President Darcy

A loud gurgle reminded her how long it had been since dinner. An exit strategy was also necessary. Last night Elizabeth’s priority had been remaining near Jane, but in the light of day it dawned on her that she had couch surfed in the White House. Either the president or his staff would need the Bennet sisters gone and soon.

She padded down the hallway toward the kitchen she’d passed the night before. Her brain desperately needed the boost a shot of caffeine would provide.

The thought that the president might be awake already hadn’t crossed her mind, but there he was, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and The Washington Post. The room was small and functional, with a plain oak set of table and chairs—the most ordinary thing she’d seen in the White House. The scene was simultaneously ordinary and bizarre: the president got bedhead just like everyone else.

“Ms. Bennet!” He set his coffee cup down with a loud thunk. “I didn’t expect you so early.” One hand reached the top of his head in an attempt to smooth his unruly locks.

“I’m afraid my brain doesn’t come online until I have some coffee, so I was hoping—”

“I made a pot.” He gestured to the coffeemaker over his shoulder. “Please help yourself.” He gave her a genuinely warm smile. Which was odd. And a bit worrisome. Maybe he was just a morning person.

“You made it yourself? Don’t you have staff for that?”

He stiffened, even though Elizabeth had meant it as a gentle tease. “I prefer not to have staff in the Residence when I’m here…It…feels less like a home.”

“You’re usually here by yourself?” she blurted out and then gave herself a mental kick. Yes, it sounds lonely, but do not feel sorry for him. Do not. Even if he’s alone, he’s still the President of the United States, for God’s sake! Not a homeless man.

Maybe if he weren’t so arrogant he’d have a wife and kids to share his home.

He combed his fingers through his hair, patting it in place. “Sometimes. Bing stays frequently. And my cousin Richard Fitzwilliam often stays here. He helps keep me on schedule, takes care of logistics, interfaces with the staff—that kind of thing. But he’s away this week visiting family. So it was nice having guests last night even by accident.” He gave her another enigmatic smile.

After a pause, she went to the counter to pour a cup of coffee. At least with her back to him she could escape the dark intensity of the eyes that followed her everywhere.

He cleared his throat. “I…um…if word gets out that you’re here, it could be…problematic.”

She stiffened but remained silent. I should have expected this. The relaxed president who discussed Zavene so freely couldn’t last forever. She turned around, leaning her hips against the counter and holding the mug up near her face like a shield. He wanted them gone, and so did she. There was no reason to feel anger or regret.

“I’ll check on Jane,” she said. “With a night of rest and some more medicine, she might be able to walk to the car. We could be out within an hour.”

He nodded briskly. “Good.”

***

Elizabeth wasn’t happy with him again, Darcy observed. They’d had such a delightful conversation in the Treaty Room last night, but somehow they’d lost that easiness in the light of the morning. Maybe she wished she’d seen more of the Residence. “I’m sorry I didn’t have time to show you around.”

She jerked her head back. “I didn’t come here for a tour.”

Really? What person isn’t a little bit curious about the White House? “That wasn’t even a little factor in your decision to stay?” he teased. “Few people have the chance to stay overnight at the White House.”

Elizabeth’s face went white. “Wow,” she said slowly. “Not only am I ugly and stupid but apparently shallow as hell, too.”

Shit. Instantly his chest tightened, constricting his breathing. He closed his eyes briefly, but when he opened them she was still glaring at him. Darcy would have happily lived the rest of his life without discussing that event again, but that wasn’t an option. “I didn’t intend to be insulting.”

“It must be an inborn talent then.”

Darcy’s stomach coiled itself into a knot. Many people disliked what he said about them. They devoted hours of cable television time to discussing it. Gallons of ink had been used to describe his misjudgments. Why did he find her unhappiness so disturbing?

Still, damn it, he hadn’t said it to her face. “Maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop. You might not like what you hear,” he said.

“Maybe you shouldn’t insult people,” she retorted. “Then it wouldn’t get tweeted.”

Don’t ever apologize. Hilliard’s admonition echoed through his mind. But he had no hope of friendship with her otherwise. “I’m sorry about that,” he blurted out. She frowned, and he rushed to explain. “I was tired and irritated with Hilliard. My comments had nothing to do with you.”

She snorted. “How silly of me for taking comments about my attractiveness and intelligence personally.”

Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be this one he insulted so thoroughly? “The truth is that I think you’re”—he cleared his throat—“quite attractive and intelligent…”

She was silent for a moment. “Um…thank you.” The rising inflection in her voice signaled her doubt. But she had to believe him.