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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.
