President Darcy

“But you’ve met the president. Haven’t you?” John asked. That’s how you ended up being Presidential Dis Girl

Elizabeth shrugged uneasily. “Well, yeah, but…I don’t even think he likes me.”

“He did call you ugly and stupid,” John pointed out. Elizabeth was in no danger of forgetting that.

Margot sighed. “Maybe he’s trying to apologize.” Elizabeth gave her a blank stare. “Look, you don’t need to chat him up. Just go in, brief him, and leave.”

This was the man who had cheated George Wickham out of his inheritance. Whose best friend had callously dumped her sister. After examining the conference schedule, Elizabeth had a carefully crafted a plan to avoid him for the entire summit.

Margot stood up straight, her tall, gaunt figure looming over Elizabeth. “The White House wants you specifically. We have no reason to turn down their request, and need I remind you, this is part of your job.” Her eyes bored into Elizabeth’s until the younger woman averted her eyes.

Damn. Elizabeth slumped into her chair. It was part of her job. The Red Cross and their mission had benefited from having William Darcy in the White House, no matter what Elizabeth thought of him personally. He was a good president. The grant could potentially help thousands of people. There was no reason for the organization to piss off the president unnecessarily. Hell, she might not even have a chance to meet him at the meeting.

Surely she could give the presentation and leave—all without speaking directly to the president. He probably wouldn’t even pay attention. Her shoulders drooped. “I’ll do it, but I’m going to need you to buy me drinks afterward.”

Delighted, Margot clapped her on the shoulder. “You’ve got it.”

Elizabeth managed a wan smile just as a new thought struck her: Why did the White House staff request me?

***

4:05 p.m.

Darcy watched as the minute hand hit the five. Secretary of State Gus Callahan was still describing the refugee crisis in Myanmar. Darcy didn’t need all the details, although he was glad the State Department was paying attention to the situation. And it was 4:05.

He leaned over and mumbled in the ear of the man next to him. “Are you sure she’s coming?”

Richard Fitzwilliam’s eyes widened. Probably because Darcy had asked that question four times in one hour. He wouldn’t have allowed most White House staff to notice his impatience, but Fitz was a cousin and a friend from childhood. He wouldn’t blab to the media—or gossip with the staff—about the president’s obsession with a certain dark-haired aid worker. As the president’s primary assistant, Fitz had been the best person to discreetly ask the Red Cross to send Elizabeth Bennet for the refugee briefing—and make it sound like a random White House preference. The fewer people who knew it was Darcy’s specific request, the better.

“She’s probably already here,” Fitz whispered back. “The staff will hold her outside until we’re ready.”

That’s right. That was the procedure. Her absence didn’t mean she wasn’t coming. God damn it! This Bennet woman had Darcy so rattled that he forgot basic operating procedures.

But what if she was sick? What if the Red Cross decided to send someone else after all? What if—?

Darcy savagely cut off that line of thought. He needed to concentrate on the report about refugees in Myanmar, not moon over some woman he hadn’t seen in two months. Although it seemed longer than two months. What if she had cut her hair? Would she be wearing a suit for this occasion? He’d never seen her in a suit.

Maybe she had a boyfriend now. Oh, Lord. Somehow, over their relatively brief acquaintance, Darcy had grown accustomed to encountering her occasionally. When Bing had broken up with Jane Bennet, Darcy hadn’t anticipated the loss of being cut off from Elizabeth.

Almost equally unbearable was the need to keep his feelings contained. During one late-night phone call, he’d unburdened himself to his sister Georgiana, who had been very sympathetic but equally horrified by the tales of Elizabeth’s family.

When Darcy had learned that Elizabeth was attending the summit, he’d been unable to resist the impulse to contrive a meeting. Perhaps she’d been hoping to see him as well; the thought gave him a secret thrill.

It had been a rare indulgence to request her personally, but the alternative had been taking the risk that he might not see her at all. He would only say a few words to her and content himself with the rare treat of watching her do a presentation.

Finally, Callahan’s droning voice petered out. “Thank you, Gus,” Darcy said. He peered around the crowded, dark-paneled conference room. “What’s next on the agenda?” As if he didn’t know already.

Fitz gave him an amused look before responding, “Elizabeth Bennet from the Red Cross to brief you on African refugees.” A staffer opened the door to admit Elizabeth.

She hadn’t cut her hair. It was up in a loose bun that should have enhanced her professional image but inspired naughty thoughts of fingering each dark tendril. Her trim black suit and blue blouse were very appropriate, but the skirt skimmed the top of her knees. Darcy hastily yanked his gaze up to her face before he was caught staring at her legs. She did not grant him a smile; no doubt she was nervous.

As he stood to shake her hand, Darcy tried to radiate reassurance. “Ms. Bennet, thank you for coming. Let me introduce you.” He named the men and women around the table, ending the recitation with the staff closest to him. “And this is my cousin and primary assistant, Richard Fitzwilliam.” Fitz’s eyebrows shot up, and no wonder: Darcy almost never mentioned their blood connection.

Darcy indicated the older woman on his other side. “And this is my aunt, Catherine de Bourgh, director of the De Bourgh Foundation.” Elizabeth would be aware of the foundation’s work in international disaster relief. Impeccably dressed as always, Aunt Catherine greeted Elizabeth with her customary glower. Unfazed, Elizabeth gave Darcy’s aunt a brief, courteous nod as if she met billionaire philanthropists every day. Where does she get such sangfroid?

Striving for a casualness he never felt in her presence, Darcy said, “So I understand you will brief us on disaster relief in Africa?”

“That’s right, Mr. President,” she responded crisply. Nothing in her tone indicated they had ever met personally—or that he had waltzed with his arms wrapped around her. Resting her laptop on the conference table, she began hooking it up to the projector. “I have a fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation, and then I’d be happy to take questions,” she announced to the room at large. Darcy gestured for her to proceed.