Читать книгу Temptation In The Boardroom - Дженнифер Хейворд, Paula Roe - Страница 16
ОглавлениеHARRISON WAS HAVING trouble sleeping. Dawn was breaking across Manhattan, a vibrant ribbon of burnt orange stretching low across the skyline, casting the base of the skyscrapers in a mist of shimmering fire. It mirrored the turmoil inside of him, the slow burn that threatened to engulf him.
He’d had maybe three, four restless hours of unconsciousness before he’d abandoned his bed and greeted the morning. There was too much on his brain, too much to accomplish, too many decisions that impacted too many people.
He watched the sun, a bright ball of fire, penetrate the mist and make its way into the sky. Today was the day Leonid Aristov would either cement or destroy his seven-year plan to wipe Anton Markovic’s empire from the face of the earth. To do that, he must stretch the truth, make a man believe something that was quite likely not possible.
It was eating at him. Plaguing him. He grimaced and set his elbows on the smooth limestone ledge that bounded the terrace. At thirty-three his conscience was making an unexpected appearance and he had little difficulty wondering why. Francesca. His personal moral compass who sat on his shoulder, reminding him that the world was not black and white. That one wrong did not right another.
Except in this case it did. Leonid would lose his legacy regardless of who bought Siberius. And he would never let Anton Markovic get away with what he’d done.
He frowned into the hazy pink, orange light. Francesca, on the other hand, was a gray area he couldn’t seem to control. A woman unafraid to call him on who he was. The woman whose kiss had woken up something inside of him he’d thought long ago dead...
He didn’t let himself think of Susanna, ever, because he’d done what he’d had to do in the months following his father’s death. He’d compartmentalized his emotions until there was only rebuilding his father’s legacy left, cutting out the rest, including his longtime girlfriend. It had been an act of survival for a twenty-five-year-old who’d lost his mentor and couldn’t afford to lose everything else.
Susanna, a smart, young financial broker, hadn’t been content to live her life with a shell of a man. And who could blame her? When he’d finally come to terms with his father’s death, she’d moved on, found someone who was more “emotionally available.” It hadn’t just been the last few months, she’d told him sadly, it had been her battle over their entire relationship to get him to open up. “It’s never going to happen, Harrison. I give and you take. I need more.”
His fingertips dug into the cool stone. He hadn’t told Susanna he’d been breaking apart inside, that he didn’t know how to let the pain out, because he was inherently flawed by his experiences. He was better off on his own. And his descent into the world of the unfeeling had worked just fine until Francesca Masseria had roared into his life and stamped her do-gooder presence all over his psyche.
He raked a hand through his spiky, disheveled hair and frowned. So that kiss had reminded him he knew how to feel. That he didn’t have the emotional IQ of zero his brother thought he had. She was his employee. She was too innocent for a jaded animal like him and she was messing with his head.
If that wasn’t enough, he had her tied up in knots over her ethical quandaries. Plenty of reasons to stay away.
The sun rose higher between the buildings, insistently making its presence known to the Manhattan morning. His anxiety rose with it. The political bloodhounds chasing him had stepped up their campaign. Wanted a decision. It made his head want to blow off. To mount an independent run for the presidency meant walking away from Grant. It meant altering his life in a way he could never take back. How could he possibly make such a decision now when all he could see was a marker on Anton Markovic’s back?
A fatalistic curve twisted his lips. Some would see such ungratefulness at so much opportunity as foolish. Yet it had never been his idea to get into politics. His grandfather had been a congressman. His father had wanted to be governor. Yes, he saw a need for change, but was he the man to do it? Or was he too much of a rebel to make it work?
When his head got too heavy to sit on his shoulders, when he thought it might actually blow off, he headed for the gym. When he got into the office at six-thirty, Coburn was already there.
His brow lifted. “Time change got you?”
“Brutal. But the blondes were fantastic.”
He shook his head. His brother had been in Germany for the past week meeting with the manufacturers who built their automobiles with Grant parts. “Try being a little less predictable,” he taunted, setting his briefcase down on Coburn’s desk.
“I dunno,” Coburn came back thoughtfully, tossing his pen on the desk. “I think you’re holding your end of the stick surprisingly well lately. You have the political pundits on the edge of their seat.”
“Because they have nothing interesting to talk about.”
Coburn leaned back in his chair. “Are you going to do it?”
“You’ll know when I do.”
“Right.” His brother’s gaze narrowed. “And then there were the photos of you on the red carpet with Frankie in London. When did you start taking your PA to social events?”
“Since she spoke Russian.”
“That was quite the dress she had on.”
He recognized his brother’s predatory look. “She looked beautiful.”
“She was a goddamned knockout. But you, H?” His brother lifted a brow. “Haven’t seen that sparkle in your eyes in years. Sure you haven’t caught the Frankie bug?”
“She was useful, Coburn. That’s all.”
“I think,” his brother ventured thoughtfully, his magnetic blue eyes lighting up, “we should invite her to the Long Island party. She can wear that dress.”
“Francesca? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” Coburn challenged. “She’s good enough to take to a million-dollar Aristov party, but not good enough to mingle with your Yale friends?”
His brows came together. “This has nothing to do with class. Frankie is an employee.”
“You invited Tessa last year.”
“Because she’d worked with me for two years.”
Because he hadn’t wanted to put his hands all over his married assistant...
“I’m going to invite her,” Coburn announced definitively. “She’s my employee and she deserves to come.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you think she’s going to feel out of place with all those people she doesn’t know?”
His brother shrugged. “She can come with me.”
A discomforting feeling speared his insides. “You don’t have a date?”
Coburn spread his hands wide. “Dry. Completely dry. I can make sure Frankie has a good time.”
He didn’t like that idea at all. “You said you were going to stay away from her.”
“I intend to. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to come.” Coburn pursed his lips, his gaze moving over his brother. “Unless you want to take her. Or are you escorting the poor, neglected Cecily?”
“I haven’t seen Cecily in months.”
“Like I said—” Coburn winced “—poor Cecily. Anyway, Mother would like to know if you’re bringing a date.”
He was sure she would. It was only then that he realized the party was next week. “I’ll invite Francesca,” he rasped. “You inviting her would give her the wrong idea. I can position it as a job well done.”
“Fine. Aristov sign?”
“Today’s the day.” He borrowed a page from Francesca’s book of optimism. He needed it. Badly.
* * *
Frankie took one look at a beautiful, Tom Ford–suited Harrison as he walked into the office and knew she’d never seen him wound so tight.
“Good morning,” she said carefully. “Coffee?”
He gave her a distracted look. “Sorry?”
“Did you want some coffee?”
“Oh...yes. Stronger the better, thanks.”
She decided that might not be a good idea. She made the cup half strength and carried it into him.
He took a sip. Frowned. “It doesn’t taste strong.”
“It’s strong.” She gave the bags under his eyes a critical look. The man didn’t sleep. But she was not his mother.
“Tom Dennison called a few minutes ago. He says you haven’t responded about the fund-raiser.”
Harrison scowled, fatigue creasing the lines of his face. “Tell him I’m in China.”
She gave him an even look. Tom Dennison was one of the most powerful businessmen in America, the CEO of a consumer packaged-goods company as well as a highly political animal who liked to shake things up.
“I’ll tell him you’re occupied with the shareholder meetings,” she suggested instead. “And ask him to please send over the details again so you can get back to him tomorrow.”
“Brilliant.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Leonid better sign tonight. It was her only hope. She took a deep breath. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ll get you some granola and yogurt at the deli.”
“Francesca,” he growled but she was already out the door.
Things went from bad to worse. Leonid’s meeting with the penthouse developers was delayed by three hours while he waited to get the paperwork done to buy. Harrison fumed that the Russian clearly didn’t have his priorities in order if a penthouse was more important than a forty-million-dollar deal. “Everything is always more important than a forty-million-dollar deal.”
Now Aristov and Kaminski weren’t going to be available until after six and Leonid had suggested they meet at the vodka club he frequented for drinks instead.
“How are we supposed to finalize a deal at a vodka club?” Harrison snapped.
“Sealing a deal over a meal or drinks is becoming more commonplace in Russian culture,” Frankie soothed. “Take a deep breath.”
He glared at her from across the desk. “I am not six, Francesca.”
Right now you are. Her eyes must have said what her lips wouldn’t because his stare turned positively lethal. I would prove it to you, he threw back, if we didn’t have a moratorium in place. But since we do, you are out of luck.
The electricity simmered and crackled between them. Francesca sucked in a deep breath of her own before it exploded. “I will print copies of the plan to take with us. Anything else we need?”
Closure, his gaze fizzled.
She turned and walked out of his office, heart slamming in her chest.
* * *
Leonid’s vodka bar was in the heart of Manhattan at Broadway and West Fifty-Second Street. The VIP room the owner directed them to was one of the most unique spaces Frankie had ever seen. A huge cathedral-shaped stained-glass window glowing with a rainbow array of colors that graduated from blue to pink to yellow was the focal point of the room. Green-and-gold wainscoted walls were accented by a vibrant patterned wallpaper in the same colors that climbed up and over the ceiling. A rich, ornate carpet in complementary tones claimed the floor while two stunning chandeliers bookended the room.
She couldn’t decide if she loved it or if it was just much too much. “Certainly more interesting than a conference room,” she told Leonid as he gave her a kiss on both cheeks.
“I thought so.”
Having obtained two of the penthouses he’d had his eye on under fierce competition, Leonid insisted they begin with a celebratory drink. They toasted the deal with vodka that surprisingly didn’t taste like rubbing alcohol, but like absolutely nothing instead. Thus the potency, she warned herself.
After a few minutes of real-estate chatter, Harrison went through the plan, his jaw set, expression intent. Leonid stalled at the piece about an operational study of Siberius determining its internal and external positioning within Grant Industries. “You told me Siberius will remain a distinct brand. This makes it sound like it’s up in the air.”
Harrison regarded him evenly. “I cannot promise you the board will allow me to preserve Siberius’s separate identity, Leonid. You know as well as I do these decisions are made with the numbers in mind. I will, however, influence the process as much as I can. But I cannot lead you on and say it’s a given.”
The room went so silent, so fast, Frankie could hear the ultraquiet fans in the ceiling whirling. Harrison’s face was utterly expressionless. Leonid sat watching him, his shrewd eyes assessing. The Russian’s fingers ceased their tapping on the table. Frankie’s heart stopped in her chest as he placed both palms on the edge. Was he going to leave?
After a long moment, Leonid looked at Harrison, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Thank you for being honest with me.”
Harrison nodded. Frankie exhaled.
“Continue, please.”
Harrison went through the remainder of the plan. It was stripped down, basic and promised very little. When they got to the end, Leonid gave it a long look, flipped it over and threw it into the middle of the table. “Not much there to get excited about.”
Harrison eyed him with that deadly, combustive look he’d been carrying all day. “I would say forty million dollars is a great deal to get excited about. As far as a second coming, it’s a very nice start.”
The Russian was silent. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back from the table. “Give me a few minutes. I need some air.”
Viktor Kaminski raised a brow as his boss walked out of the room. Harrison’s face grew so tight she thought it might snap in half. Since he was like a live bomb right now and she didn’t want to encourage Viktor further, she excused herself, saying she needed the ladies’ room.
The patio and some air beckoned instead. She stepped out onto it. No wonder Leonid had needed air. He and Harrison had been sucking the room dry since they’d stepped into it.
The patio was packed with people enjoying the steamy summer night. The smell of lilac came from the tree flowering in the garden. Lazy jazz floated on the air from the club next door. Francesca walked to the edge of the garden and stood drinking it in. She wasn’t sure when Leonid appeared beside her, tall, thin and contemplative as he smoked a cigarette.
“Don’t tell me it’s bad for my health.” He read her disapproval. “It’s one of my few real vices.”
“I won’t, then.”
His eyes glittered with amusement. “I like that about you. This honesty you have. If you don’t say it, you can read it in your eyes.”
“It’s a curse.” Her mouth twisted. “Ever since childhood. It got me in a lot of trouble.”
“So it is.”
He was silent, puffing elegantly on the cigarette. When he finished it he tossed it to the ground and snuffed it out under his foot. “Should I sign it?”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Sign what?”
He turned that hard, whiskey-colored gaze on her. “The deal. Should I sign it? Is Grant the honorable man I think him to be?”
The world closed in around her, the chatter of the crowd, the croon of the music melding together to create a buzz in her ears that seemed deafening. She didn’t want to be any part of this. She’d never wanted to be any part of this. And maybe that was what Leonid had sensed.
If she balked now, she would ruin Harrison.
She pulled in a breath, conscious of the Russian’s gaze on her face. And said the only thing her conscience would allow. “He’s a good man. I wouldn’t work for him if I didn’t think so.”
He watched her. Evaluated her. It was like being inspected by a customs official, the intensity of it. Then he nodded, an expression she couldn’t read passing through those cat’s eyes of his.
“Harasho. Let’s go inside, then.”
* * *
Harrison watched Francesca and Leonid walk back into the room together. Her face was white and pinched, tension stitching her delicate features together. It made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight.
Leonid, on the other hand, looked focused and alert. He sat down at the table and signaled for another round of vodka. Harrison’s heart pounded in his chest, drowning out everything but what was about to happen. Seven years of waiting and planning could not end in anything but success.
He sat there in agony while Kaminski engaged in small talk with Francesca as they waited for the vodka. The server came back laden with a tray of four glasses. He passed them out. Leonid lifted his glass. “Right, then,” he said, looking at Harrison. “We have a deal.”
Relief slackened every muscle in Harrison’s body. His heart slowed its frantic pace. It was done. The last piece was in place. The crystal tumbler felt heavy in his hand as he raised it, eyes on Leonid. “We have a deal.”
The vodka slid down his throat and warmed his insides. He had expected a surge of victory. For everything to feel right for the first time since he’d started this quest. Instead he felt nothing. Nothing at all except a numbness, an absence of feeling that was almost frightening in its intensity.
He distracted himself by glancing at Francesca. Her long lashes swept down over her cheeks as she took a sip of the vodka then pushed the glass away. Whatever had gone on outside had rattled her. Even in his distracted state, the glitter in her gray eyes burrowed itself beneath his skin. What had gone on between her and Leonid?
They finished the vodka. Leonid requested a fully executable contract be sent to his lawyer the following morning. If he got the green light that Harrison was sure he would because the lawyers had already scoured the document, he would sign.
He kept waiting for the euphoria to hit him. While he smiled at Leonid’s joke about missing their personal chess matches each day. As they said goodbye to the two men and climbed into the car, Francesca stopping to speak to Viktor. While he stared out at a now dark New York. It never came. Why wasn’t he on top of the world? Why didn’t the victory feel sweet instead of bittersweet? He could close in on Anton Markovic now and bring it all full circle. Make him understand his pain. Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted?
It made no sense.
He glanced at Francesca. The pinched look hadn’t left her face. If anything it was worse. “Did you let him down easy?”
She turned a conflicted gaze on him. “I told him I was hung up on someone else. It seemed nicer to do it that way.”
He wondered if she meant him. He could not deny he was more than a little hung up on her. And fighting it bitterly.
Her gaze fell away from his. He rested his head against the back of the seat. “What did Leonid say to you outside?”
Her mouth pressed into a straight line. “He asked me if he should sign the deal. If you were the honorable man he thought you were.”
His head came off the seat. Her gaze moved back to his, stark and most definitely under siege. Aristov had asked her that?
“What did you say?”
“I said you were a good man. That I wouldn’t be working for you if you weren’t.”
It had cost her integrity a great deal to say that knowing the scenario he’d painted. He closed his hand over the fist she had curled on the seat. “Thank you.”
Her gaze dropped to his hand. “It’s the truth. You are a good man.”
With a cross to bear she didn’t agree with... His hand remained closed over her fist. He fought the desire to bring it to his mouth, to press his lips to her skin until she released the tension and he could taste the salt on her skin. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly he could taste her already under his mouth. But she was unavailable to him.
He released her hand before he did it. His skin pulsed with the need for more because that touch, her touch, was the only thing making him feel alive right now.
He brought his back teeth together. Fought it. Recited to himself all the reasons he couldn’t have her. Good reasons.
Derrick slid the partition open and asked, “Where first?”
He gave him Francesca’s address.
She shook her head. “We’re closer to you. I need the papers for the Detroit project to work on while you’re out in the morning. I’ll come up, get them, then Derrick can drive me home.”
It made sense. It would also get him out of this car sooner. “Fine. That works.”
Derrick stopped in the circular driveway at the side of the building. They rode the elevator to the penthouse in silence, neither of them about to address the tension and push things over the edge.
He found the papers she needed on the desk in his study and carried them out to the living room. “Text me if you need any clarification.” The delicate fingers he’d just held closed around them. Her gaze fastened on his, probing, seeking. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then.”
“Yes.” He willed her out of the apartment with a curt, dismissive look. He needed to be alone or he needed to drown himself in her, but he couldn’t do anything in between.
She was halfway to the door when she stopped and turned around. “Harrison, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Thank you for your help today.”
She nodded and left. When the door closed behind her and he heard the sound of the elevator whishing its way toward ground level, he poured himself a drink he knew he didn’t need and took it out onto the terrace. The moon was a perfect, giant orb in a sheet of black. Luminous; full of promise. It should have been another signpost of where he was headed. Vengeance. Yet he continued to feel nothing. The fear he dreaded always found a way in, insidious as it was, worming its way into his consciousness.
He lifted his palms to his temples. Willed it away. It was nights like this, nights when he scaled Mount Everest and won, when any other human being would have been basking in the glory, that he wondered if the darkness would claim him, too.
There had never been any sign he had picked up his father’s genetic markers for mania, but the depression beckoned, whispering along the edges of his mind. He raised his eyes to the Grant tower, a shining beacon of what made America great. Had his father known how close to the flame he was flying? Or had he been blinded by the heights he ached to achieve?
Would it be too much for him? His head pounded with the weight of too many decisions. Too many paths that were no longer clear. Too much, too much.
A jet banked over the Hudson, the lights on its wings flashing in the darkness. He stared at it, hypnotized by the pulsing flares. Is destiny the fate of every man? Is your path irreversible no matter how you pursue it? Or is there a way to rise above it? A way to blaze a path that is yours and yours alone?
The throbbing in his head intensified. He needed to escape, but he didn’t know how.
