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It was ridiculously difficult for the president to go anywhere given logistics, scheduling, security, transportation, traffic disruption, and Secret Service protocols. It was almost impossible for the president to go anywhere secretly. Yet they appeared to have pulled it off.
Nobody expected the president to slip out of the White House at 10 p.m. through the back gate. The press had gone home, and the tourists were in bed. Evidently, no one had noticed the Beast surrounded by the slimmest of motorcades, only five vehicles, roll on the D.C. streets. Fortunately, Washington teemed with motorcades; there was no reason to suspect this one was special—unless someone scrutinized the limo closely.
Darcy prayed this gambit would be successful. It had been difficult enough to arrange the rendezvous with Elizabeth. He’d left three messages on her voicemail before she’d even returned his call—with many apologies. Unfortunately, they hadn’t spoken in person. An unexpected crisis with NATO funding had tied up all of Darcy’s time, and Bing had ultimately made most of the arrangements.
Darcy, Bing, Fitz, and the head of the presidential Secret Service detail had spent many hours selecting a location secure enough and private enough for the meeting. Secure not only from would-be assassins but also from the media. Kinski had asked more than once why Elizabeth couldn’t come to the White House, and Bing had reiterated all the public relations dangers if the media discovered it.
Finally, they agreed on Fitz’s condo. His building had an underground parking garage, and its location overlooking Rock Creek Park meant it was somewhat sheltered from prying eyes. The Secret Service’s planning had been tight; nevertheless, Darcy breathed a sigh of relief when he arrived at Fitz’s place undiscovered.
The elevator opened onto the foyer—Fitz owned the whole floor—and his cousin immediately opened the door to admit him. Despite his nerves, Darcy remembered to compliment Fitz on the apartment, which he had never seen, and thank him. It had a beautiful view of the park illuminated in the moonlight, with the twinkling lights of the city in the distance. The furnishings were minimalist and modern—sleek, efficient, calming—although nothing about them screamed “romantic rendezvous.”
Darcy told himself that was appropriate. We’ll have a calm, rational discussion. Too much romantic ambiance would be distracting, wouldn’t it?
If only there were some candles I could light.
Fitz clasped Darcy briefly on the shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile before leaving. The resulting sense of privacy was completely illusory. The Secret Service had reluctantly agreed to leave Darcy alone inside the condo, but there were agents stationed in the elevator lobby, the building’s entrances, and in the units above and below Fitz’s. Goodness knows what they’d said to Fitz’s neighbors as an incentive to vacate. At least the conversation would be private.
Darcy mixed himself a gin and tonic at the bar. Drank it. Mixed another. Drank half of it before he worried about becoming too tipsy and poured the rest down the sink. When he noticed his hands were shaking, he made himself another.
Perched on Fitz’s ultra-contemporary cream-colored sofa, Darcy tried to quiet the flock of butterflies invading his stomach. He stood to stretch his legs. Admired the view again. Sat on the sofa. Reviewed what he planned to say. Said a silent prayer that he would get the response he wanted. Rinse. Repeat.
The Secret Service agent in charge of collecting Elizabeth had warned Darcy that the process of getting her secretly and securely into the building might take time. But Darcy was unaccustomed to free time. Every minute was scheduled with decisions and documents and briefing books he needed to read. A few unoccupied minutes just felt odd and wrong. The president never had to wait; other people waited for him.
Finally, the door opened, and Elizabeth edged through, closing it behind her. She hovered near the entrance, her mouth curved in a fragile smile.
It took Darcy’s breath away. He had forgotten her effect on him.
Her light blue dress somehow made her eyes even greener, and although the sandals had a low heel, they somehow rendered her legs impossibly long. A sweater was loosely draped over her shoulders to ward off the late-night September chill, but as they stared at each other, it slipped from her body and puddled on the floor. She did not pick it up.
What a relief to see her whole and in the flesh. Weeks of anxiety fell away in an instant. However, Darcy noticed fresh signs of strain. She had lost weight, her cheeks were hollowed out, and there were dark circles under her eyes. No doubt she didn’t sleep well with the paparazzi camped outside her building. Guilt gnawed his stomach. No other man in the United States would have made her endure that media circus. Still, he was pathetically grateful she had chosen him and selfishly hopeful she would want to continue.
“Will,” she whispered, still not moving.
“Elizabeth.” He crossed the room in three strides. All his carefully chosen and rehearsed words had melted out of his brain. He had only one mission: getting his arms around her as quickly as possible.
He was kissing her without having made the conscious decision to do so. But it was impossible not to kiss her. What he had intended to be a quick peck turned into a gloriously prolonged duel of tongues and lips in which both were the winners. She tasted of chocolate and white wine and smelled like…happiness…home…all the things his life was lacking.
When they finally separated, they were both panting. The iron bands around Darcy’s chest had eased, and he could breathe freely for the first time in weeks. How did I breathe at all while we were apart?
“Elizabeth, it’s—God, it’s good to see you…I-I don’t have the words to express….”
She blinked rapidly, a suspicious sheen in her eyes. “I know. I don’t either.”
He pulled her close to his body, where she fit perfectly. “I’m sorry I needed to sound so…businesslike in my voicemails. We don’t know how secure your phone is. I hope you didn’t mind talking to Bing.”
Her head rested on his chest, a warm weight. “Of course not. Bing did a great job making the arrangements,” she assured him. “He mostly coordinated with Jane, actually. I think she enjoyed talking to him once she overcame the shock of the initial call.” Darcy could practically hear the smile in her voice.
“Bing said he asked her out to dinner.”
“Yes. Jane was happy. Maybe they can work out their differences.”
But Darcy didn’t want to discuss Jane and Bing. He slid his hand down her arm and into her palm, intertwining their fingers. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me—especially after I threw you out of my house and neglected to call you.”
When she didn’t respond, Darcy drew back to get a glimpse of her face, but her eyes w
ere downcast. “That…um…” She swallowed hard. “That hurt…a lot.”
The bands tightened around his chest again. “I’m so, so…sorry.” His voice was husky with emotion. “Hilliard was apoplectic…and then with the allegations of coercion….”
