Читать книгу Temptation In The Boardroom: Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss / Beware of the Boss / Promoted to Wife? - Paula Roe - Страница 9
ОглавлениеHARRISON’S MOUTH WAS DRY—parched with anticipation. His entire body was rigid with the expectation of physical satisfaction as the beautiful brunette rose from his office chair and pushed him down into it. Her soft, lush thighs hitting his as she straddled him made his heart catch in his throat. The lacy black stockings she wore with garters made an appearance, sending his blood coursing through his veins. He had to have her. Now.
Her long, silky dark hair brushed his face as she bent and kissed him. His hands reached blindly for the lace on her thighs, needing to touch. She slapped his fingers away. “Wait,” she instructed in a husky, incredibly sexy voice. “Not yet.”
He started to protest, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, reached behind her and pulled out something metal that glinted in the dim light of the desk lamp. Handcuffs. Mother of God.
He jackknifed to a sitting position. Sweat dripped from his body. Reality slapped him in the face as he discovered he wasn’t being seduced in his office chair by a stunning brunette; he was in his own bed. Stunning disappointment followed. His racing heart wanted her. His body was pulsing, crying out for her to finish what she’d started...
An appalled feeling spread through him. He only knew one set of eyes that particular shade of gray. His new PA. He had been fantasizing about his new PA.
A harsh curse left his mouth. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and brought his breathing under control. His dream had been wholly inappropriate. Never had he brought sex into the office and never would he. The guns and the handcuffs had truly pushed him over the edge.
And the stockings. That might actually have been the worst.
The birds were already singing. He poured himself into the shower and attempted to clear his head. The dull throb in his temple he’d been harboring for days was still there, reminding him normal human beings needed at least six hours of sleep on a regular basis to function at optimal performance.
His mouth twisted. Not that anyone considered him a normal human being. They thought he was a machine.
He toweled himself off, put his aching body in front of a cup of coffee and the newspaper and tried to focus on the rather mundane headlines. But his utterly incongruous dream kept working its way into his head.
He never had fantasies like that. He identified his urges, satisfied them according to a convenient slot in his insane schedule with a woman who didn’t mind his lack of commitment, then he filed them back where they belonged: extracurricular activity that came after work.
His coffee cup went thump on the breakfast table. There was no way he could have that woman working for him. He took a last gulp of coffee, tossed the paper aside and headed for the gym in his building. He’d talk to Coburn when he got in. Tell him this just wasn’t going to work.
Coburn strolled into his office a few minutes after he’d landed there, looking disgustingly fresh and sharp in a navy blue Armani suit. That they were both early risers who appreciated the benefits of physical exercise was about their only similarity. Even their intent in doing it was different. Harrison slotted it into his schedule like any other appointment, because if he didn’t he’d be regularly seeing a heart specialist somewhere around fifty. It was in the Grant family genes.
Coburn, on the other hand, pursued mad daredevil-type sports that skirted death on a regular basis. Paragliding, mountain climbing, bicycle racing in European countries with tiny alpine ledges for tracks. Not to mention what it did for his physique, which maintained the steady flow of females in and out of his life so there would never be a dearth where he’d have to consider what the hell he was actually doing. His ex-wife had messed him up and messed him up good. But since that topic had long been considered subject non grata, Harrison began with the topic of the hour.
“How selfless of you to loan me Francesca Masseria.” He sat back in his desk chair and took his Kenyan brew with him.
“Isn’t it?” Coburn grinned. He took the seat opposite him. “Sometimes I can sacrifice for the greater good, H.”
Harrison frowned. He hated when Coburn called him H and he knew it. “How many times have you slept with her?”
His brother gave him a look of mock offence. “Not even once. Although it’s tempting. If God designed the perfect woman and set her down on this earth, it’d be Frankie and those legs of hers.”
“Francesca,” Harrison corrected, refusing to go there. “And you don’t speak about an employee in that manner.”
You just had hot, explicit dreams about them.
Coburn rolled his eyes.
“You’ve moaned about not having a good PA for years, then when you get one you love, you hand her over to me. Why?”
His brother trained his striking blue gaze on him the way he did the board when he wanted them on their knees. “Self-preservation. Frankie is a knockout. Of late, I’ve discovered she has a crush on me, although not one of her very proper bones would ever admit it. It’s only a matter of time before we end up in bed together and I want to prevent that from happening because I want to keep her as my PA.” He shrugged. “So I send her to the school of Harrison for six months, you train her with that regimental authority of yours, and I get her back when I am fully immersed in someone else, better than she was before.”
If Harrison hadn’t known his younger brother as well as he did, he would have assumed he was joking. But this was Coburn, who possessed every genetic trait the youngest born was created to feature, including an exaggerated sense of the need for his own independence from everything, including serious relationships with females and his responsibilities to Grant Industries.
“You do realize if HR heard even a quarter of that speech, I’d have to fire you.”
Coburn lifted a Rolex-clad hand. “Then I retire to the south of Italy, road-race most of the year and manage my shares from there. Either works for me.”
Harrison tamped down the barely restrained aggression he felt toward his younger brother. “She’s not experienced enough for the job.”
“This is Frankie we’re talking about. You’ll see when you meet her.”
“Francesca,” Harrison corrected again. “And I met her last night.”
Coburn frowned. “How? You’ve only just gotten back.”
“She was working late. Likely trying to make sense of things with Tessa’s abrupt departure... I stopped in for a file.”
“Your own fault,” Coburn pointed out. “You’ve known for months Tessa was leaving and you did nothing about it.”
Because he couldn’t bear to be without his mind-bogglingly good PA who made his insane life bearable. Avoidance had been preferable...
“Anyway,” Coburn continued, “it’s the perfect solution for both of us. Frankie is incredible. Green, yes, but just as smart as Tessa. And,” he added, pausing for effect, “she speaks Russian.”
“Russian?”
“Fluently. Plus Italian, but I’m thinking the Russian is going to be more useful to you right now.”
“How does she speak Russian?”
Coburn frowned. “I think she said her best friend is Russian. Something like that...”
Given his solitary goal in life at the moment was to obliterate Anton Markovic, the man who’d put his father in his grave, and negotiations to make it happen were at an extremely fragile stage with Leonid Aristov balking at the deal to acquire his company, a PA who could speak Russian could be a very valuable asset.
The amusement faded from Coburn’s face. “You don’t have to keep at this, you know? Father is ten feet under. He’s never going to see you bring Markovic down. You’re doing this for you, Harrison, not him. And lord knows you need a life.”
His hands curled tightly around his coffee mug, his knuckles gleaming white. His younger brother’s lack of interest in avenging the man who had built this company was a position he had long understood. His personal opinions on how he lived his life? Meaningless, when he had always been the only person holding this company together.
He put his coffee cup down on the desk before he crushed it between his fingers, and focused his gaze on his brother. “How about you keep playing with those international markets and making us money like you do and save your philosophical sermons for someone who cares?”
Coburn’s easygoing expression slid into one approaching the frigidness of his. “Someday you’re going to realize that cold heart of yours has left you alone in this big empty world, H. And when you do, nobody is going to care anymore. But that’s okay, because you will have your vengeance.”
Harrison flashed him a “see yourself out” look. Coburn stood, straightened his suit coat and paused by the door. “I gave you Frankie because you need her. But if you so much as cause one tear to roll down her face, you’ll answer to me for it. You hear me?”
His brother disappeared in a wave of expensive aftershave. Harrison glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty. It was 7:30 a.m. and already he was exhausted. His life exhausted him.
* * *
Frankie came to work armed and ready, although that might be an unfortunate turn of phrase given last night’s occurrences. “Okay,” she admitted to Rocky, who still looked less than thrilled to be in his new surroundings, but marginally calmer than yesterday, “let’s just say that was a bad choice of words.”
She had worn her most expensive suit today, which wasn’t very expensive given her limited budget for a wardrobe after paying rent for the brownstone apartment she shared with Josephine. But she’d altered it so it looked custom, the lightweight, charcoal-gray tailored jacket and skirt hugging her curves without broadcasting the depth of them. The color did something for her dark hair and gray eyes she considered inferior to those of her striking female siblings, and her chignon, well, it was the most perfect she’d ever attempted. Geri from Accounting had looked noticeably envious this morning on the elevator, and if there was a morning she needed to win their dueling hairstyle competition, it was this.
She needed all the confidence she could muster facing her new boss this morning. If he decided to keep her.
Dumping her purse in her drawer, she ignored her rumbling stomach. She’d tried to eat, but she hadn’t been able to get any breakfast down except a slice of toast and juice. She refused to call it nerves because she needed to have full armor on this morning. She’d been noticeably jumpy when the security guard had checked her ID downstairs and that scene of her boss in handcuffs kept replaying itself over and over in her head.
And then there had been his bedroom voice last night on the phone and her resulting descent into lunacy... Her stomach dipped. Today she was going to revert back to her usual, capable self: five steps ahead of her boss at all times, unruffleable and cheerful no matter what the request. And she was going to stay far, far away from that panic button. In fact, she was going to cover it with tape.
Mouth set in a firm gesture of determination, she ran her hands over her head to ensure every hair was in place and, satisfied she was all cool sophistication, walked toward Harrison’s office. His brisk, clipped voice directing a conference call stopped her in her tracks. This was good. It would give her time to get organized. Having a boss who came in at 7:00 a.m. left you a bit flat-footed.
She made herself a cup of tea and scanned her email. Tessa had evaded her husband’s watchful eye long enough to send her some notes from her smartphone. Frankie sank back in her seat, took a sip of her tea and ploughed gratefully through her list of Harrison rules.
Triage his email first thing in the morning and keep an eye on anything urgent. He’s married to his smartphone, but the volume is overwhelming. You might have to jump in.
Take his phone messages on the pink message pad on the desk, not the blue one, and don’t write on the second half of the page. He likes to make notes for follow-up there.
Fail on that one. She’d put a stack of messages on Harrison’s desk last night that had used the whole page. She’d fix that today...
Don’t ever put a call through to him from any woman other than a business contact or his mother. Casual dates like to pose as girlfriends when they’re not. He hasn’t had a regular woman in his life for a while. Apparently, as you likely know from the gossip pages, he’s supposed to be marrying Cecily Hargrove to cement the family dynasty, but I have seen no evidence of her of late, so proceed with caution and never talk with the press.
Fascinating. She was nothing if not discreet.
If he asks you to send flowers to a woman, send calla lilies. They’re his go-to choice. If he ever asks you to send anything else, you can bet she’s “the one.”
Frankie smiled. Although she couldn’t imagine Harrison Grant ever falling for a woman like that.
Somewhere between eight and nine he will call you into his office to put together a to-do list for the day. Execute the list in the order he gives it to you. He’s like the Swiss train system. He needs things done in a certain way at a certain time. Stick to this and you’ll be fine.
Wow. He was even more of a control freak than she was.
And, finally, don’t ever interrupt him when he’s on a conference call. Put a note in front of him if you have to. But since he spends four or five hours on them a day, do bring him coffee. The Kenyan blend—black. He figures out lunch himself.
Ugh. She glanced toward Harrison’s office. She hadn’t done that. That necessitated facing him.
Getting to her feet, she brewed a steaming cup of Kenyan blend in the kitchen, slipped into Harrison’s office with the stealth of a cat and headed toward his desk. He was on speakerphone, pacing in front of the windows like a lethal weapon as he talked. She had almost made it to the desk when he turned around.
Her nerves, the intensity of his black stare and the depth of his intimidating good looks in the pinstriped three-piece suit he wore like billionaire armor set her hand to shaking. Hard. Coffee sloshed over the side of the mug and singed her hand. Fire raced along the tender skin between her thumb and forefinger. She bit back a howl of pain, set the mug on the desk, speed walked to the outer office and put it under cold water in the kitchen.
A couple of minutes under the tap made the burn bearable. She spread some salve from the emergency kit on it and retraced her steps into Harrison’s office where he was still spewing point after point into the speakerphone. Her gaze locked on the precious dark wood of the desk. A large water ring stared back at her, embedded into the wood. Oh, no. Please, no.
She scrubbed at it to no avail. Moved the mug to a coaster and retreated to her desk. Sat there mentally calculating how long it would take him to fire her. Five more minutes on the conference call, a couple of minutes to think of how he was going to do it and bam—she’d be gone.
“Get ready to move again,” she told Rocky.
Coward, his elegant snout accused.
“You try dealing with tall, dark and dangerous. Heavy on the dangerous.”
Footsteps on the marble brought her head up. Dangerous had emerged from his office and conference call, three minutes early. He was looking at her as if she was quite possibly mad. “Who are you talking to?”
Frankie waved her hand at Rocky. “Rocky Balboa, meet Harrison Grant.”
A dark brow lifted. “Rocky Balboa as in the boxer, Rocky?’
She nodded, heat filling her cheeks.
“You talk to a fish?”
“That is true, yes.”
There was a profound silence. Frankie closed her eyes and waited for the two words to come. You’re fired.
“Give me your hand.”
She opened her eyes. He was looking at her burnt hand. “It’s fine,” she refused, tucking it under the desk. “I’m so sorry about the coffee stain. I’ll see if the cleaners can work some magic.”
“It can be sanded and refinished.”
At an insane cost. Why was he being so reasonable about it? She swallowed hard. “Do you want to go through the priorities for today?”
“No, I want to see your hand. Now.”
She stuck it out. He took it in his and ran the pad of his thumb over her fire-engine-red knuckles. Frankie’s stomach did a slow roll at the innocent contact. It didn’t seem innocent coming from her fire-breathing boss. It seemed—disturbing.
He sighed. “If we’re going to be able to work together, you have to stop being afraid of me.”
Gray eyes met black. He wanted her to keep working for him?
“I’m not afraid of you.”
His thumb settled on the pulse racing at the base of her wrist. “Either you are or you have the fastest resting pulse of any human being I’ve encountered.”
She yanked her hand away. “Okay, maybe I am—just a little intimidated. Last night wasn’t exactly a great introduction.”
“Stand up.”
“Pardon me?”
“Stand up.”
She eyed him for a moment, then rose to her full five feet eight inches, which, with the added height of her shoes, brought her eyes level with his smooth, perfectly shaven jaw.
“Look at me.”
She lifted her gaze, bracing herself for that intimidating stare of his up close, and it was no less formidable than she’d expected it to be. Except she learned there were exotic flecks of amber in it that warmed you up if you dared to look. They disputed the coldness went all the way through him, suggested if he chose to use the full power of that beautiful, complex gaze on you in a particular way for a particular purpose you might melt in his hands like a hundred-plus pounds of useless female.
His mouth tilted. “I’m intense to work with, Francesca, but I’m not the big bad wolf. Nor am I unreasonable. Especially when I’ve had a full night’s sleep.”
Right.
“Now say it again like you mean it.”
“Say what?”
“I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”
Her mouth twisted. “You’re making fun of me.”
His sexy mouth curved. “I’m curing you. Say it.”
She forced herself to ignore the glitter of humor in his eyes, which took his dangerously attractive vibe to a whole other level. “I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”
“Don’t ask me to take that seriously.”
She pursed her lips, feeling ridiculous. Injected an iron will into her tone. “I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”
He nodded approvingly. “Better.”
His undoubtedly sinfully expensive aftershave worked its way into her pores. They said a person’s own chemistry combined with a fragrance to make it what it was and in this case, it was spicy, all male and intoxicating. She wished he would take a step back and relinquish her personal space.
“Francesca?”
“Yes.”
His gaze was hooded. Unreadable. “I agree last night was a...disconcerting way to meet. I suggest we wipe it from our memories and start fresh.”
The message conveyed was unmistakable. He wasn’t just talking about the handcuffs...he was talking about the attraction between them.
She firmed her mouth, taking a step backward. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Exactly what I was thinking this morning.”
“Good.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Back in five. Can we go over the day then?”
She nodded. “Should I really? Call you Harrison, I mean?”
“Tessa does...so yes.”
Frankie watched him go, then sat down with the loose limbs of a prisoner who’d just escaped execution and was profoundly grateful for the fact. She found her notebook, carried her tea into Harrison’s office and was pondering why Cecily Hargrove hadn’t been named Mrs. Harrison Grant yet if he really did have a sense of humor along with the brooding sex appeal, when the phone rang.
She went and picked up the call at her own desk. Leonid Aristov’s assistant announced herself briskly and rather snootily. Frankie shifted into Russian, feeling a tug of satisfaction when the other woman paused, took the development in and continued on in her own language. “Mr. Aristov,” Tatiana Yankov stated, “would like to have a meeting with Mr. Grant in London next week.”
Frankie glanced at Harrison’s schedule. “Impossible,” she regretted smoothly. If he had time to go to the bathroom it would be a miracle. “Perhaps the last week of August?”
“If Mr. Grant would like to discuss closing this deal with Mr. Aristov, which I believe he is eager to do, he needs to be in London, next week,” the other woman repeated, as if unconvinced of her command of the language.
Frankie kept her tone perfectly modulated. “Could you tell me what this meeting is to be about? That way I can discuss it with Mr. Grant.”
“I couldn’t say,” came the distant response. “Mr. Aristov simply asked me to schedule the meeting. Call me back when you have a date.” Tatiana rattled off a London phone number.
Frankie jotted the number down. “I can’t schedule a meeting without knowing what it’s a—” A dial tone sounded in her ear. She held the phone away from her and stared at it. She had not just done that. She was still staring at the phone when Harrison walked past her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Ready?”
She followed him into his office. “That was Leonid Aristov’s assistant on the phone.”
He wheeled around, coffee sloshing in his mug. Frankie’s gaze flew to the boiling liquid as it skimmed the rim of the cup, wavered there like the high seas, then elected to stay in.
“What did she want?”
Frankie returned her gaze to his face. “Aristov wants a meeting next week.”
“A meeting?” A frown furrowed his brow. “He’s already agreed to everything in principle. Did you ask what the meeting was for?”
“I did. She wouldn’t give me anything. She just said Aristov wanted the meeting and it had to be next week.”
“Have you had a look at my schedule?” He trained his gaze on her as if she had an IQ of fifty. “This deal is scheduled to pass regulatory authorities next month, Ms. Masseria. I don’t fly around the world on a whim because Leonid Aristov wants me to.”
Great, they were back to Ms. Masseria... She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I’m not suggesting you should. But she was very rude. She hung up on me.”
He blinked at her. “Why would she hang up on you?”
“She seemed busy. I was trying to probe for more information when she cut me off and hung up.”
He impaled her on that razor-sharp gaze of his that had turned him from beauty to the beast in the space of a round second. Then he thrust out an elegant hand. “Give me the number.”
She held on to it. “I can call her back. Just give me some direc—”
“Give me the number.”
Frankie went back to her desk, grabbed the pink message pad, marched into his office and gave it to him. And called him a bad name in her head. A big, bad one. She had liked him so much five minutes ago. She really had.
He was dialing the ice queen back when she left. She put her head down and started working through his email. God forbid she’d missed something they’d need for their briefing.
He came out minutes later. She suppressed a victorious thrill at the dark scowl on his face. “Cancel everything for Thursday and Friday of next week. We’ll fly to London Wednesday night, meet with Aristov Thursday morning then leave ourselves a buffer day in case we have more to talk about with him.”
“Did you find out what the meeting is for?”
“No,” he said icily. “It’s all going to be a pleasant surprise.”
Frankie kept her eyes on the notepad she was scribbling on. “You said Wednesday night we fly out?”
“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”
‘Yes— No—” She lifted her gaze to his in a pained look. “It’s just that I have a special—commitment Wednesday night.”
His expression darkened. “Taking into account you actually want this job, Ms. Masseria, you will learn to eat, breathe and sleep it for the next six months. So I suggest you...uncommit yourself.”
She bit her lip and nodded. If there was one event this year she didn’t want to miss, it was Tomasino Giardelli’s eightieth birthday party. But this was her job and she needed it. And it had gotten off to a rocky enough start as it was.
“May I ask a question?”
He waved a hand at her.
“I’ve been working through that last bit of research you wanted Tessa to compile for the Aristov deal. I get what you’re asking for, but, well, Coburn always counseled me to understand the big picture so I can visualize what you need in the end product. Give you my best work... What I don’t get,” she ventured frowning, “is why Grant Industries is buying a company that mirrors the exact capabilities of one of our subsidiaries...”
His jaw went lax. She had the distinct impression he didn’t know how to answer her question from the silence that followed. But of course he did, didn’t he?
“Coburn,” he rasped finally, “and I have different management styles, Ms. Masseria. Coburn likes to collaborate, to involve people in decisions. I don’t. I prefer people to do what I tell them. That’s what works for me.”
Not a tyrant? Blood rushed to her face as if he’d physically slapped her. “Fine,” she agreed quietly. “If I have a specific question I’ll ask it.”
“Excellent.” He scraped a hand through his hair, looking weary for a man who hadn’t yet hit lunch. “Book us a suite at the Chatsfield so we can work.”
She nodded. Then, unable to help herself because she needed to get the rules straight, she asked, “Would you prefer me to use Mr. Grant instead of Harrison now that you seem to have reverted to Ms. Masseria?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Frankie’s stomach dipped but she held her ground with a lifted chin.
“My slip,” he stated in a lethally quiet voice. “First names are fine.”
She nodded and turned back to her PC. Harrison started toward his office, then paused outside it. She looked up expectantly.
“We are pursuing Siberius because it commands alternate markets to the ones we already have control of with Taladan. It makes business sense.”
“Got it.”
He turned to go. She shifted her gaze back to her computer.
“Oh, and, Francesca?”
She looked up.
“Please don’t write on the bottom half of these.” He waved the pink message pad at her. “It distracts me.”
He disappeared into his office. Frankie raised her gaze heavenward. Not only did she have to survive life with Harrison Grant for six months, which must prove she was doing penance for something she wasn’t yet aware of, she now had to fly across the Atlantic with him for a crucial meeting that seemed shaky in nature.
Nothing could go wrong with that scenario, could it?
At least there weren’t air marshals on privately chartered flights...
