The Duchess Diaries. Merline Lovelace
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for the offer,” she said, making a valiant attempt to bat away the flies, “but I’d better pass.”
Somewhat to her disappointment Jack didn’t press the issue.
“You sure you can’t sneak away for an hour or two and have dinner with me?” he asked instead.
Desire waged a fierce, no-holds-barred, free-for-all with duty. The old, fun-loving Gina would have yielded without a second thought. The new, still fun-loving but not quite as irresponsible Gina sighed.
“Sorry, Jack. I really need to spend this afternoon and evening prepping for the event.”
He conceded with his usual easy charm. “I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Jack disconnected, swung his desk chair around and settled his gaze on the slice of Washington visible from his third-floor office. Since he held ambassadorial rank, he rated a full suite at the State Department’s main headquarters on C Street.
The thirties-era building was originally designed to house the War Department, but the war planners outgrew it before it was completed. When they moved into the Pentagon in 1941, State inherited this massive structure constructed of buff-colored sandstone. It and its more modern annexes were located in the area of D.C. known as Foggy Bottom, so named because this section of the city was once a dismal, gray-misted swamp. Many of the talking heads who filled today’s airwaves with their dubious wisdom liked to suggest the decisions coming out State were still pretty foggy and swampy.
The windows in Jack’s office gave a narrow view down 21st Street to the National Mall, with the Lincoln Memorial at one end and the Washington Monument at the other. On good days he could almost catch the glitter of sunlight bouncing off the reflecting pool. The view didn’t hold a particle of interest at the moment.
All his thoughts centered on Gina. The news that she was coming to Washington had proved the only bright spark in an otherwise grim morning spent reviewing casualty reports and incident analyses from twenty years of attacks on U.S. diplomatic outposts. Just the sound of her voice and merry laugh lightened his mood.
Thoughtfully, Jack tipped back his chair. Simply knowing that Gina was here, on his home turf, sparked a need that dug into him with sharp, fierce claws. Her image was etched in his mind. Those bright blue eyes. That luscious mouth. The tumble of white-blond curls.
The image shifted, and he pictured her manga’ed mane. God, what if she was still sporting that look? He could only imagine his father’s reaction. The thought produced a wry grin as he swung his chair around and dialed his parents’ number.
* * *
Jack brought his tux in to the office with him the next morning and changed before leaving work that evening. Anxious to see Gina, he arrived at L’Enfant Plaza early.
The plaza was named for Pierre Charles L’Enfant, the French-born architect recruited by General LaFayette to serve as an engineer with George Washington’s Continental army. A long rectangle, the plaza was bordered on three sides by an amalgamation of office buildings, government agencies, retail shops and hotels. One of I. M. Pei’s iconic glass pyramids dominated the center. A sister to the pyramid in front of the Louvre, it rose from a lower level with gleaming majesty.
The spot was a good choice for evening events. Foot and vehicle traffic died out when the surrounding offices emptied, leaving plenty of underground parking for guests. Or they could hop off the Metro and let the escalators whisk them up to the plaza. Jack had opted for plan B and emerged from the Metro’s subterranean levels into a balmy June evening. Tiny white lights illuminated the trees lining two sides of the plaza. Centered between those sparkling rows, the lighted pyramid formed a dramatic backdrop for lavishly filled buffet tables and strategically placed carving stations.
Two dozen or so other early arrivals grazed the tables or clumped together in small groups with drinks in hand. Jack took advantage of the sparse crowd and lack of lines to hit one of the S-shaped bars set up close to the pyramid. He kept an eye out for Gina as he crossed the plaza but didn’t spot either her blond curls or a waterfall of purple. Nor did he find a bartender behind the ebony-and-glass counter. He angled around to check the other bars and saw an attendant at only one. Flipping and tipping bottles, the harried attendant splashed booze and mixers into an array of glasses and shoved them at the tuxedoed waitstaff standing in line at his station.
The fact that three of the four bars weren’t ready for action surprised Jack until he spotted Gina, a male in a white shirt and black vest and a plump female with a radio clipped to her waist hurrying out onto the plaza. The man peeled off in the direction of one unattended bar, the woman aimed for another. Gina herself edged behind the ebony S where Jack stood.
“Shorthanded?” he asked as she whipped bottles of champagne out of a refrigerated case and lined them up on the bar.
She rolled her eyes. “Just a tad.”
When she started to attack the foil caps, he moved behind the bar to help. She flashed him a grateful look and set him to popping corks while she extracted champagne flutes from a rack beneath the counter.
“I should be in the media center making a last check of the seating,” she told him, “but I’ve been on the phone with the bar subcontractor for twenty friggin’ minutes. He’s supposed to be sending replacements for their no-shows. You can bet this is the last time the jerk will do business with TTG.”
The fire in her eyes told Jack that was a safe bet.
“Keep your fingers crossed the replacements get here before the real hordes descend,” she muttered as she began pouring champagne into the tall crystal flutes.
He nodded toward the crowd emerging from the bank of elevators. “I think they’re descending.”
“Crap.” She slapped the filled flutes onto a tray and hooked a finger at one of the waitstaff. “You’re over twenty-one, right?”
“Right.”
“Take this and start circulating.”
“I’m a food server,” he protested.
“Not for the next half hour, you’re not. Take it! I’ve cleared it with your boss.”
Champagne sloshing, she thrust the tray at him and reached under the counter for more flutes.
“Good thing the subcontractors aren’t union,” she said fervently. “My ass would be grass if I got TTG crosswise of the culinary workers and bartenders local.”
Jack eyed the racks of glasses, bottles and nozzles behind the counter. Everything appeared to be clearly labeled.
“I’ve fixed a few martinis and Manhattans in my time. I’ll pull bar duty until your replacements arrive. You go do your thing in the media center.”
“No way! I can’t let you sling booze. You’re a guest.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t. Go. I’ve got this.”
Jack had no trouble interpreting the emotions that flashed across her expressive face. He could tell the instant the idea of John Harris Mason III dishing up drinks at Global Protective Service’s big bash struck her as too irresistible to pass up.
“All right,” she conceded, laughter sparkling in her eyes. “But let’s hope Nicole doesn’t hear about this. My ass won’t just be grass. It’ll be mowed and mulched.”
“And it’s such a nice ass.” He couldn’t help it. He had to reach behind her and caress the body part under discussion. “Trust me, sweetheart, I won’t let anyone mow or mulch it.”
She backed away and tried to look stern, but the light still danced in her eyes. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
Jack couldn’t believe it, either. He’d do it again, though, in a heartbeat. Or better yet, drag her upstairs to that bridal suite she’d mentioned and caress a whole lot more than her ass. Sanity