President Darcy

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.”