President Darcy

President Darcy’s head jerked back, and his mouth dropped open when he saw who was in his broom closet.

Television doesn’t do him justice. In person, he was far more attractive. In person, he was breathtaking…with those gray-blue eyes and dark, almost black, hair falling in soft waves over his forehead. The lines of the tuxedo accentuated his broad shoulders and lean, muscular physique. The features of his face were classic and patrician, almost like a Roman statue come to life. But his lips were sensual, soft and full, contrasting with the clean, straight lines of the rest of his face. I bet he’s a good kisser with lips like those. And the intensity of those eyes…

Which where glaring at her.

What am I thinking? I’m staring at the president. And thinking lustful thoughts about the president. Instead, she should be explaining. Talking her way out of the situation. At least making her mouth move. “Um…hi?” She gave him a little wave and what she hoped was her most nonthreatening smile.

“Who the hell are you?” he barked.

“Shit! There’s someone in there?” Charles Bingley’s blond head appeared over the president’s shoulder. He was the same age as the other man, but his shaggy hair and relaxed surfer dude smile made him seem younger.

Elizabeth rattled out an explanation—before they shot her. “I’m Elizabeth B-Barnett…no…B-Bennet. I’m a g-guest at the party—you know…the state dinner thingy. And my sister ran off and I had to find her and then you were coming, and I knew I shouldn’t be here…and so I hid,” she finished lamely. Jeez, the explanation sounded ridiculous even to her ears.

President Darcy took a moment to stare at her like she should be under psychiatric care, which, to be fair, was a reasonable assumption under the circumstances. “Is your sister in there, too?” He peered into the closet’s depths.

“No. She, um, went back to that really big room—” God, what was the name of it? She couldn’t think coherently when the President of the United States was glowering at her. Go figure. “You know, with the tall drapes and stuff.” Good one, Elizabeth, that probably described every room in the White House.

“The one with the state dinner thingy?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

He’s mocking me. Does that mean he believes me? A presidential assassin would probably be way smoother and less confused.

The president gave Bingley a sidelong glance. “Maybe we should call the Secret Service.”

Elizabeth grabbed the doorframe. Please, no.

Bingley sighed. “She obviously isn’t carrying a weapon, Darcy.”

The president scrutinized Elizabeth from head to foot—his gaze lingering over every curve in her long black gown. It wasn’t particularly revealing, but it was form-fitting enough that she couldn’t have concealed anything bigger than a tube of lipstick.

He cleared his throat. “I suppose not.”

What a monumental embarrassment to her family if she were arrested at the state dinner. “I’m so, so sorry! Please don’t have me arrested or audited or drafted or anything!” she babbled. Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth before she said anything stupid. Stupider.

A corner of the president’s mouth quirked upward. “Well, I promise not to have you audited or drafted.”

“All the guests were vetted by the Secret Service, Darcy,” Bingley pointed out. “Perhaps we can skip the arresting this time.”

The president regarded her seriously for a moment. He really did have the most amazing blue eyes, like a storm at sea. And…wow…was now an inappropriate time for that thought!

“An arrest would not be an auspicious start to the state dinner,” Bingley warned.

Elizabeth held her breath as he deliberated. Profiles of the president portrayed him as being very charismatic when he chose to be, but some people described him as aloof and cold. He must have chosen otherwise because the temperature of his glare was glacial—as if showing up in a White House broom closet were tantamount to murder. Elizabeth wanted—very badly—to forsake his presence immediately.

Finally, he threw his arms up in the air. “All right. But if we find you doing anything else…unexpected, I will have the Secret Service arrest you.” With one arm across his chest, he pointed an accusing finger at Elizabeth.

She nodded eagerly. “That’s great. Thanks. That makes sense. Yeah, the next time, go ahead and arrest me.” His eyes narrowed. “Not that there’s going to be a next time.” She held up her hands. “Absolutely no next time.”

He snorted in disbelief. What a jerk!

With a slight shake of his head, the president extended his hand to her. She stared at it. Why…? Oh, he’s offering to help me out of the closet. Clearly, her brain had gone offline since entering the White House. Releasing the doorframe, she stretched out her trembling hand, which he engulfed in his warm, firm grip.

***

As the woman—Elizabeth Bennet— stepped out of the closet, brooms and mops went crashing to the floor. She flinched, and Darcy tightened his grip on her hand, drawing her closer to him as if the cleaning implements represented a serious threat to her safety. It was ridiculous and inappropriate, and Darcy had no idea why he did it.

The woman seemed to provoke unexpected reactions from him. How else could he explain his unwarrantedly casual reaction the potential danger she might represent?

As he double-checked to ensure she was unharmed, Darcy was struck by her eyes—a deep, mossy green he had never seen before on another human being. With such a uniform color…they really were quite fine. He couldn’t look away. No, it would be more accurate to say he didn’t want to look away.