"Cassandra
Mercer, the President."
Mechanically
she raised her hand. "Mr. President." Afraid of what her eyes
would reveal, she raised them slowly to meet his. Even knowing she must
appear dreadfully coy, she couldn't help herself.
"What
a pleasure," he said, taking her hand. His voice was soft and low,
and she didn't know if he'd spoken to everyone in this tone. It was
intimate, seductive. "I'm glad you could come on such short notice."
Had
he instigated her invitation? She felt a swell of irrational pleasure.
"Thank
you for including me, sir." How easily the respect slipped out.
"I hope my being here hasn't upset any plans."
His
smile ended on a warm chuckle as though he were enjoying a private joke.
"Not
at all. In fact, I was hoping you wouldn't mind if we separated you
from your parents for dinner. There's an empty seat at my table. Would
you mind?"
"With
you?" Oh, heavens, did she sound as breathless as she was afraid
she did? "I mean, no..." She drew a breath. "It would
be my pleasure, sir."
He
smiled.
Unfair,
she thought. She'd never be able to enjoy the dinner if her stomach
didn't stop twisting up like this, and she knew it wouldn't if he kept
smiling.
They
stared at each other for a fraction of a second too long. Almost brusquely,
he dropped her hand.
"Good.
I look forward to seeing you at dinner."
Bill
realized his mistake almost as soon as he'd made it, then struggled
for the rest of the evening to rectify it. He'd stood there, like a
gawky adolescent, holding onto her hand and staring into the pools of
her eyes, his whole body aware of her.
Almighty!
Better not go there.
So
look at something else. He tore his gaze away from her again. |
