by David Shobin
President Meredith wanted to see his wife before the doctor began operating. But despite their urgency, the operation was already underway when the helicopter landed. The Secret Service immediately cordoned off a secure area of Shock Trauma. While the first lady was a patient there, further admissions to the unit would be halted. The State Police were instructed to transport eligible patients to Johns Hopkins or The Greater Baltimore Medical Center.
With nothing to do but wait, the long vigil began.
CHAPTER 17
Twenty minutes after leaving the White House, Jon was in Mireille’s apartment. She had a one-bedroom in a new luxury hi-rise in Georgetown. Although she was on the ground floor, her living room overlooked the river, and at night, the lights on the banks of the Potomac were a glistening brocade. While he inspected the view, Mireille hung their coats in the hallway closet.
“Great view,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year. It’s perfect for me. Can I get you some wine?”
He followed her into the kitchen, where she opened the wine. It had to breathe a while. She removed rounds of Brie and Camembert from the refrigerator, though these, too, needed to time to soften. While they waited, Mireille changed her clothes. She had worn a pants suit to work, but in a few minutes, she came out of the bedroom wearing a skirt and blouse. The skirt was short, and the long sleeve blouse, made from a glossy, lightweight fabric, was partially unbuttoned. Jon smiled.
“That’s a great looking outfit.”
“Thank you. I’ll get the glasses.”
A dining room table was by the living room window. Jon carried in the cheeses on a cheese board, and Mireille brought in the wine and two glasses. When she poured and swirled her glass, Jon did likewise. Then he tasted it.
“That’s fantastic wine,” he said, lifting the bottle and checking the label. “Clos de Vougeot. This is burgundy?”
“Yes, a Grand Cru, one of the great growths. It comes from a small vineyard run by monks. I fell in love with it when I was a teenager and my boyfriend introduced me to it. He moved on, but I always adored the wine.”
“Looks expensive.”
“About a hundred dollars a bottle. Too expensive for my budget, but most of my wines are gifts.”
The cheese was mild, the wine full and mellow. As they drank, they spoke about life and love. Jon felt unusually comfortable in her presence. He considered Mireille remarkably feminine. She was pert and outgoing, yet undeniably sexy. After the first glass of wine, he felt more relaxed than he had in days. A grin crept over his face.
“I think I’m there.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Un-pissed. It’s a good place to hide for a while.”
That made her laugh. “You are a wonderful man.” She walked closer and kissed him softly on the lips. “And maybe a little high. Here, have some more wine,” she said, filling his glass. “Let’s see how much more relaxed I can get you.”
Standing by the living room window, looking out over the river, they held hands and savored the vintage. Jon’s earlier cares had vanished. He had no idea who had called him about Tommie, and right now, he didn’t care. He was living in the moment, where all that mattered was that he was in the company of the most enchanting woman he’d known in years.
“Do you eat caviar?” she asked.
“Eat, yes. Like, that depends.”
“I have one I want you to try. Beluga, from the Russian Embassy.”
He followed her back into the kitchen, where she rummaged through one of the cabinets.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I was sure it was in here.”
Wanting to help, he opened an opposite cabinet and searched among the foodstuffs. Mireille let out a discouraged sigh and turned around. Not realizing what Jon was doing, her head banged into the edge of his cabinet door.
“Oh!” she cried, hands flying to her face.
“Christ, I’m sorry, Mireille,” he said, annoyed at his clumsiness. “Here, let me take a look.” He gently pried her hands apart and looked at the injury.
“Am I bleeding?”
“No, it’s just a little bump. Go sit down and I’ll get some ice.”
Back in the living room, Mireille sat on the table, near the cheese. The shoes slipped from her feet. Jon returned with several ice cubes wrapped in a dry dishtowel. He lifted her chin up and gently placed the towel on her wound. She grimaced at the chill but said nothing. As the ice went to work, she looked up at him for support.
“It doesn’t look bad. A little bruise, maybe, but that’s it.”
She nodded, feeling warm and safe in his hands. His very closeness stimulated her. Despite their difference in age, Jon Townsend was undeniably masculine and attractive. He possessed a quiet strength that belied his stated insecurities, a decisiveness that was at odds with his lopsided emotional baggage. Mireille felt drawn to him. Her hands slid from his wrists to his elbows before coming to rest on his hips.
As he looked down at her tranquil face, Jon knew there was something lovely about this woman, an internal beauty that went past her obvious physical charms. She was a caring individual whose circle of compassion extended beyond basic politeness. She’d been there for Tommie on several occasions, and today she had reached out to him with such a supportive, reassuring hand that his own troubles faded. Feeling her palms on his hips, he bent forward and kissed her hairline.
Loosened wisps of her fine hair tickled his cheeks, and he tenderly kissed her bump, then her nose. Her flushed cheeks were red from alcohol and anticipation. Jon put the ice down and kissed her chin before his lips found the soft warmth of her neck. Mireille sighed, and her head rolled to one side.
“That feels so good,” she said. “Do you do this with all your female patients?”
“Only the ones that I care for.”
“Too bad. The rest don’t know what they’re missing.”
The alcohol made her heart beat faster. She slowly lifted her head, raised her chin, and kissed him. His partially opened lips were warm and dry. She lightly pressed his upper lip between hers. It tasted salty, sweet with wine. Her hands came up and cupped his cheeks, keeping his face within reach. She wanted to take time with his mouth.
“Just stay as you are,” she whispered. “Keep your eyes closed, and let me do everything. Don’t kiss me back until I tell you.”
She nibbled gently on his lip, moving her mouth from side to side. The tip of her tongue traced warm lines along the border where lip met skin. When she finished there, she began on his lower lip, tasting, delicately teasing. Then her tongue slipped between his lips and slid across his teeth.
Jon stood there mute and unmoving. He would stay like that as long as she wanted. He’d always thought it better to give than to receive, but this was heaven, and he knew he’d follow wherever she led. His own breath was coming more quickly, and he was growing aroused.
Mireille’s lips worked up his face in slow, tender kisses. Her mouth touched his nose, his eyes, and his ears. She seemed intent on exploring every inch of his face with her lips, testing here, probing there, as if looking for something but not finding it. After several tantalizing minutes, her lips returned to his.
“You can kiss me now. Kiss me wet and deep.”
He responded immediately, forcing her lips open and pressing his mouth into hers. A throaty moan escaped her, and Mireille’s arms went around his back. In turn he held her tight, wanting to make his mouth a part of her very being. Soon they kissed one another hungrily, with the neediness of thirsty men suddenly given drink.
Their warmth and closeness increased desire. Mireille’s hands found his uniform and began working on the buttons of his shirt. The dress blouse was made of a thick fabric that was difficult to unbutton. Bit by bit she got it open, revealing a white tee shirt. She slowly pulled out his shirttails and pulled the blouse from his shoulders. Yet when she began lifting up his undershirt, he started on her own buttons. Mireille seized his wrists.
She got off the table and, standing before him, pulled his tee shirt over his head. Then she caressed his chest, touching and stroking gently, finally kissing him with her soft mouth, wispy kisses that felt like silk on his skin. She kissed his breastbone and his nipples and the fine hairs that dove down his stomach in a V. Then she walked behind him.
Pressing herself into his back, Mireille circled his torso with her arms and once again ran her palms over his chest. This time she touched him harder, kneading and pressing with baker’s hands. His abdomen was flat and firm and she squeezed as she rubbed, as if testing the resiliency of dough. Then her fingers fell to his belt.
Jon was incredibly turned on. He thought he was living a dream. The woman he cared for deeply was pressing her soft breasts into his bare back while her fingers undid his belt. She was doing everything for him, and much as her actions were unexpected, he found it oddly satisfying to be so completely doted upon. The role reversal was the stuff of other people’s fantasies, and although new to him, he didn’t object at all. And so, he stood there with schoolboy stillness, awaiting her intentions.
His belt undone, she unzipped his trousers. While she held him close, she kissed his neck and shoulders. He was now fully aroused. Perhaps sensing this, Mireille reached into his boxers and grasped him, squeezing once before removing her hand. She tugged at the clothing around his waist. Lowering his pants and shorts to his ankles, she made him step out of them. He was naked except for his socks.
“Turn around. Keep your eyes closed.”
She spoke, he listened. He felt somewhat ludicrous blindly standing there in the altogether, but he realized this was her intention. There was vulnerability in his nakedness, and being deprived of sight forced him to rely on his other senses. The physiologic imperative was exquisite. Everything was unusually sharp and keen. His sensual acuity magnified, her scent became pronounced, intoxicating in its depth and overtones. His skin felt unusually sensitive, and every inch, every hair, responded to the delicate raking of her satiny nails. When she began stroking his inner thighs, each cell in his body wanted to reach out to her.
He sensed her kneeling and she finally took hold of him, using two fingers, no more. He felt the momentary softness of her lips, and she kissed away the moisture at his tip. Unexpectedly, she rose and walked away. Suddenly alone, Jon felt abandoned.
Should he move or open his eyes? In his uncertainty, he did neither. But soon he sensed her presence once more, and she returned and again stood before him. Her hands grasped his shoulders and lightly pushed.
“Move back,” she said. “Lie on the table.”
The tabletop was cold against his bare skin, and he shivered. But then her warm hands were on his skin, caressing him with wispy movements that felt like warm feathers. She took hold of him once more and rolled a condom down his length. He heard the silky rustling of fabric and zipper as she removed her clothes. Then she surprised him by getting on the table with him, straddling his hips with her knees.
She lifted his hands over his head, pinning his wrists to the table. When she leaned over him, her breasts brushed his chest. He suddenly wanted to embrace her, but he resisted the temptation. Her bosom, meanwhile, rose to his face. Her nipples played about his nose, touched his mouth. Her breasts moved from side to side like a pendulum, tantalizing him, grazing his lips provocatively. Finally, he could resist no longer. His lips closed around one areola, and he took the stiffening nipple into his mouth.
Mireille sucked in her breath and groaned deeply. Without hesitation she took hold of him and placed him inside her. After all the sensory stimulation, Jon found their sudden joining so intense that he let out a long, satisfied sigh. She was all heat and softness, and her warmth drew him deeper.
But it was not nearly close enough. His arms finally went around her, and he seized her buttocks with such urgency that she was startled. It was as if he wanted to be part of her, to possess her. Mireille responded in kind, moving her hips against his with increasing frenzy.
The exotic ministrations were all too much for Jon. As he felt the warmth rising in his loins, he opened his lids just as her breasts fell away. He found himself looking into her eyes, hazel eyes so filled with tenderness that he wanted to curl up inside them. As they gazed at one another, Jon felt himself losing control. But he wouldn’t look away. When the climax overtook him, his entire body stiffened. As it did, Mireille’s hips began to shudder; yet she, too, wouldn’t abandon the shared look that spoke more than could ever be put into words.
Several minutes later, they lay in her bed together, side by side, face to face. In the background, the TV she’d turned on while changing was a distant whisper. Jon continued holding her in his arms.
“Are you still un-pissed?” she asked.
“I am. Unstressed. And very relaxed. And,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose, “happier than I’ve been in a long time.”
“Is that the wine talking?”
“No, it’s me. And I mean it.”
“What about the cheese?”
“The cheese?”
She touched his head. “You have cheese in your hair. The Brie.”
“Really? As your humble slave, I’m not responsible for that.”
“There’s some on your shoulder, too.” She leaned over and nibbled it off. “Hmmm.”
“Can I ask you something? Nobody ever did what you did to me tonight. It was so different. Fascinating, delightful. I loved it, and I hope we can do it again. But…do you do that a lot?”
She gave an amused sniff. “You mean, am I a dominatrix? Are you afraid of my whip, mon petit chou? Actually, I saw it in a movie for the first time last week. I’ve never done it before.”
Just then, a news bulletin came on the TV. From force of habit, Jon turned toward the screen.
“CNN has just learned that first lady Roxanne Meredith has been critically wounded at around seven p.m. Eastern Time, the apparent victim of a sniper. We are told that she is undergoing emergency treatment at Shock Trauma at the University of Maryland School of Medicine in Baltimore, where she was to have delivered an address. President Meredith has been flown from the White House to be at his wife’s side. There are no further details at this moment. We repeat….”
The covers fell away as Jon bolted upright in bed. Horrified, he simply stared at the screen, too stunned to utter a word.
CHAPTER 18
The first lady’s surgery was a neurosurgical marathon that lasted until one in the morning. From the confines of Shock Trauma, President Meredith conducted what little he could of the country’s business. The only calls he took were from the vice president and the chief of staff. In the streets outside the unit, it was a mob scene. By midnight, hundreds of journalists had assembled, essentially closing off traffic for blocks around. Interested passersby and ordinary citizens swelled their ranks. In addition to State and Baltimore City Police, the FBI and Secret Service coordinated crowd control. Every hour or so the White House Press Secretary released a noncommittal statement to the effect that Mrs. Meredith was still in surgery.
On TV, talking heads, political touts, and Washington cognoscenti were in their speculative glory. Although no one knew precisely what happened, everyone had an opinion. Inside of Shock Trauma, the mood was somber. The medical staff went about its job without disturbing the president. Finally, at one-fifteen, Dr. Douglas came out of surgery and approached the president.
The two men shook hands. Meredith was immediately impressed, and comforted, by the physician. The man had unmistakable presence. Everything about Douglas was huge: huge hands, huge body, and a deep James L. Jones baritone.
“Your wife is stable, Mr. President,” Douglas began. “Critical, but stable. We’re watching her closely.”
“Thank God. The surgery’s over?”
“For now,” Douglas said with a nod. “The next forty-eight hours will be crucial. We’ve stopped the bleeding
, and fortunately, there’s not as much injury to the brain substance as I feared. But now, her biggest enemies are swelling and pressure. We’ll do everything we can to keep those under control.”
“I don’t suppose she’s awake, is she?”
Douglas shook his head. “No, she’s in a coma. She’s on a ventilator and probably will be for several days.”
“Rocky was always a fighter, Doctor. Does she have a fighter’s chance?”
“I’ll level with you, Mr. President. If we’re talking about living or dying, right now I’d say her odds are fifty-fifty.”
“And if we’re talking about…?”
“Going back to the way you’ve always known her? This is a very serious injury, Sir. And if she survives, she’ll face a long rehabilitation. As of now, every minute and hour that passes is in her favor.”
Meredith’s gaze fell to the floor. “I see,” he said glumly, not really seeing at all.
“You might want to get some rest, Mr. President. There’s not much you can do right now.”
“But there is, Doctor. I can pray.”
They gave him five minutes to spend with her. Clad in a disposable jumpsuit and a bouffant cap, Bob Meredith looked anything but presidential. Inside the recovery area, a similarly clad Secret Service agent stood against the wall. Two scrub-suited nurses hovered beside the ICU-style bed. When the president saw his wife, he wanted to weep.
She looked so helpless lying there. Her head was swathed in thick bandages that wrapped around her skull, both cheeks, and her neck. Her eyelids, though taped shut to prevent her eyes from drying, were swollen and puffy. A clear plastic breathing tube protruded from her mouth; and every few seconds, the bellows of a respirator contracted with a rhythmic hiss. Meredith struggled to fight back the tears.