Her husband did not answer. She turned the bright brass handle and opened the door.

There was a narrow anteroom before the bathroom.

In an alcove to the right was a stand-alone cherry wood wardrobe where the president's valet left his clothes for the day. In an alcove to the left was a matching cherry wood dressing table with a large, brightly lit wall mirror above it. The president was dressed in a royal blue bathrobe.

He was standing there, breathing heavily, a look of rage in his narrow blue eyes. His fists were white knuckle tight at his sides.

"Michael, are you all right?"

He glared at her. She had never seen him look so angry and-disoriented was the word that came to mind.

It frightened her deeply.

"Michael, what is it?"

He looked back at the mirror. His eyes softened and his hands relaxed.

His breathing came more easily. Then he slowly lowered himself into a walnut side chair in front of the dressing table.

"It's nothing," he said.

"I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"A moment ago, you looked like you wanted to take a bite out of something," Megan told him.

He shook his head.

"That was just leftover energy from my exercises," he said.

"Your exercises? I thought you were at a meeting before."

"I was just doing isometrics," he told her.

"Senator Samuels does them for ten minutes every morning and evening. He says they're a great tension releaser when you can't get to the gym."

Megan did not believe him. Her husband perspired easily when he exercised. His forehead and upper lip were dry. Something else was happening here. He had seemed increasingly distant the past few days, and it was starting to scare her.

She stepped forward, coming to his side, and touched his face.

"Something's bothering you, hon," she said.

"Talk to me."

The president looked at her.

"It's nothing," he said.

"These past couple of days have been rough, that's all."

"You mean the calls at night-" "That, plus everything else that's going on," the president said.

"Is it worse than usual?"

"In some ways," he said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now," he said, forcing a little smile. His deep voice had regained some of its vigor and confidence, and his eyes had a little sparkle now. The president took her hands in his and rose. He stood just over six-foot-four. He looked down at her.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you," Megan said.

"But you've still got me worried."

"Don't be," he said. He looked to his right. There was a shelf with a gold clock that had belonged to Thomas Jefferson.

"It's late," the president said.

"I'd better get ready."

"I'll wait for you," she told him.

"And you'd better do something about your eyes."