“Enough, Bob.” The president’s voice brooked no disagreement. The conversation was over. He straightened his jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some governing to do.” As the president started to walk, the whole group of men moved en masse down the hallway. Soon they were gone.
Elizabeth remained frozen in the alcove, plastered against the wall. She probably should have bolted for the exit, but her muscles felt loose and unattached as though she might fall to pieces if she tried to move.
Finally, Lydia grabbed her arm, pulled her through the ladies’ room door, and pushed her up toward the sinks. “OMG! You just got dissed by the president!” she laughed.
Maria viewed Elizabeth with a kind of awe. “Presidential dissing. Executive dissing. Wow.”
Elizabeth fell onto the padded bench and drew her knees up to her chest despite the tightness of her dress. “Can’t we just forget it—?”
Eyes glued to her smartphone screen, Lydia interrupted. “Nah. It’s too good. I already texted Amy about this. She’ll scream.”
“Please don’t!” Elizabeth pleaded.
Lydia regarded her sardonically. “Yeah, uh, that’s not going to happen.”
Shit.
“She’s not that pretty.” Maria imitated the president’s precise tones perfectly.
Lydia giggled. “I’ve got to send it to Jordan, too!”
Maria nodded vigorously. “Ooh, ooh! And Olga! It’ll crack her up.”
First the closet, now her father, and then this… Was it possible to induce a heart attack through accumulated mortification? Her chest ached, and she couldn’t catch her breath. “What did I do to deserve that?” she wondered aloud.
Frantically texting away, Lydia snorted. “Some people get presidential pardons. You get presidential shade.” Her phone buzzed. “Ryan thinks you should get a picture with him. Then we could add speech bubbles and…”
Great. The group of people in the know included Ryan, whoever he was. “Maybe we should go back to the East Room. Dinner will be ready soon,” Elizabeth said.
Perhaps she should slip discreetly out the back door, but that seemed cowardly like she was allowing his rudeness to chase her away. Instead, I should stay and show the president I’m not vapid and unattractive. Even if he doesn’t know I overheard him. As revenges went, it was rather feeble, but it was all she had.
“Ooh! I wonder who I’m sitting with!” Maria exclaimed in a too-loud voice. “I bet they’ll think it’s hilarious.”
“By all means, tell everyone you can find,” Elizabeth remarked dryly.
Lydia gave her an ironic salute. “I’ll do my best.”
As they opened the bathroom door, Elizabeth scanned the corridor, but it was empty. “You don’t really mind if we tell everyone, do you?” Lydia asked breathlessly as they hurried toward the East Room.
Elizabeth’s feelings were moot at this point, so she bit back an angry retort. Being a good sport would give her family less fodder for future teasing. “Nah. It’s kind of funny,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth. “It’s not like he knows me.”
“Yeah,” Maria agreed absently as she thumbed another message into her phone. “I mean, you’re not as pretty as I am, but you wouldn’t make someone lose their lunch or anything.”
“I feel better already,” Elizabeth mumbled.
“I’m glad you’re being so mature about this,” Lydia said in all seriousness as they reached the entrance to the East Room. “’Cause I already posted it on Twitter, and it’s been retweeted 168 times already.”
“Twitter—!” Elizabeth sputtered. But Lydia and Maria had already disappeared into the crowd, no doubt in search of a greater audience for the tale of Elizabeth’s humiliation.
Elizabeth ambled around the edges of the room, avoiding eye contact and seeking a dark corner. It’s not like I ever thought of myself as a great beauty, so that part shouldn’t rankle. He doesn’t know the first thing about my intelligence or conversational abilities. He’s just making assumptions. Most people would get tongue-tied when caught in a White House broom closet. Arrogant jerk.
Of course, most people wouldn’t get caught in a White House broom closet. Maybe that did say something about her….
No. It would be stupid to get upset.
Just stupid.
Chapter Four
Darcy hurried back toward the East Room, refusing to slow his stride for Hilliard’s shorter legs. It was petty, but Darcy didn’t care. So what if polls found him aloof? The way to fix that was creating policies and drafting legislation that helped the American people—not dancing. The press secretary’s prodding had pushed Darcy to say something indiscreet and, worse—something he didn’t mean. As someone who prided himself on his honesty—a quality the voters also appreciated—he was annoyed at Hilliard and even more angry with himself.
If Hilliard had just shut up about the dancing! That Bennet woman was a hot button for some reason. The memory of luscious dark hair and moss-green eyes caused his breathing to grow ragged. I wonder where she is? I could find her and invite her to sit at my table…
Perhaps this was the result of reading too many briefing books in too short a time: you began to hallucinate an instant connection with a stranger. Maybe he and Elizabeth enjoyed some…chemistry, but it was nothing more and would be easily dismissed.
She hadn’t managed to say anything intelligent to him, not even “nice to meet you.” Dancing with her would require him to attempt conversation. It would also foster rumors. Having his name associated with an inarticulate, pampered nouveau-riche princess whose father hawked excessively processed foodstuffs? No, thank you. Not the family background he sought in a romantic partner.
Of course, he wasn’t seeking a romantic partner. The presidency occupied all his time and energy. Damn Hilliard for observing his reaction to Elizabeth! Hopefully everyone else remained oblivious.
Although who wouldn’t have noticed her in that dress? Understated and elegant—so flattering to her slim figure. Completely unlike the gowns worn by her mother and sisters. Despite her superior taste in dresses, she was probably one of those empty-headed daughters of wealth who lived in tasteless McMansions until they met the right rich guy to father their precious babies. Shallow, uninformed, and self-centered.
Darcy could practically write the script for what women like that would say to him. She would flatter him excessively while discreetly touting her own virtues and accomplishments. He shuddered, recalling the woman at a recent reception who couldn’t stop bragging about which sorority she had pledged.
Certainly, he’d dodged a bullet with Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy braced himself for the onslaught of noise as he crossed the threshold into the East Room. It was a magnificent room, beautifully decorated to convey a sense of history and tradition, but after more than a year in office, Darcy still felt like a visitor—as he did in most of the White House. Technically it was his home, but many parts were used for ceremonial or official functions and didn’t feel like “home” at all. Even the Residence was more like a well-decorated hotel than his actual domicile.
The mingled sounds of approximately 120 voices blasted him. The band at the other end of the room couldn’t compete with the hubbub. One hundred and twenty voices, and every single one of them wanted to talk to Darcy. Each one thought they knew him. Each one had some idea or grievance they wanted to share. If he contemplated it too long, the sheer scale would overwhelm him.
His eyes were caught by an image on the large-screen television opposite the entrance. Elizabeth Bennet stared down at him. The picture appeared to show a refugee encampment, probably in Africa. Elizabeth’s thick dark hair was tied up in a ponytail, but loose strands fell around her face and stuck to her cheeks with sweat. She sat on the ground feeding a small girl about two or three years old from a bowl in her lap.
Darcy allowed himself a second to admire the trim physique displayed by her cargo shorts and Red Cross t-shirt. Then he contemplated the revelation that
she was a Red Cross staff member. The dirt smudged on her face…the sweat…the rip on her shorts. This was someone who worked hard in difficult circumstances. And looked hot doing it.
Maybe she wasn’t as much of a spoiled princess as he had assumed. The Red Cross only hired the best. She had to be pretty damn good, particularly to be working for them at her age—which looked to be her late twenties. She was seemingly smart and compassionate as well as beautiful. And he had massively misjudged her.
He tried to ignore the tightening in his chest. It didn’t matter; she would never know what he had said about her. Still, he couldn’t help staring at the image until it faded from the screen and was replaced by one of a middle-aged man carrying a box of supplies. Only then did he notice many pairs of curious eyes watching him. Thirteen months into his first term and he still wasn’t used to the scrutiny.
I need to stop this. I’m busy leading the free world. I don’t have time to worry over maligning a woman who doesn’t even know about it.
Pivoting, he strode toward the head table. Two Secret Service agents in front of him cleared a path—one perk of the office. Darcy considered his political priorities. So far he hadn’t managed to buttonhole anyone he needed to talk with. That was unacceptable. His administration had accomplished a lot in his first year, but he needed to keep pressing forward. So much more needed to be done.
As he walked, Darcy’s eyes skimmed over the dance floor where Jane Bennet was partnered by Bing, doing his usual goofy flirty thing. She was smiling and eating it up. Bing always knew the right thing to say to a woman. He even managed to remain friends with all his exes.
That kind of charm was missing from Darcy’s DNA. He could cajole governors into supporting his environmental initiatives and persuade independent voters to cast ballots for him, but he evidently didn’t have the temperament for flirtation—or the qualities necessary for a successful relationship. He’d only had a few serious girlfriends, and one had been all too happy to bad-mouth him to the press during the election.
He’d resigned himself to singlehood while in the White House. Dating in office could lead to all kinds of rumors and conflicts of interest. Plus, he simply didn’t have time to meet eligible young women. Darcy grimaced. It hardly mattered if he’d misjudged Elizabeth Bennet; she could never have been more than a spin around the dance floor anyway.
The self-enforced celibacy had led to rumors he was gay. Hilliard was concerned the rumors were gaining more traction and that they would hurt his favorability ratings among Republican voters, who, sick of his predecessor’s failures, had supported him in big numbers. Hilliard wanted to showcase Darcy’s heterosexuality whenever possible—another reason to be seen with female dance partners. Darcy personally didn’t care what people believed about his sex life, but it was galling when stupid rumors interfered with the good work of his presidency.
On the other hand, dancing with a single woman could provoke crazy rumors; he had danced with a single congresswoman at a Christmas party, and within hours the Internet buzzed with stories about a secret engagement. Darcy sensed the beginnings of a headache. There was only one woman he’d known long enough that their association wouldn’t raise eyebrows.
But the prospect was not enticing.
“Will!” a female voice trilled from behind him. Perfect timing. Darcy managed not to wince. Most of his staff called him Mr. President in public, but Caroline Bingley insisted on using his first name to demonstrate how closely their families were connected.
Darcy slowed but didn’t turn, allowing Bing’s sister to reach him. She teetered in her high heels, always seemingly on the verge of wiping out completely. “Hello, Caroline,” he said with something resembling a smile. Uninvited, she tucked her arm into his and pressed herself against his side. He could feel his muscles tense. Caroline had set her sights on becoming first lady, and her persistence had become an irritant.
Over the years, he had dropped many subtle and unsubtle hints that he viewed her solely as a friend, but she clung to the delusion that he might change his mind. Unfortunately, as a member of the White House communications staff, she was involved in Darcy’s life on a daily basis. She was damn good at her job and extremely loyal, but that didn’t compensate for the ground-down teeth and elevated blood pressure he experienced in her presence.
However, at that moment Darcy didn’t see any of the legislators he needed to speak with, so he might as well get one unpleasant chore out of the way. Tall and fashionably skinny—with her brother’s blonde good looks—Caroline was attractive enough. But her dress (no doubt from the latest Milan designer) was boldly colored and sequined, far too ostentatious for Darcy’s taste.
He rewarded her expectant look with what he knew she wanted. “You look exquisite.”
“Thank you,” she purred.
“Would you dance with me?” Darcy asked, trying not to sound like he was requesting surgery without anesthesia.
The big smile on Caroline’s face attested to his success. “I would love to, darling!”
She slid a perfectly manicured hand into his, obviously expecting him to escort her to the dance floor at that exact moment. Very well.
Just as they stepped onto the dance floor, the band struck up a slow song. Pressing his lips together, Darcy resisted the urge to curse. He had anticipated keeping her at arm’s length, but now he would need to perform what his friends in high school laughingly called “the bear hug,” holding her close while rotating in minute circles.
She smiled like a wolf that had just caught its prey, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him so close that he was forced to put his hands on her waist. Yeesh, there was nothing to it; she was so skinny. Hopefully Caroline would one day find a man who appreciated that build. Darcy much preferred a woman with some curves, fine green eyes, and a headful of dark, lustrous hair…
He dragged his attention back to Caroline with an effort of will. She likely expected some conversation. Darcy cleared his throat. “The band is quite good.” There. Inane, but sufficient.
Fortunately, Caroline was quite eager to bear the burden of future conversation. “Oh yes! You should have heard the band at my mother’s birthday party. Was it her fiftieth or fifty-fifth? Well, we had them set up in a tent in the backyard…”
Why did slow songs always last approximately five times longer than fast ones?
When a new song began, Darcy mumbled something to Caroline about needing to find Bing. She was prepared with a request that he fetch her a beverage, one of her favorite ploys to prolong their time together. But Darcy’s patience was exhausted. Peering over her shoulder, he announced, “There’s Senator Ostrevsky! Bing and I need to talk to him.” Without awaiting a response, Darcy hurried away in search of Bing.
Fortunately, Bing was nearby. Unfortunately, he was chatting with both Jane and Elizabeth Bennet. Darcy’s words to Hilliard echoed mockingly in his head. They were even less true now. Learning about her Red Cross job had rendered her much more intriguing.
Aware of Caroline’s eyes on him, Darcy sidled up to Bing as though he had Important Presidential Matters to discuss. Naturally, the moment he appeared, all conversation ceased—one distinct disadvantage of his office.
The moment all eyes turned to him, Darcy recalled how horrific his small-talk skills were. Elizabeth’s frank gaze particularly weighed on him, seemingly demanding that he be witty and charming, but Darcy’s communication skills were more along the lines of wonky and policy-driven. He wondered if he could wow her with a sharp analysis of the economic implications of historical ethnic divisions in the Balkans.
“Are you ladies enjoying the evening?” He managed not to cringe (outwardly at least) over asking the world’s most inane question.
Jane raised her voice to be heard over the music. “Oh yes, it’s lovely. So many interesting people, and the food is delightful!”
In the following pause, Darcy thought Elizabeth might chime in, but she regarded him with an indecipherable expression. Th
is did nothing to lessen her attractiveness; instead he was intrigued by the alteration in her behavior.
Finally, Bing cleared his throat. “The prosciutto melon balls are great.”
“I haven’t had any yet,” Darcy said. If only he had a drink to serve as the focus of his attention. Elizabeth’s silence was disconcerting. The flustered, chatty girl was gone, and in her place stood a woman with a cool, detached gaze, which contrasted sharply with her sister’s polite I’m-trying-to-please-the-president smile.
“Ms. Bennet,” Darcy addressed Elizabeth. “I saw an image of you on the Red Cross screen. I didn’t realize you work for them.”
“Yes,” she said, holding herself very still and taking deep, even breaths.
After a few moments, everyone realized that Elizabeth had no intention of elaborating.
“Elizabeth has been all over the world with the Red Cross. She’s part of their refugee crisis team,” Jane volunteered. Elizabeth didn’t even nod in agreement with her sister’s observation. It was an odd change in behavior for the previously uncontrollable babbler. Was she embarrassed about her previous behavior? Or about her family’s? God knows, Darcy would be mortified by such relations.
He still found himself desiring her good opinion. “I’m sure that’s a very rewarding career,” he said, holding her gaze.
Her lips pressed tightly together, but a muscle twitched in her jaw. “Yes.”
When it became clear that Elizabeth would say no more, her sister gave a nervous little laugh.
Darcy was once again that ninth-grade boy who had been ridiculed by Catherine Hopkins. Of course, he had made a strategic error by asking her to homecoming in front of all her friends—and he had mispronounced it so it sounded like comb-humming. Still, he would like to believe he had acquired more communication skills since then, but it was quite possible he hadn’t. He had expected that becoming president would come with some privileges, like pleasant conversations with intriguing women.
But he hadn’t gotten elected president by giving up easily. Let’s try a different approach. “The White House is considering a new refugee initiative. What do you think is the area of greatest need?” Darcy smiled pleasantly at Elizabeth.
President Darcy Page 4
