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“That was awful,” she muttered, climbing into the back of the Rolls-Royce ahead of him. “He wants to take me on a tour of the Met next week when they’re in town.”
He peeled his gaze off her amazing rear end and got in beside her. “Tell him you’re busy. You will be.”
She laid her head back against the leather seat. “I will. I just feel bad about leading him on.”
“He’s a big boy, he’ll get over it.” Just like he was going to get over his intense awareness of her at the moment.
She was silent, her gray eyes contemplative. He gave the driver instructions, slid the partition closed and the car moved softly off into the night. Frankie turned and stared out at the tall, dark shadows of London as they rolled by, interspersed with bright lights. He directed his gaze the other way. She was as direct and honest as most women were deceptive and ambitious. He’d never realized what a highly attractive quality that was in a woman, when so many in his social circle made game-playing a trait acquired at birth.
Silence fell in the car. He kept his gaze trained on the skyline of London rather than on Francesca’s beautiful profile cast in the light of the street lamps. The whiskey he’d consumed, the satisfaction coursing through his veins at the night’s success, the attraction he’d been fighting for a week were all too potent a combination to address.
The longer he was silent, the more the tension seemed to rise in the car. Francesca stared out her window, fidgeted with her clutch strap, anything but address it. Finally he felt the heat of her gaze on him. “Harrison?”
He turned to look at her.
“Have I done something wrong?”
He frowned. “No. Why?”
Her gaze fell away from his. “I—I don’t know. I feel like I’ve done everything right tonight and something still feels wrong.”
The shadows carved the enticing hollow between her breasts in the low-cut dress. The pout in her amazing mouth had lust snagging at his throat. “There’s no issue,” he assured her roughly. “I told you, you were perfect tonight.”
“Then why have you been ignoring me since we walked off the dance floor? Did I say something wrong to Leonid or Juliana?”
“No.” He wanted to leave it at that, sanity told him to leave it at that, but the vulnerable look she wore tore at his insides. He exhaled deeply. “I’m keeping my distance.”
That gray stare widened. Her hands fluttered uselessly to her lap. The uncivilized part of him knew he never should have looked at her.
“This attraction between you and me...” He shook his head. “It can’t happen. We both know that.”
She nodded. But her gaze stayed glued to his as if she knew the train was running off the track, but was willing to risk full and complete disaster.
“Francesca...” The word was a final, husky plea for her to put some distance between them. She didn’t. She moved toward him at the same time he brought her closer with a palm to the bare skin of her back. It felt even sexier than he remembered.
His fingers curved around her delicate jaw, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he did something for the pure pleasure of it. He kissed the woman he’d been wanting to touch since the night he’d found her sitting in Tessa’s chair.
Her lush mouth was every bit as sweet as it had promised it would be. Bare of the lipstick so many women slathered on, her lips were soft, full and edible. He took them in a slow, sensual tasting designed to entice. A soft sigh left her lips as she moved into the kiss, her hands fluttering to his shoulders. The dominant male in him liked her acquiescence. He tugged at her luscious lower lip, sucked it inside of his mouth and savored it. She tasted of innocence and sensuality all at the same time.
He waited, nibbling and tugging on her lip until her response demanded more. She angled her mouth, sought deeper contact and he gave it to her with a rush of satisfaction, slanting his mouth across hers in a kiss that didn’t tease, but delivered. He didn’t stop until he’d explored every inch of her mouth, drew her out of her inexperienced hesitation until their mouths were sliding hotly against one another.
His body temperature spiked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so...lost.
Her innocence should have stopped him. Instead it obliterated his common sense. The palm he held to the small of her back pressed harder, invited her to come closer. She came willingly, her fingers curving around his bicep this time. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck, holding her still as he rocked his parted mouth over hers to request entry. Her lips parted. She tasted of fruit and wild roses. He thought for a moment that might just be her, but it was the champagne he was tasting, sweet and inebriating as it combined with the whiskey in his mouth.
He slid his tongue into her warmth to savor her more. Her response was tentative at first, then bolder, meeting the long, lazy stroke of his. When she’d mastered that, he probed deeper, tangling his tongue with hers in the most intimate of kisses. Her quick intake of breath hardened every muscle in his body.
He could take more. So much more... He wanted his fantasy.
That brought him tumbling back to reality. He pulled his mouth from hers and set her away from him with hands that weren’t quite steady. His breathing sounded fractured, rough in the silent confines of the car.
The dazed look on Francesca’s face turned to horror. “That was my fault,” he growled. “Not yours.”
She shook her head, her fingers moving to her lips. “I—ah—I was just as much a part of that as you were.”
Maybe true, but he was the one in authority here. He had no business indulging himself. Being reckless at the most important crossroads of his life. With an employee at that. What the hell was wrong with him?
He ran a hand through his hair. His brain worked quickly to defuse the situation. “It’s been quite a night for both of us,” he said slowly. “I think we can agree that was a mistake. A brief lapse of sanity.”
Francesca’s head bobbed up and down. “Absolutely. It was...” Her voice trailed off, a frown furrowing her brow. “Inappropriate. In every aspect. It will never happen again.”
“Good.” He rested his gaze on her face. “Tonight you proved what a valuable asset you are to me, Francesca. You went above and beyond the call of duty. I’m going to need that from you and more over the next few months...It’s not going to be easy and sometimes I’m going to be a son of a bitch. But I guarantee if you stick with me you will learn more in six months than you would in six years working for someone else.”
A determined light flickered in her gray eyes. “I can be brilliant for you, Harrison, I promise.”
“I know that. We make a good team.” So no more of that.
She bit her lip and nodded. The car traversed the final couple of side streets to the hotel and slid to a halt in front of the Chatsfield. He got out, helped Francesca from the car and ignored the electricity still buzzing between them. It was easy for him to cut off his emotions, what little he had. Francesca, on the other hand, was obviously still processing what had happened as they rode the lift to their suite. He could read it in the myriad of emotions flickering in her gray eyes.
He said good-night to her at the door to her bedroom. She echoed his words, walked through it and closed the thick slab of wood with a soft click. He paused for a moment when he didn’t hear her footsteps walking away on the marble. Instinctively he knew she was on the other side of the door, back pressed to the frame. Thinking.
“Forget the kiss, Francesca,” he said. “It was nothing.”
“It’s already forgotten.”
Her muffled response from directly behind the door made his mouth curve. Better to put that one to bed entirely. He’d almost capped a hugely successful evening with a mistake that would have cost him dearly. Cost him his focus. And he couldn’t allow that. The end was in sight. Time to focus on the master plan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRANKIE SPENT THE weekend replanting the flower boxes on her terrace with miniature roses, having brunch with her roommate, Josephine, and generally attempting to restore some sanity to her brain after having kissed her boss. She almost would have believed the party at Leonid Aristov’s house had been a bizarre and unreal dream that could never have actually happened, except she knew for a fact it had happened when at 10:00 a.m. on Monday morning two dozen full-size white roses landed on her desk with a card from Viktor Kaminski.
Apparently he didn’t intend to take no for an answer. Allow me to take a treasure to see the treasures of the Met, the card said. Friday night? Viktor.
She winced at the corny line. She’d told Viktor her schedule was impossible this week. She was just going to have to stick to that. And she really was too busy. The stack of work she had on her desk was monumental. She was going to have no life for the next six months.
The sweet smell of the dove-white blooms filled her nose. A wave of longing settled over her. She would die to receive roses from a man she really liked. Instead, they were from Viktor and she’d kissed her boss.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Just when she’d proven she was a valuable asset, she’d gone and done that. She had to wonder if her mind was off if she was doing things like this.
