The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(68)

I stopped reading when I reached the word Queen.

The man who’d delivered my invitation gestured toward the car he’d driven here. “Miss Hayden also thought you might appreciate a ride.”

I glanced back at Asher and Emilia.

“Like I said,” Asher told me, slinging an arm over his sister’s shoulder, “impossible is kind of your thing.”





CHAPTER 51

Walking in heels while wearing a ball gown was, as it turned out, more difficult than finagling an invitation to a state dinner. I made it past White House security without incident but had to fight to keep my balance. Head held high and trying not to grind my teeth, I strode past the photographers documenting the arrival of the president’s guests, my heels clicking audibly against the marble floor and my heart thudding inside my rib cage. The gown swished lightly around my legs as I was ushered into a long hall lined with massive columns. A red carpet the length of Ivy’s house separated me from my destination. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead.

No pain, I thought, no gain.

I walked the length of the carpet, one step after another, my eyes on the prize. When I stepped into the expansive receiving room at the end of the hall, few of the president’s guests marked my entrance—but one who did went ramrod stiff.

To say that Henry Marquette was surprised to see me would have been an understatement. As the shock wore off, he began making his way toward me, weaving through the designer gowns and tuxedos, a polite smile on his face and murder in his eyes. I took possession of the card with my table assignment on it and awaited his arrival.

I didn’t have to wait long.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me sharply. I took his arm as if he’d offered it to me—partially to irritate him and partially for balance.

“I told you I wasn’t letting you do this yourself,” I replied, my smile just as perfunctory and polite as his own. “I’m at table twelve. Where are you?”

He walked me along the edge of the vast, oval-shaped room. “I do not even want to know how you managed this,” he said. Dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo, his resistance to using contractions didn’t seem as out of place as it would have in the halls of Hardwicke.

A waiter came by and offered us appetizers. I spotted the president and First Lady on the other side of the room, near a quartet of windows that looked out over the White House lawn. They were standing next to an older woman wearing a sash and crown, who I could only assume was the queen of Denmark.

“I deeply suspect this is a bad idea,” I told Henry.

He executed an elegant shrug. “The room is crawling with Secret Service. What could possibly go wrong?”

Before I could answer, his mother approached the two of us, clothed in a deceptively simple black gown with sleeves that hugged her shoulders. “Tess,” she said. “We thought that was you. Is your sister here?”

She looked around, as if Ivy might materialize at any second.

“No,” I said. “A friend from school was supposed to come, but she got sick at the last minute, and she thought I might enjoy taking her spot.” I couldn’t help looking back to the president and First Lady. “Apparently, I’d already been cleared to visit the White House.”

“Of course you had,” Henry said dourly.

Across the room, the Nolans spotted us and began making their way through the crowd. I tried not to read anything into that but found myself taking a step closer to Henry.

The president stopped in front of Henry’s mother. “Your Highness,” he said to the older woman on his arm, “may I present to you Pamela Abellard-Marquette?”

The queen peered at Henry’s mother. “I believe I know your father,” she said in faintly accented English. “Louis Abellard, yes?” She saw Henry and processed Mrs. Marquette’s married name. A fleck of sorrow crossed her eyes.

Henry’s mother saw it, too. Appreciation flickered briefly across her features as she offered a curtsy so naturally that it didn’t even strike me as odd. “And this is my son, Henry,” she said, “and his friend Tess.”

Georgia Nolan looked at Henry and me with a gleam in her eye. “The Marine Band will be playing later,” she told Henry. “You and Tess will have to dance.”

Those sounded more like the words of a matchmaker than someone who, in any way, considered Henry or me a threat. The president didn’t address either of us at all. As the Nolans continued greeting people, I exchanged a glance with Henry.

Either they’re excellent actors, I thought, or they have no idea that we went to the press.

Henry read my expression, then arched an eyebrow slightly in return. Wait, I could almost hear him saying, and see.

Soon, we were herded toward the Grand Staircase. The president and First Lady, as well as Her Highness, were announced. Slowly, the rest of us descended into the State Dining Room, like Cinderella walking into the ball.



After dinner, there was indeed dancing in the East Room. Music echoed off the twenty-foot ceilings, a trio of chandeliers casting light on the gathered Washington elite below. I caught sight of a graying A-list actor leading his philanthropist wife out onto the dance floor. As others followed suit, a somewhat reluctant Henry offered me his hand.

“I don’t dance,” I said flatly.

“You do,” he replied, “if you want to get a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the room with no one the wiser.”