“Elizabeth’s family owns On-a-Stick, Inc.,” Darcy said briskly. “They’re a multimillion dollar company specializing in a variety of foods.” Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. Didn’t she know he would have her family’s company researched after their first encounter?
Caroline drew herself up and leveled her gaze at Darcy. “Will, honey, we need to get her out of here before the press finds out.” Her tone very deliberately lacked energy, implying that finding strange women in the Residence was a regular occurrence. Darcy was torn between applauding the performance and tearing into her.
A quick glimpse of the murderous fury on Elizabeth’s face determined that Darcy needed to clarify the situation. “Nothing happened—”
Caroline held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about it,” she said frostily. “This”—she again surveyed Elizabeth from messy hair to shoeless feet—“is hardly helpful to your presidency.”
“This isn’t—she’s not—!” Damn, why was public policy the only thing he could articulate well?
Caroline steamrolled right over his feeble objections as she crossed her arms and gave a dramatic sigh. “Will, it would be good if you could give us a heads up if you’re going to pull something like this.” She glared at Elizabeth like she was an inconvenient mess that Darcy had left on the floor of the kitchen.
Elizabeth moved away from the counter toward Caroline. “There is no ‘this!’” she said heatedly. Despite the tension in the air, Darcy experienced a pang. Was the idea of spending the night with him so distasteful?
Ignoring Elizabeth, Caroline pulled out her phone, texting furiously. “The Secret Service has some experience with ‘bimbo extraction’ after your predecessor’s divorce, but they’re better if they don’t have to do it on the fly.”
Elizabeth got right up in Caroline’s grill. “I am not a bimbo!”
Glancing up from her phone, Caroline fixed Elizabeth with a glare. “Bimbo is in the eye of the beholder, honey.”
Shit. That did it. Storm clouds were practically visible over Elizabeth’s head. “Why you—!” she spat at Caroline.
Darcy jumped between the two women, grabbing the phone from Caroline. She stared at her empty hand in shock. “There are no bimbos here,” he said firmly to Caroline. “Elizabeth arrived late last night to help her sister Jane, who injured her back while here for dinner with Bing.”
Caroline seemed mollified for only a second, then her eyes narrowed. “You’re telling me we have two women to extract?”
“No! Okay…yes, but one spent the night with Bing—” Yeah, that sounded wrong, too. Maybe everything sounded sordid when connected to the Residence—like you shouldn’t even think of sex anywhere near the Lincoln Bedroom.
“Jane was sedated with painkillers, and Bing watched over her,” Elizabeth quickly clarified.
Caroline ignored Elizabeth, speaking directly to Darcy. “You know this will be a juicy story for the media. We need to get them both out before any reporters arrive.”
Elizabeth shuddered, no doubt at the thought of becoming part of a media circus. “We can get her out of here—even if it’s in a wheelchair.”
Darcy didn’t want her to leave, but that reaction was utterly nonsensical. “I’ll contact the staff for a wheelchair,” he said quickly. Elizabeth glanced at him out of the corner of her eye; did she think he was eager for her departure?
Before he could speak, Elizabeth turned toward the door. “I’ll see if Jane is awake.”
She can’t leave like this. I need to find out why she is angry at me. I need to apologize for Caroline. I—
With an air of profound relief, Elizabeth hurried out of the kitchen. Darcy’s eyes followed her, but he could do nothing to stop her. The moment she was gone, he rounded on Caroline. “You could have been nicer. Elizabeth was only here to help her sister.”
Caroline regarded him coolly. “And somehow that translated into the need to spend the night at the Residence. How convenient.”
Darcy flinched. Was it possible it had been a ruse? All that concern for her sister? The righteous indignation at his assumptions? She had a quick wit that could be construed as flirtatious. However, not once had she seemed particularly interested in him. Of course, she had stayed up with him for hours… Was it all part of an act? He should have been appalled at the idea. But his disgust at the thought was noticeably…weak.
Still, he couldn’t allow Caroline to attribute such mercenary motives to Elizabeth. “I don’t think that’s what she’s after.”
Caroline laughed, a trill that ran up and down the scale. “You are so innocent sometimes, Will. I frequently wonder how you managed to wind up in the White House.”
Darcy suppressed an urge to snap at her. Caroline and Bing were great additions to his team because they’d known him before he’d gone into politics. But sometimes he wished Caroline was a little more intimidated by his office.
“To a woman like that, you’d be the catch of a lifetime,” she continued.
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Her family has plenty of money. She doesn’t need my family’s fortune.”
Caroline huffed. “Very few people believe they have enough money, Will.”
“Elizabeth’s not like that,” he insisted. Didn’t Caroline think he could spot a gold digger by this point in his life?
She shrugged. “She might not be looking for a ring, just bragging rights.”
Darcy had encountered plenty of women like that, too. “Funny, she seemed more interested in talking about Zavene than in seducing me.” A fact that Darcy should not find disappointing.
“She could be playing a long game—concealing her true motives,” Caroline said tartly. “In any case, we need to get both of them out of here as quickly as possible.”
“You and Elizabeth seem united on that point.” As much as he would love to have her stay for breakfast and a tour…
Caroline crossed her arms over her chest. “She’s dangerous for you, Will. Stay away from her.”
Chapter Seven
“Tell me about this guy,” Elizabeth demanded.
“I don’t know much.” The phone muffled Jane’s voice. “His name is Bill Collins. He’s got brown hair…not very tall…I only spoke with him a little after the auction. Since then we’ve been emailing.”
“What does he do?” Her high heels weren’t designed for pacing, but Elizabeth had to burn off her nervous energy.
“I don’t remember…” Jane sounded thoughtful. “Something in marketing maybe?”
“You will owe me big time.” Elizabeth’s sofa beckoned to her enticingly—soft and comfy, perfect for a night of sweat pants and binge watching. Hell, she’d even take a night of organizing the embarrassingly tall piles of paper on her desk. Instead she was trying not to breathe too deeply, or she’d risk popping a seam on her floor-length gown.
“You’re not doing it for me,” Jane reminded her sweetly. “You’re doing it for the children, remember?”
Elizabeth sighed. Jane had her there. Months ago, Jane had participated in a “dream date” auction to benefit Help Our Children Eat. Of course, being beautiful and sweet, Jane’s dream date had raised a lot of money. The winning bidder, Bill Collins, now wanted his date.
But Jane had a boyfriend.
Fearing the charity might have to refund the money, Jane had cast about for an alternative and asked Elizabeth to take her place. Elizabeth felt compelled to agree and had done her best to forget about it. After Jane sent Elizabeth’s picture to Bill, he accepted the substitution. To sweeten the deal, Jane—through Bing—had acquired tickets to the very exclusive Carlisle Ball, an event that Bill was quite excited to attend. As a result, this evening would combine three of Elizabeth’s least favorite things: a fancy, high-society event, high heels, and a blind date.
“I’m sure Bill won’t be that bad,” Jane reassured her.
Elizabeth ground her back teeth together. “He had to buy a date.”
Jane switched tactics. “Bing and I will be there.
Elizabeth was grateful for that. Jane’s back trouble had fortunately proven less serious than before, and she had recovered after missing only a week of work.
“The rest of the family will be there too—they all received invitations,” Jane continued brightly. Doesn’t she understand they’re part of the problem?
There was a knock at Elizabeth’s door. “I think he’s here.”
“No matter what, it’s just one short night,” Jane said quickly before Elizabeth hung up.
Trudging across her hardwood floors, she noticed that they were dirty. Maybe she could stay home and clean them tonight instead.
Biting her lip, Elizabeth pulled the door open—and was momentarily struck dumb. No doubt Jane had instructed Bill to wear a tuxedo. However, Jane obviously hadn’t specified that he should avoid wearing a plaid, crushed velvet tux. In retrospect, it was an unfortunate omission. Bill’s ensemble made him look like a waiter crossed with a bagpipe player.
A short waiter. Elizabeth bested him by a couple of inches; she could have foregone the heels. A bad comb-over was his other most noticeable feature.
“Elizabeth?” He scrutinized her from head to foot until a reptilian smile bloomed on his lips. “Well, your picture didn’t do you justice. I’m quite satisfied by the substitution.”
It’s for the children. It’s for the children.
Puffing out his chest, he offered a hand. “I’m Bill.” She shook it, resisting the urge to pull out of his warm, moist grip.
“Your chariot awaits, madam!” he announced with a grand sweeping gesture his arm. Lowering his voice, he added, “I’m joking. It’s just a car, not a chariot.”
“Um…okay.”
“But it’s a nice car. A really nice car.” He held up his hand and whispered in her ear for some reason. “A BMW.” Then he awaited her reaction.
When she gave none, he offered his arm. “Shall we go?”
After locking her apartment door, she congratulated herself for taking his arm without flinching. As they strolled down the hallway, they passed one of Elizabeth’s neighbors. Bill nodded grandly as if to say, “Look who’s on my arm!” Elizabeth considered whether she might die of embarrassment before they even reached the ball.
Waiting for the elevator, Bill asked, “What line of work are you in, Elizabeth?”
“International aid. I work for the Red Cross.”
He sniffed. “I don’t imagine there’s much money in that.” Without giving Elizabeth a chance to reply, he continued, “I’m in the staple industry.”
“Staples?” Did he mean household staples like bread and milk?
He gazed into the distance and intoned portentously, “I am employed by De Bourgh Staplers and Office Supplies.” For a moment he appeared about to salute. “The finest in the world.”
They stepped into the elevator. “Oh.” Elizabeth couldn’t think of anything else to say.
However, it turned out that her input was not necessary for the conversation. “I always wanted to get into staplers,” Bill continued. “I worked in erasers for a while, which was fine. And then hole punches, which I didn’t like; it’s not really a growing industry. But then I scored an interview at De Bourgh—the crème de la crème of the stapler world.” He paused dramatically, awaiting her reaction.
“Um…how fortunate.”
“Fortune had nothing to do with it,” he asserted with a lift of his chin. “It was hard work and determination—and a dose of good luck.”
Isn’t that the same thing as fortune?
He gestured expansively as they exited the elevator. “Do you know how many kinds of staplers De Bourgh Staplers makes?”
“No.”
“Take a guess,” he said with a wink.
Ugh. “Twenty-three.”
“You’re way off,” he chuckled. “Forty-nine. Forty-nine different kinds of staplers. I bet you didn’t know that.”
Didn’t we just establish that? “No.”
“And I’m vice president in charge of staples. It’s a heavy responsibility. You wouldn’t believe how many companies make inferior staples that don’t close properly when they hit the strike plate…” After escorting her out of the building, he led her to his BMW. “The problem is they don’t start with the proper materials…”
Jane was wrong. It would be a very long night.
***
Bill’s soliloquy was still going strong by the time the car pulled up in front of Carlisle House. “Mrs. de Bourgh is such an excellent CEO. She frequently strolls among the cubicles and greets the employees, commenting on their work projects…or anything really. No detail is beneath her notice. Just Thursday she visited David Horvat for the sole purpose of relaying some child-rearing tips. How many other CEOs would be that involved in their employees’ lives?
Hopefully none.
They emerged from the car, and Bill handed the keys to the valet parking attendant. Elizabeth settled her lightweight shawl around her shoulders, grateful for the mild May weather.
Jane—perhaps suffering from a guilty conscience—and Bing stood near the entrance, awaiting their arrival. Some of the tension drained from Elizabeth’s shoulders; the right company could brighten the evening. After exchanging introductions, the two couples continued up a stone pathway that led to the house. Elizabeth stuck to Jane’s side as they preceded the men. Falling in beside Bill, Bing inquired what he did for a living. The ensuing staple-filled monologue kept both men occupied for several minutes.
“On a scale of one to ten, how horrified are you?” Jane murmured from the side of her mouth.
“Thirty-eight.”
Jane winced. “I’ll help make it better. I can dance with him.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Not nearly enough groveling. I’m planning to demand that you wash my car once a month—with a toothbrush.” She grinned to show she was joking.
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand sympathetically. “Maybe you can leave early.”
“I’ll survive. Whoa!”
As they rounded a curve, Carlisle House finally came into view. “Palatial” was an inadequate word to describe it. French Château in style, the house’s proportions would be better suited to a high school than a private residence. The front was ornamented with stone tracery and elaborately carved arches above the windows. A large stone arch soared over the double set of front doors.
Both women marveled at the house. “According to Bing, the Carlisles have the biggest private residence in the D.C. area,” Jane said. “I guess it would have to be. How many houses have a ballroom anymore?”
As they approached the house, Bill broke off his office-supplies monologue to exclaim over the flowers, the chimney, the windows, and the staff—and loudly estimate the costs for each. The two couples entered the house through the ornately carved arch, which spilled them into a two-story front hallway decorated with a parade of six-foot-high floral arrangements. Here they were greeted by a phalanx of metal detectors and security guards. There must be some bigwigs attending.
Staff directed them to the ballroom at the back of the house. It was a baroque masterpiece, with shiny, gilded curlicues and an actual fresco on the ceiling that depicted a mythological scene.
“Wow!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “This is like a real English country house owned by Duke and Duchess So-and-So.” And I’m the poor relation. “Just you wait. Any second now liveried servants will glide forward to inquire if we’d like to take tea with the lady of the house.”
Jane giggled, as Elizabeth had intended, but Bill regarded her with an intense and somber expression. “Buying an English country house is on my bucket list. Yet another sign of our compatibility.”
Elizabeth wondered how she had missed the others.
At one end of the enormous room, a big band played old standards for a crowd of enthusiastic dancers. The walls were lined with bars and tables groaning under the weight of a myriad of hors d’oeuvres.
Elizabeth was cataloging the emergency exits—in case of excessive gro
ping—when Bill’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her against his body. The warm moisture of his hand radiated through the silk of her dress; Elizabeth imagined a damp handprint being left behind.
It’s for the children. Still, there were limits. She glared at his lascivious smile and spoke with an even tone she didn’t feel. “Bill, I don’t think we know each other well enough for this.”
He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’d like to know you well enough.”
Ugh. Shoot me now.
Rather than disappearing, his hand shifted to splay over her back. She smiled apologetically at him. “Sorry,” she whispered, “I have an itchy rash there.” The hand evaporated.
She put some distance between them, only then glimpsing a knot of people—socialites dressed to the nines, businessmen, and Secret Service agents—standing a few yards away. A man in the center of the group was staring at her. After a moment of disorientation, she recognized him. President Darcy.
Hundreds of people at the ball, and yet somehow his eyes had found her the instant she entered the room. Her stomach did a slow, sickening flip, and she could almost feel her sweat glands gearing up to work overtime. “You didn’t tell me the president would be here!” Elizabeth hissed to her sister.
“You didn’t know? I thought everyone knew the president attends the Carlisle Ball. It’s the primary draw.”
Panic urged her toward the nearest exit. The only thing worse than a blind date with Bill the stapler guy was a blind date with Bill the stapler guy while President Darcy watched. The last time she had encountered the commander in chief, he had labeled the Bennets nouveau riche, implied that she visited the White House for bragging rights, and eagerly agreed with Caroline Bingley that Elizabeth needed to be “extracted.” His politics might be in the right place, but his heart certainly wasn’t. Not that Elizabeth cared what he thought of her.
Still, it would have been nice to arrive at the soirée with a David Gandy lookalike. Instead she got a plaid tux, greasy comb-over, and smarmy smile—all of which had undoubtedly been catalogued by the president. The man himself was conversing with others in his group, but his eyes flickered back to her again and again.
President Darcy Page 8