“Don’t you want someone higher up the food chain?” Elizabeth asked. “There have to be five people here with more impressive titles.” Why me?
Margot shifted in her chair. “The truth is…the president’s staff requested you specifically.”
“What?” Alarm spiked down Elizabeth’s spine. “Why?” Knees suddenly weak, she sank into one of the chairs.
“I thought you might know.”
“But you’ve met the president. Haven’t you?” John asked. That’s how you ended up being Presidential Dis Girl
Elizabeth shrugged uneasily. “Well, yeah, but…I don’t even think he likes me.”
“He did call you ugly and stupid,” John pointed out. Elizabeth was in no danger of forgetting that.
Margot sighed. “Maybe he’s trying to apologize.” Elizabeth gave her a blank stare. “Look, you don’t need to chat him up. Just go in, brief him, and leave.”
This was the man who had cheated George Wickham out of his inheritance. Whose best friend had callously dumped her sister. After examining the conference schedule, Elizabeth had a carefully crafted a plan to avoid him for the entire summit.
Margot stood up straight, her tall, gaunt figure looming over Elizabeth. “The White House wants you specifically. We have no reason to turn down their request, and need I remind you, this is part of your job.” Her eyes bored into Elizabeth’s until the younger woman averted her eyes.
Damn. Elizabeth slumped into her chair. It was part of her job. The Red Cross and their mission had benefited from having William Darcy in the White House, no matter what Elizabeth thought of him personally. He was a good president. The grant could potentially help thousands of people. There was no reason for the organization to piss off the president unnecessarily. Hell, she might not even have a chance to meet him at the meeting.
Surely she could give the presentation and leave—all without speaking directly to the president. He probably wouldn’t even pay attention. Her shoulders drooped. “I’ll do it, but I’m going to need you to buy me drinks afterward.”
Delighted, Margot clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ve got it.”
Elizabeth managed a wan smile just as a new thought struck her: Why did the White House staff request me?
***
4:05 p.m.
Darcy watched as the minute hand hit the five. Secretary of State Gus Callahan was still describing the refugee crisis in Myanmar. Darcy didn’t need all the details, although he was glad the State Department was paying attention to the situation. And it was 4:05.
He leaned over and mumbled in the ear of the man next to him. “Are you sure she’s coming?”
Richard Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. Probably because Darcy had asked that question four times in one hour. He wouldn’t have allowed most White House staff to notice his impatience, but Fitz was a cousin and a friend from childhood. He wouldn’t blab to the media—or gossip with the staff—about the president’s obsession with a certain dark-haired aid worker. As the president’s primary assistant, Fitz had been the best person to discreetly ask the Red Cross to send Elizabeth Bennet for the refugee briefing—and make it sound like a random White House preference. The fewer people who knew it was Darcy’s specific request, the better.
“She’s probably already here,” Fitz whispered back. “The staff will hold her outside until we’re ready.”
That’s right. That was the procedure. Her absence didn’t mean she wasn’t coming. God damn it! This Bennet woman had Darcy so rattled that he forgot basic operating procedures.
But what if she was sick? What if the Red Cross decided to send someone else after all? What if—?
Darcy savagely cut off that line of thought. He needed to concentrate on the report about refugees in Myanmar, not moon over some woman he hadn’t seen in two months. Although it seemed longer than two months. What if she had cut her hair? Would she be wearing a suit for this occasion? He’d never seen her in a suit.
Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Oh, Lord. Somehow, over their relatively brief acquaintance, Darcy had grown accustomed to encountering her occasionally. When Bing had broken up with Jane Bennet, Darcy hadn’t anticipated the loss of being cut off from Elizabeth.
Almost equally unbearable was the need to keep his feelings contained. During one late-night phone call, he’d unburdened himself to his sister Georgiana, who had been very sympathetic but equally horrified by the tales of Elizabeth’s family.
When Darcy had learned that Elizabeth was attending the summit, he’d been unable to resist the impulse to contrive a meeting. Perhaps she’d been hoping to see him as well; the thought gave him a secret thrill.
It had been a rare indulgence to request her personally, but the alternative had been taking the risk that he might not see her at all. He would only say a few words to her and content himself with the rare treat of watching her do a presentation.
Finally, Callahan’s droning voice petered out. “Thank you, Gus,” Darcy said. He peered around the crowded, dark-paneled conference room. “What’s next on the agenda?” As if he didn’t know already.
Fitz gave him an amused look before responding, “Elizabeth Bennet from the Red Cross to brief you on African refugees.” A staffer opened the door to admit Elizabeth.
She hadn’t cut her hair. It was up in a loose bun that should have enhanced her professional image but inspired naughty thoughts of fingering each dark tendril. Her trim black suit and blue blouse were very appropriate, but the skirt skimmed the top of her knees. Darcy hastily yanked his gaze up to her face before he was caught staring at her legs. She did not grant him a smile; no doubt she was nervous.
As he stood to shake her hand, Darcy tried to radiate reassurance. “Ms. Bennet, thank you for coming. Let me introduce you.” He named the men and women around the table, ending the recitation with the staff closest to him. “And this is my cousin and primary assistant, Richard Fitzwilliam.” Fitz’s eyebrows shot up, and no wonder: Darcy almost never mentioned their blood connection.
Darcy indicated the older woman on his other side. “And this is my aunt, Catherine de Bourgh, director of the De Bourgh Foundation.” Elizabeth would be aware of the foundation’s work in international disaster relief. Impeccably dressed as always, Aunt Catherine greeted Elizabeth with her customary glower. Unfazed, Elizabeth gave Darcy’s aunt a brief, courteous nod as if she met billionaire philanthropists every day. Where does she get such sangfroid?
Striving for a casualness he never felt in her presence, Darcy said, “So I understand you will brief us on disaster relief in Africa?”
“That’s right, Mr. President,” she responded crisply. Nothing in her tone indicated they had ever met personally—or that he had waltzed with his arms wrapped around her. Resting her laptop on the conference table, she began hooking it up to the projector. “I have a fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation, and then I’d be happy to take questions,” she announced to the room at large. Darcy gestured for her to proceed.
The moment she spoke, he regretted the professional setting. He longed for her playful smile and sparkling eyes. On the other hand, this confident, take-charge Elizabeth gave Darcy an illicit thrill.
Bing used to tease Darcy that he found intelligence to be an aphrodisiac, and Darcy was forced to admit that he found her knowledgeability and poise very…alluring. Every part of the presentation was mesmerizing. Even the way her hands pointed to something on the screen was fascinating. Her posture was competent, professional, and yet she charmed the listeners with off-the-cuff remarks…African refugees had never been so interesting.
Thirty minutes into the presentation, Darcy realized he was in love. An undistinguished meeting room of a random hotel in Paris was an odd setting for such a momentous revelation, but it was inescapable. Her presentation had been well organized, clear, and persuasive—the best one he’d seen all day. She had answered all the questions competently and deflected the hostile ones. She’d even made a couple of jokes that had the entire room roaring
with laughter. The hardened policy wonks and career bureaucrats at the table were practically eating out of her hand. Even Callahan’s face lacked its habitual scowl.
She was brilliant. She was beautiful. She was everything he had ever wanted in a woman.
Except he’d always assumed the right woman for him would come from a similarly well-heeled family. A family with taste and a sense of decorum.
Oh God, I’m in love with her. What am I going to do about it?
Letting her go again no longer seemed like a feasible alternative. The very thought produced sweaty palms and a rapid heartbeat—not to mention a withering sense of despair. The alternative was surrendering to the attraction. Upon his return to Washington, he could discreetly call her for a date. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. A wave of relief caused him to sag into his chair, momentarily giddy.
Elizabeth scanned the table. “If there aren’t any other questions—”
He should thank her and dismiss her. He’d had half an hour to indulge his obsession—and he should focus on the summit. Still, his entire body basked in the glow of her presence like a plant growing toward the sunlight. He wanted more smiles. More laughter. More time with her. More Elizabeth.
Darcy cleared his throat. “Ms. Bennet, would you be available to join us for dinner tonight? It’s sponsored by the De Bourgh Foundation, but I’ll be there, as well as others from the administration.” From the corner of his eye, Darcy saw his aunt’s head jerk in his direction. She could object all she wanted; he didn’t care.
Elizabeth’s lips parted slightly as she regarded him. Her mouth closed, then opened again. Perhaps she suspected the ulterior motive behind his invitation. “O-Of course, Mr. P-President. I’d be delighted to join you. Thank you.”
Darcy beamed at her. “Tom, over by the door, can give you further information.”
As Elizabeth wound her way toward the exit, Darcy leaned back in his chair. This summit was going pretty well.
***
What a mess!
Elizabeth twitched her shoulders, trying to get her jacket to settle more comfortably, but one side had a tendency to ride up. She pulled at the collar of her blouse. The mirror outside the door to the banquet hall showed that the collar was not choking her, but her neck seemed to feel otherwise. Deep down, however, she knew the suit wasn’t the problem. By all rights she should be done with suits for the day. She should be enjoying overpriced red wine and cheese at a local restaurant with her coworkers and other friends from the aid community.
Instead she was dithering in the corridor, sweating inside her suit and trying to remember all the talking points Margot and John had drilled into her head. “If you see anyone from the State Department, tell them how valuable the grant could be” had been Margot’s parting words as Elizabeth left the suite.
Their excitement had scuttled Elizabeth’s faint hope of avoiding the dinner by claiming a fit of hysterical blindness or sudden-onset amnesia. She wasn’t the kind of person who hobnobbed with politicians; her job usually involved emergency rations and muddy roads, not cocktail parties and conversation about budgets. Of course, she would be genuinely happy if she could secure the funding for them, but what if she scuttled the plan by accident?
She paced the corridor outside the banquet hall door trying to dismiss the series of niggling doubts that had attacked as soon as she exited the elevator—and causing the Secret Service agent at the door to eye her warily. The primary doubt had to do with why the president had invited her to this shindig in the first place.
She didn’t have a good answer.
He had been cordial during the presentation, but they weren’t friends; he didn’t even like her. Bing hadn’t accompanied the president on the trip, so Jane’s ex hadn’t wanted to reminisce about “good times.” And her family was still as vulgar and nouveau riche as ever.
Maybe he was still compensating for having called her stupid and ugly. Or maybe he wanted more information about Zavene. Or was he setting her up to fail? Perhaps it was all some Machiavellian plot. He was a politician; who knows what kind of long game he was playing? Maybe she was a pawn in a complicated political strategy to get even with George Wickham. Elizabeth took a deep breath, abruptly feeling dizzy and leaning against the wall.
It isn’t likely. President Darcy had a reputation for being a straight shooter. Of course, she didn’t know him that well. The man who had shafted George Wickham would probably be capable of all sorts of manipulation.
Her stomach churned with each glance at the banquet hall door. Every muscle in her body screamed with the need to flee, but that might hurt the Red Cross. This was even worse than the Carlisle Ball—where nothing had been at stake except her reputation.
Half an hour, she promised herself, knowing it was probably a lie. I’ll go in, chat up the Red Cross’s latest projects to some of the administration’s staff, eat some food, and leave. An hour tops. Taking a deep breath to settle her nerves, she strode through the metal detectors and into the banquet hall as if she belonged there. I am such an imposter.
The room wasn’t particularly large, nor was the crowd. This must be an exclusive dinner. Elizabeth didn’t know anybody in the room personally, although she recognized faces she’d seen on television. The Secretary of State. The Director of Homeland Security. Two generals. The U.N. Secretary General. All way above her pay grade.
Then there were the old money philanthropic types like Felix Webster and Catherine de Bourgh. Don’t be intimidated, she reminded herself. My family owns On a Stick, Inc. I belong here too. That only recalled the president’s “nouveau riche” comment.
Guests milled about, talking, drinking wine, and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres; some gathered around tables at the other end of the room. Nobody had noticed her. Maybe she could linger by the bar and then slip off to the ladies’ room until dinner was served. She edged her way to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine.
She took a gulp as she surveyed the room. It was lavishly appointed with ornate plasterwork. The ceilings, with crystal chandeliers straining against the velvet cords holding them in place, were so high that Elizabeth felt small in comparison. There weren’t a lot of buildings in the U.S. that boasted such baroque grandeur. Elizabeth had the heady sensation that she should be there as a tourist rather than an invited guest.
Then she spied someone she recognized—and immediately wished she hadn’t. Holding a drink, Bill Collins hovered at Catherine de Bourgh’s impeccably clad elbow, perhaps awaiting the opportunity to be sent on some kind of meaningless errand. His eyes lit up when he noticed Elizabeth, and he scurried over to her.
“Elizabeth!” Greeting her like an old friend, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Allow me to greet you in the French style! I’ve been practicing.” He air kissed both of her cheeks.
“There!” he exclaimed. “How did I do?” He took a generous swallow from his drink. Oh yeah, open bar.
“Um…” Elizabeth had never been called upon to judge air kisses before. “Quite good.”
He gave her a ghastly grimace. “I hope there are no hard feelings over our last date.”
Elizabeth had been surprised that Charlotte had started dating Bill, and shocked when she had confessed deep and abiding feelings for the man. “No, I—”
“My passion for Charlotte simply swept me away.” He clasped both hands over his heart. “I was helpless to resist. United by our love of office products, we are true soulmates—with but one heart and one mind.”
Elizabeth choked on a mouthful of wine.
Bill continued, oblivious to her frantic coughing. “She is my rose petal. My peony. My sunrise. My moonset.”
Moonset? “I’m very happy for you,” Elizabeth gasped out between coughs.
He eyed her disbelievingly. “I know you regret never tasting a piece of this.” He slapped himself on the butt. Elizabeth managed to cover her wince. “But my heart and my body belong to Charlotte.”
Pressing her lips together to catch any errant laug
hs, Elizabeth nodded. “Of course. I will respect that.”
Sidling closer to her, Bill lowered his voice. “In fact, I got that tattooed for Charlotte’s birthday.”
“Got what tattooed?” Wait, do I want to know?
He gave her a sly, secretive smile. “’Property of Charlotte’—tastefully done, of course—in a very nice cursive script tattooed right here on my—” He raised his hand to slap his butt again.
Elizabeth responded swiftly before receiving more details. “You don’t say!”
He nodded with a self-satisfied smile. “But don’t tell Charlotte. It’s a surprise.”
“I won’t tell her,” Elizabeth reassured him. Or anyone else. In fact, I’m hoping they’ll invent a brain bleach to erase that image.
Elizabeth groped around for a more innocuous topic of conversation. “Um…has Mrs. de Bourgh met Charlotte?”
Bill’s face was rapturous. “Yes. They got along swimmingly. I was concerned at first that Mrs. de Bourgh would think Charlotte’s family too”—he dropped his voice as if he were about to confess his beloved had a terrible disease—“bourgeois. But she believes the Lucases are an eminently suitable family for someone of my station in life.”
“How fortunate,” Elizabeth managed to choke out.
“I am hoping someday Charlotte will make me the happiest of men.” Bill gazed rapturously into the distance.
“Um, great.” Elizabeth wondered if they made stapler-themed wedding décor.
“And to think,” Bill waxed on, “none of this would have happened if I’d found you remotely attractive.”
Elizabeth managed not to spray her white wine over everything. “Yeah…that’s very…fortunate.” She eyed the wine in her glass. Was it too soon to claim the need for a refill?
“Ms. Bennet?” A young brown-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit approached. He had been at the meeting earlier. Oh, the president’s cousin. Shit. Out of the frying pan… He stuck out his hand. “Richard Fitzwilliam. Please call me Fitz.” His easy grin instantly helped her tight muscles relax. “I wanted to take the opportunity to—”
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