The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance Page 7

  She responds wordlessly to greetings from several people as we power walk through the White House, and down to the mess hall in the basement for some much-needed coffee. Everyone notices Hope.

  Well, who can blame them? She’s authoritative, intelligent, and gorgeous to boot. She’s perfect at her job.

  What’s even better is that, when I’m with her, people hardly seem to notice my presence. This ideally places me to gain a better, more honest insight into the way things are run around the White House, which means my biography will be all the better for it.

  As will my career.

  I can’t help but feel my cheeks heat up with excitement at the prospect of my biography finally being out in public to be read by all—it’s truly exhilarating. And more than a little overwhelming. Well, the entire job has been overwhelming, but I’m confident enough in my own abilities that I’ve taken everything in my stride.

  I almost miss sight of Henry as Hope and I rush down the corridor, but I notice him just in time to incline my head slightly before moving on.

  Since that confusingly pleasant and informal dinner six months ago, Henry has asked me out to dinner no less than eight times—you would think that by the eighth excuse, he would simply give up asking, right? Clearly, Henry can see that I desperately want to give in and say yes.

  But I’m keeping focused on my job—it’s what I’m here for, after all. A silly, fanciful crush has no place in the White House.

  I’ve even stuck to calling him “Mr President” to keep things professional, and to keep him at arm’s length, of course. I know Henry hates being referred to by his official moniker, but I’ve got to utilize anything I can think of to maintain a barrier between the two of us.

  It’s for the job.

  “Bea? You listening?”

  I jump a little in surprise and smile apologetically at Hope.

  “I’m sorry, I was just committing everything to memory. I’ll have a cappuccino, please,” I say, directing that last sentence at the serving staff in the mess hall.

  I hadn’t even realized we had reached it.

  Hope shakes her head fondly at me. “You’re a lost cause sometimes. Do you need me to run over the schedule for next week again?”

  We sit down at the only vacant table in the bustling mess hall, both of us sighing as we recline into our seats—we’ve been on our feet all morning.

  “No, the final schedule was sent to me a couple days ago, so I took the liberty of memorizing it.”

  Hope raises an eyebrow as she lifts her Americano to her lips.

  “I know the schedule can be subject to change, though. So if there’s something new you need to tell me about, then please do!” I add on quickly,

  Hope laughs.

  “I wasn’t chastising you, Bea. I was impressed. That schedule is long,” she replies, stressing the ‘o’ in ‘long’ for emphasis.

  I relish the taste of my frothy cappuccino whilst taking in the compliment.

  “It’s gonna be pretty close quarters for the duration of the week,” Hope continues. “Lots of plane travel between The Hague, France, Italy…”

  “I get it, I get it!” I say, holding up a hand in protest. “Be prepared. And bring some books for the plane.”

  Hope smiles at that last part. “You’ve got that right.”

  We sit in companionable silence as we take in our much-needed caffeine hit. Before long, Hope notices me watching everyone in the mess hall.

  “Bea?”

  “When did Rogers and Barrett hook up?” I inquire, giving a pointed look at the maid currently giggling away with an off-duty Secret Service agent.

  Hope looks at me appraisingly. “I didn’t even know they had. About time, though—Barrett’s friends have been talking about nothing else but Roger’s interest in her for weeks. I was getting sick of it.”

  Gossip is rife in the White House—and more than a fair share of that gossip has at least a kernel of truth to it.

  Lots of affairs. Lots of backstabbing.

  Lots of exciting little stories to put in my biography. People do love a scandal, after all.

  Reassuringly, none of the gossip is about the President—save what everyone says about Hope and Henry.

  I feel my heart twinge painfully for a moment before ignoring the feeling. So what if Hope has a relationship with the President, or is even just sleeping with him?

  That’s their business, not mine.

  But then why would he be so interested in going out for dinner with me if he has her?

  Not that I feel inferior to Hope in that way. I respect and like her far too much to allow myself to be plagued by such puerile thoughts.

  It would help me to get a much better grip on Henry’s personality if I only knew what his intentions truly were, however. Is he just playing around? Is he serious? What does he want, exactly?

  Am I reading too much into things? Am I merely allowing my years-old crush to get in the way of things—just as I swore it wouldn’t?

  “That’s a lot of sighing, Bea,” Hope remarks, cutting through my thoughts.

  “Oh, I just…miss my dog,” I reply foolishly, though it isn’t a lie. “I’ve not been taking him out on enough walks, and he definitely knows. I think Duke’s in a mood with me, which makes me a little sad.”

  “People and their pets,” Hope chides softly, though I know she isn’t really making fun of me.

  “So, there’s no cat nor dog at home for you, then?”

  She lets out a guffaw of laughter as she finishes her coffee.

  “As if I have time for a pet right now. I had a horse when I was younger, though, named Apple.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  “Which is precisely why you won’t tell anyone about it, or I’ll have to kill you,” Hope mock threatens as she points to the pen and notebook that seem to be glued to my side. “And it was off-the-record, too. You know I don’t want my personal life in the biography if I can at all avoid it.”

  “Dutifully wiped from my memory, then,” I laugh.

  Hope stands up, and I hurriedly finish my coffee. I make to follow suit, but she waves me back down.

  “Enjoy a few more minutes of blessed chair time, Bea. I just need to make a call.”

  I smile up at her as she leaves the mess hall, leaving me to my thoughts.

  I hope to God that this business trip won’t be as close quarters as it seems to be building up to. I’m not sure I can handle any more curious glances from Henry, or rebuff any more of his dinner advances. I’m going to have to—if I want to finish this job.

  And despite the fact that the last six months have passed in a blur, I can’t help but be quite certain of one thing:

  The trip will likely be the longest seven days of my life.

  Chapter 14

  Henry

  It’s been a long six months. A very full, very busy six months, but a long six months nonetheless.

  I feel as if I’ve hardly spent any time in the White House lately; it’s all been about business trips and diplomacy meetings and dinners with donors.

  I know who I’d rather be having dinner with, but Beatrice always has an excuse. Not that that means I’ll give up—I can tell she wants to say yes but simply doesn’t want to appear unprofessional.

  It makes me respect her all the more. And reinforces my desire to wine and dine her.

  “So, it’s The Hague first next week,” Lawrence says, bringing me out of my reverie as we leave the Oval Office to travel through the White House to a waiting car outside.

  I push Beatrice out of my head to listen attentively—my job as president is my number one priority, after all. I can’t afford to ignore my chief of staff or appear disinterested.

  “That’s for the meeting at the International Criminal Court, isn’t it?”

  Lawrence nods his head. “Yes, to discuss nuclear non-proliferation. We’ll also be discussing whether the U.S. will finally join the Court with the other world leaders…hopefully, it will be a f
ruitful discussion.”

  “That’s the intention.”

  “After that, we’ll be heading to France to commemorate the Normandy Invasion, then to Italy and Vatican City to discuss—”

  “Human rights, including poverty and stem cell research. I’m looking forward to that one, actually.”

  Lawrence raises an eyebrow.

  “There will also be peace talks about the Middle East,” he says with a knowing look.

  I sigh in an exaggerated manner. “Ah, I knew there was something I wasn’t looking forward to.”

  “Henry...” he chastises.

  I laugh.

  “You know I’m kidding, Lawrence. Why, am I no longer allowed to make a joke, now that I’m president?”

  “Not about the Middle East, you’re not.”

  “Ah, I suppose you have a point there.”

  Lawrence continues to go into the finer details of our impending trip as we walk purposefully down the corridor. The trip is very important, after all, and will help to solidify my place among the world leaders as a capable United States president—something the rest of the world seems to have spent the last few years begging for.

  But suddenly, two very attractive women round the corner, and I’m confronted with Hope and Beatrice.

  The two of them are so involved in discussion that Beatrice only just notices me as I pass her by, nodding her head politely in acknowledgment.

  I don’t even receive a verbal ‘Hello, Mr President’ before she’s off being busy with Hope. I can’t help but be incredibly disappointed.

  I want to get to know her, and she’s making it nigh on impossible.

  The snapping of fingers brings me back to reality.

  “Henry Thatcher, are you there?”

  I shake my head slightly. Lawrence is looking at me suspiciously.

  “Sorry, Lawrence, I just got a little distracted,” I say apologetically.

  He sighs.

  “This is your first year as president, Henry. All eyes are on you, and you have a lot to prove. You don’t have time to be distracted, not in the least.”

  “I know, Lawrence. And I am president, so be a bit more mindful of your tone.”

  Behind closed doors, I can afford to give Lawrence a bit of leeway, but among the staff? Not so much.

  “Good, and I will.”

  Lawrence bids me goodbye as we reach the grounds of the White House, and one of my security detail opens the waiting car’s door for me. I slide into the back seat and recline against the leather upholstery. I haven’t sat down properly all morning.

  The silence in the back of the car is a blessing. It allows me to return to my thoughts unencumbered, at least for a few minutes.

  Beatrice will be forced into tight quarters with me next week. We’re traveling on Air Force One, and then staying in secured hotels. She won’t have all that much freedom to venture away from me.

  If ever there was a time for me to convince her to accept a dinner date, it’ll be next week.

  I think hard on my schedule—do I even have time to go out for dinner with Beatrice? I can’t compromise my work as president just to take her out. Not to mention the fact that she’d never accept such an invitation, knowing that I was shirking my responsibilities.

  And then it hits me—the Italian State Dinner.

  Beatrice isn’t currently going to it, but that can be easily rearranged. And it’s part of the job.

  She’ll have no reason to refuse.

  Except that she won’t have packed any suitable clothes for it, and if she’s informed of the dinner before we leave, she may find a reason to get out of it.

  Which means it has to be a surprise, and I’ll have to pick her clothes out myself.

  Good thing I know her size.

  And I’ve had my eye on a dress that would look stunning on her. I’ve been fantasizing about removing it from her person for weeks now.

  I pull my phone out and text Hope, asking her to call me as soon as she can get away from Beatrice.

  She calls just two minutes later.

  “What is it, Mr President?” she asks as soon as I pick up.

  “Well, hello to you, too, Hope,” I chuckle. “Remember that dress you had considered buying a few weeks ago for the State Dinner, but decided it wasn’t your color?”

  “The Valentino one,” Hope replies, sounding suspicious. “What about it?”

  “Is there any way you can have one made before we leave for The Hague? I’ll text you the measurements.”

  “That’s going to be costly, you know.”

  “The cost is no issue. Can it be done?”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line as Hope considers the task.

  “Yes, I know someone who can push through a custom order. I can get it ready in three—no, two days.”

  “Excellent. Thanks, Hope. Let me know as soon as it’s ready.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” I add on as I suddenly remember something important. “Arrange to have a hair and make-up team ready before the Italian State Dinner for yourself and Beatrice.”

  I can tell that Hope is throwing me a knowing smile down the phone.

  “Of course, Mr President. Have a good lunch.”

  I feel a grin creep up my face as I hang up the phone.

  Beatrice will blow everyone away with how gorgeous she’ll be. And she’ll be on my arm.

  My date.

  I wonder excitedly whether the Italian State Dinner will be the impetus Beatrice needs to push aside her stark professionalism just long enough for me to get through to her.

  I want her, and I want her to know that I want her. I don’t want her to find an excuse to push aside my feelings this time.

  I’ll make my feelings clear, and she’ll have to respond. And if that twinkle in her eye that always says ‘yes’ to my dinner requests even as she forces herself to say ‘no’ is anything to go by, that response should be very much of the positive kind.

  Suddenly, I very much wish time would fast-forward one week.

  Which means that the next seven days are going to be very long, indeed.

  Sighing, I watch the rain roll down the window of the car as we slow to a halt outside the restaurant I’m having my business lunch in.

  Just seven days. I can make it seven days.

  Chapter 15

  Beatrice

  Size isn’t everything.

  I know this. All women know this.

  But damn, Air Force One is impressive.

  I’ve stopped, momentarily stunned, at the bottom of the stairway leading up and into the plane.

  Henry, Hope, and Lawrence have gone on ahead, but for some reason, my feet just won’t move.

  Though in all honesty, I know why.

  It’s because I want to soak this moment in and wallow in it.

  You only get to have your first time once, you know. And the first time on Air Force One seems like a pretty big deal.

  I was all set to head to the rear entrance and ‘rough’ it with the rest of the press corps, but Hope snagged me and brought me up to the front, where the president and all of his staff and entourage enter.

  Which means I get to ride up front with the staff.

  With Henry.

  And the thought of being trapped in the relatively small confines of the plane with nowhere to go but thirty thousand feet down fills me with a smidgen of trepidation and a whole lot of desire.

  I’ve done so well maintaining my distance. I’ve been sure to keep everything coolly professional, despite his lingering glances and those small, intimate brushes of his body against mine. I’m sure they mean nothing, but they still leave me light-headed with longing just the same.

  At least at home, I have my apartment to run to when things become too much to bear. Not so much here, where I’ll be forced into prolonged contact in close quarters.

  Yet, instead of worrying about the personal and professional ramifications that could arise, I’m
standing on the tarmac, grinning like a fool, about to fly transatlantic in style.

  “Beatrice?” Henry calls from halfway up, a bemused smile hovering on his lips.

  His dark blue suit jacket is unbuttoned, his crisp white shirt pulling slightly across his well-defined chest. I notice he’s loosened his tie. With the wind from the engines ruffling his sandy brown hair, he looks more like the hero of an action film than the president of the United States.

  And now, my slack-jawed expression has moved to him instead of the plane.

  Because damn, he is impressive.

  “Bea?” he calls again.

  I jump slightly, and I’m sure I look like a fool. Oh well.

  “Coming! Just had to fix my shoe!” I lie as I dart up the rest of the steps to where Henry is waiting with his hand out to usher me on board.

  As I pass him, his palm comes to the small of my back to guide me up the last few steps and into the cabin. The touch is light, more of a gesture than anything, but the solid warmth of it sends a shiver up and down my spine.

  It’s going to be a long flight.

  Once on board, Henry asks if I want a tour.

  “Yes!” I say before he’s barely finished asking the question. “That is...I mean...” I clear my throat and give him a slight inclination of my head. “Yes, a tour would be lovely, thank you.”

  I have to actively fight against the urge to curtsy.

  What the hell is going on with me? Snap out of it, Bea!

  It’s just a tour of the plane.

  He’s just a man.

  A sexy, smart, funny, considerate, leader-of-the-free-world, kind of man.

  But a man, nonetheless.

  Henry’s eyebrows, which had jumped in question at my emphatic outburst, now seem to have disappeared into his hairline as he fights back a smile.

  Then, he gives his head a little shake and chuckles. “After you.”

  I move ahead of him, and he once again places a proprietary palm against my lower back.

  The heat of it is delicious.

  “So, here at the front is my office and suite, with the communications center, crew area and the flight deck up top,” Henry says, gesturing with his hand, and this time not causing me to have delightful tingles in rather inappropriate places.