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“If the Secret Service finds you back here, they could arrest you!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
Lydia waved this objection away. “I’ll just explain I wanted a selfie. They’ll understand.”
Elizabeth was not so sanguine that the “selfie defense” was an all-purpose excuse, but she took a deep breath to calm the nerves that had her jumping out of her skin. Yelling at Lydia was always counterproductive. “This corridor probably only leads to the kitchen, you know,” she said.
Lydia pouted. “You are such a Debbie Downer! God, Lizzy!” But then she smiled impishly. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I bet I can find the president once I’m in the kitchen.”
Not if the workers in the kitchen called the Secret Service first. But Elizabeth didn’t want to provoke a screaming match with Lydia; who knew what kind of scrutiny that would bring? There had to be a quicker way to entice her back to the E
ast Room. “Did you know they have bacon-wrapped scallops?” Elizabeth asked.
Lydia’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favorite appetizer. “Really?”
“Of course, they might be gone by the time you get back,” Elizabeth sing-songed.
For a moment Lydia waffled, torn between two different impulses. “I’ll see the president later,” she muttered under her breath. Lydia did an about-face and rushed down the hallway toward the East Room. Elizabeth sagged against the wall, limp with relief at a disaster averted. After her pulse returned to normal, she followed Lydia at a more sedate pace, marveling at how fast her sister could move on those heels.
Lydia had just disappeared through the door and Elizabeth was about halfway down the corridor when voices rumbled from the other end. Deep, masculine voices. Secret Service? White House staff? Whoever it was, they would be unhappy to find Elizabeth in an unauthorized area.
There wasn’t time to make it to the East Room. The only concealment options were behind the various closed doors along the corridor, although Elizabeth had no idea where they led. She yanked on one. It didn’t budge. What if they were all locked? The voices grew louder. Damn it! Sweat trickled off Elizabeth’s brow and into her eyes; she dashed it away impatiently with the back of her hand. The next door was also locked. Maybe she should just run for it.
However, the next door opened easily, revealing a closet full of mops, brooms, and buckets soaked in the stringent odor of cleaning supplies. What a mundane thing to find at the White House. Elizabeth hurriedly stepped inside, taking care not to knock over any of the brooms, and pulled the door closed behind her.
The interior was completely dark except for a golden strip of light under the door. Her ragged breaths were harsh in her ears no matter how she tried to quiet them. She hugged herself around her waist as if that could keep her still, but her hands trembled violently. Finally, holding her breath, Elizabeth strained her ears for any sign of discovery.
Firm footsteps echoed on the wooden floors—at least two sets. “We really shouldn’t enter this way,” said a male voice. “Everyone expects a grand—”
The second man’s voice was deeper and tinged with irritation. “I’m late, Bing. I’d rather slip in unnoticed.”
The shaking of Elizabeth’s body intensified, and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. One of the men was Charles Bingley, the president’s chief of staff and widely considered the second most powerful man in the White House. Shit. Shit. Shit. He was the last person she wanted to find her in the presidential broom closet.
Bingley’s tone was soothing. “You have a good reason for being late—”
One of the mops chose that moment to topple over with a thump. I hope that was quieter outside the closet than inside.
“What was that?” the second man asked. His voice was vaguely familiar.
Guess not.
“Something shifting in one of the closets,” Bingley said, unconcerned.
“Kinski wouldn’t want us to ignore it,” the second man said with a rueful laugh. “You know ‘constant vigilance is everyone’s duty’?”
“Yeah, all right,” Bingley said with a good-natured laugh. “We’ll send a Secret Service agent back to investigate.”
Yes, Elizabeth tried to convince the other man telepathically. Listen to Bingley. Send someone back.
“To investigate a closet?” the other man asked incredulously. “It’ll only take a few seconds.”
“You’re not supposed to—”
Footsteps rapidly approached the closet. Elizabeth was no longer trembling; now she was frozen, rooted to the spot—and all her perspiration had turned icy. Even her teeth chattered. What will they do to me? Please don’t shoot me on sight. Please let me explain.
The door opened, flooding the closet with light. Elizabeth blinked in the sudden brightness and then blinked again at the person before her. She’d been wrong, she realized. Bingley was not the last person she wanted to find her in the closet. He was standing in front of her.
She stared into the face of President William Darcy.
Chapter Two
