She approached the table where a middle-aged man, fiftyish or so, lay supine, his face covered except for the lips, chin, and throat, which were prepped for surgery. He looked something other than human with his skin stained yellow brown from the Betadine and his chin and throat marked up with the lines Duncan had drawn to guide his surgery.

Gin had met him last week when she'd done his pre-op history and physical, Senator Harold Vincent. Another member of the recently revived joint committee.

Like Congressman Allard.

She was struck by the coincidence, but only for a moment. Hell, half of Washington's officials or their wives had been Duncan's patients at one time or another since he'd started in plastic surgery, and the other half probably were on the waiting list. Not surprising, really.

His technical skills were second to none and he saw to it that people who considered themselves V.I.Ps were treated accordingly, they got absolute discretion, and, thanks to his brother, he had exclusive use of an innovative technique that halved the healing time greatly reduced.

"Ready to begin, Gin? " Duncan said. "The senator is getting impatient.

He's got a bunch of lobbyists camped out in his office with pockets full of cash. We don't want to keep them waiting, do we? " Joanna tittered behind her mask.

Duncan made his first incision under the chin, carefully following the natural lines of cleavage, then began the delicate task of dissecting away and trimming off portions of the stretched muscle, the platysma, that gave the senator's neck a sagging, aged look. Senatot Vincent had a particularly large amount of excess tissue, giving him a Tom-turkey wattle that fluttered when he spoke and flapped back and forth when he walked.