“Hi, Babe.” Bing glided forward to give Jane a kiss that suggested they’d been apart for days rather than minutes. Elizabeth averted her gaze—and, naturally, wound up staring at the president.
“Ms. Bennet,” the president shook her hand. “That is a lovely dress.”
As before, the touch of his hand short-circuited her higher brain functions. He likes my dress! her brain screamed helplessly. Elizabeth struggled to reassert reason. Of course, he said nice things; being charming was one of the president’s talents.
“Thank you.” There had to be more she could say. Various possibilities flitted through her mind only to be immediately discarded. That tuxedo fits you like a second skin. That tuxedo makes you look edible. May I touch your hair? Why couldn’t she think of anything appropriate? What was suitable small talk with the President of the United States? The weather? Sports? Politics? Ugh.
“So, how was your week?” she blurted out and immediately winced. His week had been all over the media. His transportation bill was likely to be defeated in the House, there had been a terrorist attack in Paris, and he faced a possible scandal involving the Secretary of Health and Human Services.
A corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’ve had better,” he admitted. “How was yours?”
Elizabeth gulped wine, devoutly wishing her brain would come back online. Her week had been devoted to finding funding for a particular program that the federal government had declined to sponsor, but she could hardly say that to the president. “Good,” she said. “A lot of meetings.”
“I guess any week without a humanitarian disaster is good for you,” he said.
“Yes, but I also like being out in the field.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “When I’m helping people…even under horrible circumstances, I feel…useful…alive. I don’t have any time to worry about my petty concerns; I just focus on helping others get through the day. It’s quite rewarding.” She flushed. What had possessed her to babble like that to the president? No doubt he was plotting how to escape the conversation.
But he nodded slowly as if carefully considering her words. “I can understand that. As president, I have the opportunity to help a lot of people, but there’s a special thrill when I can meet and help someone one-on-one.” Her skin was growing hotter under the intensity of his gaze. Couldn’t he turn his glare onto someone else?
Say something! “Yes…definitely…” Witty retort, Elizabeth. No doubt he’s very impressed. Immediately she felt a flicker of irritation toward herself. Why should she care what he thought of her?
The band had finished a song, and people wandered off the dance floor. Finished canoodling, Bing and Jane were poised to go dance, but Bing was regarding President Darcy expectantly. Why?
His eyes remained focused on her as he stepped closer. “Ms. Bennet, would you join me for the next dance?”
Chapter Eight
Huh? Was he serious? Wasn’t she too ugly and stupid? A flock of butterflies danced in her stomach. As much as the man’s touch electrified her, she found his company too nerve-wracking to desire more, but could she actually refuse? “W-Wh—I—” she stammered. Wasn’t her family nouveau riche? Hadn’t he been dying to get her out of the Residence? “I-I—” Reasons to decline were legion, but not one of them would be acceptable to voice.
His head tilted to the side as he considered her. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “unless your boyfriend would mind.” His lip curled as if the idea were distasteful to him.
Jane choked on a laugh. Bill would be the perfect excuse, but the thought was too mortifying. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Elizabeth informed him frostily. “He’s my…um”—Oh God, how to explain him?—“auction date,” sh
e finished lamely.
“You won an auction for him?” The president’s expression was pained.
Surely her face was bright red by now. “I’m doing it for the hungry children…” she explained helplessly. Jane’s lips were pressed together, holding back laughter. “In any case,” Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “he won’t care who I dance with.”
The president’s gaze was disconcertingly focused. “Not a boyfriend?” She gave a definite shake of her head, and his shoulders relaxed. “So you can dance with me.”
“I guess.” She shrugged. Wait! No! He was the last man on earth she wanted to dance with! Wasn’t he?
President Darcy eyed the band, which had acquired some stringed instruments. “I think they’re about to play a waltz.” He extended his hand and led her briskly to the dance floor. Heads turned and people whispered behind their hands as the Secret Service agents “encouraged” the crowds to give way.
Why couldn’t I have managed a good excuse to decline? Thank you, I don’t dance. I’m honored, but my old football injury is acting up. I’d like to dance, but I’m too ugly and stupid.
The dance floor was crowded with couples, but nobody infringed on the president’s “personal space.” One of his hands held hers in a firm grip, and his other rested on her waist. His hand warmed her skin through the thin silk of her dress—so different from the moist creepiness of Bill’s grip. She was hyper-aware of his touch all over her body as if it had the power to travel through her bloodstream.
He cleared his throat as the opening notes of the waltz began. Oh, I’m supposed to put my other hand on his shoulder! The minute she did so, he swept her up into the dance.
Elizabeth’s dancing experience was limited. Long-ago lessons had faded in her memory, but fortunately the waltz was easy to recall. They whirled about the dance floor, moving so fast that the room was a blur of colors. President Darcy was a marvelous partner, leading her effortlessly around the floor. She scarcely thought about her feet. Their bodies were perfectly in sync, moving as one—as if they’d been dancing together for years.
His eyes never left hers. The stormy blue was quite dark in the ballroom lighting. “You’re very good,” he said earnestly.
“Not really. I’m just following your lead.”
“You’re very good at responding to my cues.” He licked his lips; her eyes followed every movement of his tongue. “Not every woman is so…responsive.”