp breeze. “Whose house
is this?” I asked the trees.

“A close friend gave me the keys on Inauguration Day. Every president needs a special hideaway.” Bobby slipped behind me.
I caught my breath as he kissed the nape of my neck. After a moment he drew my hips backward, against his pelvis. Maybe he
had stashed a piece of the Manhattan aqueduct in there.

I turned around. “What about Polly?”

Now his lips started in on my collarbone. “She’s history.”

“Not to me.”

Bobby smiled indulgently, as if I were kidding. “I’ve never made love to a woman who didn’t want me.” He resumed at my throat.
“On the other hand, I never met one who didn’t.”

I was beginning to understand how he had convinced the voters to put him in the White House. My stomach fluttered as he nibbled
with absolute concentration beneath my sternum. Resistance impossible: this man’s gift was persuasion. With crowds, on the
tube, he was reliable as a diesel; one-on-one, he was overwhelming. As his hand slid beneath my dress, wilted a moment as
it encountered no underwear, enlightenment struck. Forget about his mark on history: Bobby Marvel lived to fuck. Being president
was just the best means to that end. He truly believed he was conferring some sort of Purple Heart on the women he seduced.
What higher honor than to be taken by
the president?
His sincerity was stupidly endearing. But I had known too many finer men.

“You’re very nice,” I sighed, retreating. “However, not my type.”

Momentary disbelief, then that dazzling smile. “No one’s made me wait in twenty years.” Bobby sniffed his hand languorously,
ecstatically, as if inhaling purest cocaine. “Believe me, you’re
my
type.” He jerked my hand to the ridge in his pants.

“I didn’t come here for this,” I snorted.

“No? What did you come for?”

“Professional courtesy.”

Two fingers dug between my legs. They felt as thick as his penis. “Next time you don’t wear panties,” Bobby whispered, “you’d
better mean it.” One quick, rough kiss and he sprang me loose. The driver came to the porch. I got back to Washington after
four in the morning. Duncan was not in his room. I couldn’t sleep: bodies were apolitical, and mine had wanted Marvel’s.

Several hours later I returned Fausto’s Corvette to his driveway. Judging by the paucity of cars outside his house, not many
people had felt up to breakfast this morning. But that lurid orange sun lurking above the smog would drive any sane human
into the hills. Only the truly depraved, like Justine and I, would still want to eat. Her silver Mercedes occupied the space
closest to the front door: she had arrived first. Maybe she had slept over.

Fausto greeted me in flowing white pajamas embroidered with watermelons. Weak flesh puffed around his eyes. His complexion
matched the smog. No smile: maybe I should have phoned beforehand. “Darling.” He squeezed my fingers. “Come in.”

I signed the guest book. A dozen visitors looked up as we entered the dining room. I got fewer, but longer, stares than I
had yesterday. Justine actually stopped chewing for a few moments to check out my dress. She looked delicious, a little wild,
as if she had been up all night. When she actually smiled at me, I knew with whom.

Fausto settled into his chair in the corner. “I had no idea you were such an early riser.”

“Jet lag.” I told the butler to bring just coffee and bread. “Sorry we missed you after the rehearsal. Duncan is not into
coed bathing.”

“I forgive him. He’s a good pianist. You’ve been playing together a long time?”

“From the beginning.” I stuck a toe in the water. “I try to look out for him.”

“Ah, you’re worried about Justine? Join the club.” Fausto lit a cigarette. “No secrets in this town, my dear. And the two
of them are not exactly discreet.”

Last I had seen Duncan, he was barreling off to some dowager’s dinner party. That had probably ended around midnight: seven
long hours ago. “Okay, let me have it.”

“The evening started mildly enough. Apparently your accompanist loves to tango. He burned up the floor at the Argentine embassy.”

“His mother made him take dancing lessons for ten years.” I sighed. “Then what.”

“I understand he carried Justine to her car. They cooled off a bit in the fountain in front of the Capitol Building. They
hit a disco, then committed a few carnal sins on the steps of the National Cathedral.” Fausto waved at Vicky Chickering, who
had just entered with a glum attorney general. “Thereafter Duncan may have reconsidered his antipathy to coed bathing. Justine
rolled in an hour ago with stars in her eyes. Extraordinary.”

Damn! “What does she get out of this?”

“A priceless opportunity to make Bobby jealous. Not to mention stud service.” Fausto patted my hand. “There, there. Duncan’s
a grown boy.”

Across the room, the servicee broke into girlish laughter. It was the same frequency as that laugh I had heard over the Watergate
fountain the other night. Was I denying the simple, obvious possibility that this woman had fallen in love with Duncan? I
was a possessive woman, even when I didn’t own the gentleman in question. “I hope he’s got enough energy to rehearse this
afternoon.”

“If he’s been screwing Justine, he won’t need to sleep for a week.” Fausto waved to Aurilla Perle as she cruised to the coffee
urn. “The first week, anyway. Incidentally, my friend Bendix is most taken with you. Are you seriously involved with anyone,
darling?”

I daubed my lips with a napkin, wondering why this did not feel like an incidental change of subject. “I’m a serious girl.”

Fausto extended a hand as Senator Perle and her slave Wallace approached. “Good morning, ladies. You’re looking lovely today,
Aurilla.”

Lovely was stretching it, but the VP-in-waiting had spent the night with a grenade named Gretchen. I now understood why no
one was invited to her home. “Thank you for listening to my daughter,” Aurilla said to me. “You must come back again. She
has two new pieces prepared.”

A pall asphyxiated the table. I finally caved. “How’s four this afternoon?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Wallace wrote it down then caught up with her idol across the room. Deep in thought, Fausto watched Aurilla snare a senator.
“How is the girl? Last time we met she tried to kick me.”

“She’s still kicking.”

“What a waste of your time. No reason for it.” Fausto looked at me slyly. “What does Aurilla think you can do for her?”

“I was hoping you might answer that.” No way, of course. “Maybe she’s more of a stage mother than you think.”

“Darling, Aurilla hasn’t given that girl ten minutes since the day she was born.” He lit a cigarette. “The little monster
has become a major political liability. If Aurilla had half a brain, she’d get her out of the country.”

Across the room, Justine broke into that irritating, silvery laughter once too often. I stood to leave. “I’m not about to
adopt her. Thanks for breakfast.”

Fausto bobbed to his feet. En route to the door, he steered me within slapping distance of Duncan’s inamorata. “How is the
water in that fountain, Justine? Warm or cold? I’ve always wondered.”

“Warm,” she replied.

“How unlike the president to give you the night off,” he continued. “And how unlike you to take it. However did Bobby pass
the time without you?”

“He watched football.” Justine pointedly resumed her conversation with the speechwriter at her side.

“Poor thing,” Fausto muttered as we headed for the door. “Whatever she’s swallowed, it’s clouded her judgment. I hope she
doesn’t drag your pianist to too many coke parties.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Afraid I am. Justine’s been high on one substance or another for the past thirty years. I was there when she discovered LSD.”

And what had Fausto been discovering? The twenty-third Psalm? “You go back a long way.”

“We met at one of my recitals in London.”

“She’s a music lover?” I couldn’t picture Justine in the same room with the Waldstein sonata.