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“So we finish the presentation, he signs and it’s done. What does this have to do with me?”
His expression was implacable. “I need you to be a part of this until he signs. Leonid likes you. Kaminski likes you. You will smooth out the rough edges.”
She turned to look out at the park. It was lit by the skyscrapers surrounding it, a beautiful oasis in a cutthroat city of deal makers. It wasn’t lost on her that Leonid was a cutthroat businessman himself who undoubtedly had his share of blood on his hands. No one in a position of power could avoid the gray areas. It was the gray that defined you.
But it was the emotion she’d just seen in Harrison’s eyes that clutched at her heart. A raw incomplete grief that was as present now as it had been when Anton Markovic had torn out his heart.
Dampness attacked the corners of her eyes. She blinked it back and did what her father had always taught her to do. She went with her gut. And perhaps a large slice of emotion. Because no human being should ever have to go through what Harrison had without making it right.
She turned to him and nodded. “Let’s get back to work, then.”
His gaze darkened. “I’m an honorable man, Francesca. I will keep my promise to Leonid if I can. But it will ultimately be up to the board.”
She hoped he could. But sometimes a need for vengeance could wreak havoc on such honor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HARRISON 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?”
