Commander in Chief (White House #2)(26)

16





GALA





Charlotte



I slept that night in his arms in the Queens’ Bedroom, thinking of his father, knowing he was in Matt’s thoughts too. “What did you tell my dad when you asked to talk to him alone?” I whispered.

“That I’m in love with you,” he said simply.

Now it’s past 6 p.m. the next afternoon when I’m told by one of the members of the residence staff that the president sent the gown that hangs in my dressing room.

Jack hurries excitedly into my bedroom as if he plans to report to Matthew what I thought of his gift.

It is breathtaking.

From an up-and-coming American designer who’s going to take the world by storm, it is a heavily detailed lace-and-sequin dress with just the right amount of sheerness to give a glimpse of skin on my back and shoulders.

I dress carefully and glance at myself in the mirror to make sure I look about as good as the first lady representing our country should. The gold dress falls to my ankles, sparkling like a jewel, and I let my red hair tumble down my shoulders. I grab a little shawl that matches the dress and step out into the hall.

Matt is standing at the end of the hall, his hands in the pockets of his pants, his jacket raised at his back because of his position as he gazes out the window at the gardens. When faced with the perfection of that tall, black-clad figure, his stance emphasizing the force of his thighs and the slimness of his hips, his pants pressing into his ass because of his hands being jammed into his pockets—

Breathe, Charlotte!

I force my lungs to work in a breath; and as if he senses me, he turns.

A look of surprise flicks across his features, followed by a slow trailing of his eyes down my dress. Jack pads toward him and Matt pets the top of his head as he comes to a perfect sit beside him, and yet his whole undivided attention seems to be on me. His eyes study my face as if memorizing it. As if he’d forgotten it.

I eye him covetously too. Standing there with his dog, he would already kill me. But in a tux? I’m completely gone over this guy. He wears the tux like he wears the presidency. With grace, confidence, and so much ease he seems to have been born destined for both that presidency and that damn onyx-black tuxedo.

He looks devilishly handsome.

His hair is combed back and oh, how I love every chiseled inch of his face. He’s the first to move, prying his hands from his pockets, eyes flaring, inhaling visibly—his inhale stretching the fabric of that black tux.

Disbelief and a punch of longing to have all of this man, his love and his name and his babies, hits me as he approaches. I’m gazing at him walk to me down the hall of the White House residence, both of us ready to attend a social dinner. My first public event with him.

I need a moment, or a thousand moments, to adjust to this new role.

Matt continues advancing—with every step his eyes drinking me in, his lips curling in a seductive, appreciative smile.

“You ready?” He stretches out his hand.

I nod and look at that hand—the hand I’ve held so many times, and that held me. I slide my fingers down the length of his, and he grips them and leads me down the staircase with him.

I grab my dress and lift it to avoid tripping on the hem as we descend, watching as Jack bounds down and announces with a happy bark to the rest of the Secret Service that we’ve arrived downstairs.

Matt glances ahead at our waiting detail as we head toward the exit of the North Portico doors.

“It’s not my first time with the media. I should know better than to feel exposed.”

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll blow every single person in the room away.”

I stop in my tracks, looking at Matt.

Matt, recently showered, absolutely poised and drool-worthy in the tux.

He looks every bit the president. Cool and completely confident.

“You don’t look that blown away,” I say.

“I’m schooled in the art of controlling my emotions. Trust me. I’m blown away.” The heat in his eyes sizzles as he looks at me, and his voice thickens, making my knees wobbly under my dress.

His gaze smolders as he reaches out to tuck my arm into the crook of his and lead me down the White House steps and to the waiting car.

“Behave, Jack,” Matt warns with a raising of his brows as Jack sits at the door and watches us leave.

We climb into the presidential state car and head on our way with a line of black cars flanking us front and back.

It feels surreal to be riding in a motorcade with him. The size of the team required to protect him is in the hundreds. Twenty-six cars travel with us, including medical assistance, motorcycles, and press. I know snipers are planted on the route, mailboxes removed to avoid explosives. It’s a perfectly orchestrated master symphony of hundreds of players, all circling around the president and his safety.

I’m so aware of the people glancing toward our cars as we pass that it takes me a moment to become aware of Matt watching me.

He looks stunning in that tux and he smells so good, his cologne making me dizzy.

His presence, his nearness, his gaze. I clench my thighs together under my gorgeous, glittering Cinderella dress, wanting him. Wanting him so much, not just physically, but emotionally. I crave our nights alone, talking . . .

In the White House, there are so many people—butlers, maids, doormen, ushers, plus the West Wing staff—I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have the courage to do more than steal in secret into his room. Or let him steal into mine.