Chapter 17

Henry

As soon as the limo pulls up and Beatrice walks out of the hotel, I’m completely blown away by how stunning she is.

She walks towards the car, and I silently thank myself for choosing the perfect gown for her shape. The satin hugs in all the right places and falls gracefully off of her hips, cascading to the ground in a smooth, elegant flow, framing all of her best assets.

I’m instantly brought back to our first dinner together in the White House and how much I wanted her then—and how much I still want her now.

She’s driven, determined, passionate, and drop dead gorgeous. I’m convinced that there’s no one else on this planet like her, and there’s no one else I’d rather be my date to dinner.

Is it a date, though? She’s seemingly blocked my every attempt to get her alone, but I can feel the tension between us—the lingering glances, the handshakes and touches that go on just a half a second too long, the shy giggles and soft sighs.

I’m brought back to the present when one of the security staff opens the door for her and she peers in, giving me a shy smile.

That was then, though, and this is now. Things are different. Tonight, I’m going to make sure that she knows how I feel.

She steps into the limousine, and I grin at her, earning a small smile in return, and I’m pretty sure I can see a slight flush in her cheeks—a good sign.

“Well, don’t you look absolutely gorgeous tonight.”

She looks back at me with a smirk and tilts her head, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear as she quips back at me.

“Oh? Thank you so much, Sir. Someone very dear to me had it sent over. I’ll give them your thanks and appreciation.”

She giggles and turns away slightly, and I can’t help the soft grunt that escapes my lips, which I quickly mask it with a cough, pretending to clear my throat.

We make small talk as we head to the Italian Prime Minister’s home in the Palazzo Chigi and head inside together, security taking us inside.

I loop her arm into mine, and she smiles at me. I wink back at her, grinning. She simply sighs and looks away, her cheeks flushed, and I can see a silent giggle threatening to bubble up.

We make our way into the main foyer, and I’m introduced to a number of important people—whose names I already know—but I don’t really give a flying fuck about them. My focus is solely on the woman on my arm.

Bea is beautiful, kind, fierce, driven, and incredibly intelligent—everything a man like me could ever want in a woman.

I know that I should be paying attention to what people are saying to me and the discussions being had—but I just really can’t bring myself to care.

I’m paying more attention to the way Beatrice moves and how her lips curl up into the most amazing smile when someone recognizes her work. Or the way that she cocks her eyebrow and gives that look of hers when she’s being playful.

I’ve got to get my head in the game.

I start discussing the most recent news item with another visiting dignitary as Beatrice strolls off with someone, being led to view a painting just down the room on the east wall. After a few minutes, I excuse myself and scan the room for her, and my eye is instantly drawn to her— and the fact that everyone else seems to be looking at her as well.

I can’t blame them, really.

I glance over at Beatrice, who’s speaking to one of the Italian prime minister’s councilors, and although she seems like she’s a bit nervous, she seems completely in her element, and her conversational counterpart is obviously none the wiser.

Not many people could be thrown into a situation like this and thrive, but she is definitely one of them. It’s one of the reasons I find myself so infatuated with her and why I can’t get her out of my damned head.

I can tell that the conversation is dry and that she wants out, though, so I stroll over and excuse her, citing important White House matters to discuss before dinner.

As we link arms again and walk back into the crowded main foyer, she leans in and chuckles as she manages to whisper a relieved ‘thank you’ into my ear.

“Well, you looked like you could use an out. Not that anyone else could tell, but I could.”

She looks at me with an arched brow and a smirk. “Oh, really, Mr President?” Her tone is playful and coy.

“Really, Miss Barlow. I’m incredibly observant, you know.”

She smiles at me and gives me a playful tap on my arm, and she scans the room, looking for someone, her eyes narrowed as she peers around.

“Looking for someone?”

She looks back at me with a surprised look on her face, and then chuckles as she gazes down at her dress, swishing the fabric.

“What? Oh, yes, I was looking for Hope. I forgot to thank her for the choice of dress; it’s absolutely beautiful, and it fits like a dream.”

Yes, yes it does.

I flash her a flirty grin and chuckle softly. “Hope had nothing to do with it.”

She tilts her head at me in confusion, and I can see the gears turning in her mind.

“What do you mean, Hope had nothing to do with it?”

I smirk at her and roll my eyes, picking up our pace towards the dining hall.

“I picked it out, not Hope. I chose the dress, had it altered, and sent over to your room. Didn’t you get my note?”

She scoffs playfully and cocks an eyebrow at me, shaking her head as she chortles back to me.

“Oh, is that so? And how did you know my size, then, hmm?”

I wink at her as I lead us towards the main dining hall, where the crowd is heading to be seated for dinner. As we enter the hallway, I lean in and whisper into her ear and slide my hand to the small of her back, reveling in the hitch in her breath that follows.

“Like I said, Bea, Hope isn’t the only one who’s observant.”

She looks up at me with a shy smile, her cheeks the same color as the crimson drapes cast along the windows, and says nothing. I match her gaze with a warm smile, and much to my delight, she reciprocates.

After what seems like forever and a day of mingling and chatting with various dignitaries, we’re finally seated at our table.

She’s seated directly across from me, Lawrence on the right side of her and one of the Italian diplomats on the left. She’s quickly drawn into conversation by the man to her left, and it doesn’t stop once our dinner arrives.

The entire meal she fields questions and holds her own in a debate with both Lawrence and the diplomat seated next to her, and I spend most of that time watching in awe.

Her knowledge and awareness of Italian politics and recent events is impressive, and I can tell that even Lawrence is impressed when he flashes a surprised glance my way. I simply shrug and nod, sliding my gaze back to her.

I can see her fingers twitch absentmindedly every time the man to her left tells her something of note, as she subconsciously reaches for her pen, wanting to write everything down.

Of course she does; she’s a journalist at heart—and a damn good one. I snicker to myself when I see her finally lace her fingers together and place them on the table, willing herself to stop fidgeting, lest someone notice.

Shortly after dinner is over, music starts to play, and I leave my table to approach her. She looks up at me as I draw near and blushes when I reach down and take her hand in mine.

“Shall we?”

She smiles at me and stands, giggling as she responds.

“Well, Mr President, since you asked so nicely.”

We make our way out to the dance floor hand in hand, and I place my free hand on the small of her back, drawing her in close.

She smiles at me and holds my gaze as we glide across the floor, but I see her smile falter and her brows knit together when something catches her eye over my shoulder.

I glance behind me to see Hope walking in and mingling with some of the other guests, and I look back at Beatrice with confusion.

“What’s wrong?”

She sighs softly and says nothing, but I can tell there’s some sort of inner turmoil going on in her head.

“Bea, talk to me.”

I squeeze her hand in mine and offer a smile, to which she frowns apprehensively before blurting out her question, seeming to immediately regret asking it when she does.

“Why are you here with me when Hope is right over there?”

Hope? Why on Earth does she think I want Hope?

I shake my head and raise my brows, but before I can respond, she elaborates.

“It’s just…she’s amazing at her job; she’s well-liked, respected, powerful, and looks like a supermodel. She’s perfect for you.”

She looks up at me all doe-eyed, and I pull her in against me so I can lean forward and whisper into her ear.

“She may be perfect for some, but she’s not perfect for me.”