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That’s what happens when you have hot, sweaty sex with your boss. When you connect on a level that’s way beyond the physical, putting your feelings in distinctly dangerous territory. You avoid.
She picked up the contract and got to her feet. She was so tired of avoiding she wanted to scream. At least when she was back with Coburn she could get back to normal. She wouldn’t be dreaming about that night with Harrison. She wouldn’t be wondering about her boss’s every mood and she wouldn’t be feeling the irresistible desire to comfort the beast even though he was making that hard. It would no longer be her job.
She headed toward his office. The worst was the party. She had to attend the damn thing with Harrison when she’d rather spend the night washing dishes at Masserias. And that was saying a lot.
He was on the phone when she knocked and entered. She waved the contract at him. He motioned for her to stay and wrapped the call.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Fully executed and ready to go. Jack said to call if you had any questions.”
“Good.” He laced his fingers together and pressed them to his chest. “You’ve been such a huge part of this. Why don’t I take you to lunch?”
Lunch? She stared at him as though he was nuts. “You have a lunch meeting.”
“So I’ll cancel it. You deserve some appreciation for the great job you’ve done.”
She eyed him. She’d done her job and this was his kiss-off lunch. It was guilt talking. Looking at that contract in his hands, knowing what he was going to do with it, knowing thousands of people were likely going to lose their jobs when he folded Siberius into Grant made her feel unwell. Angry. Used.
“No, thank you,” she said stiffly. “I appreciate the offer, but I seem to have lost my appetite today.”
His black eyes glittered at her. “You okay?”
“Perfect. Would you like me to go down to the deli for you?” She gave the clock on the wall a pointed glance. “Your meeting starts in ten minutes.”
“I’ll get it myself afterward.”
She spun on her heel and walked.
“Francesca.”
She held up a hand and kept going. Last week it had been him on the edge of an explosion. This week it was her.
* * *
Harrison dressed for the annual Grant summer party the next evening with the grim determination of a man who’d been through the interminable small talk and politics so many times he could have run it in his head before it had even started. Divorces would be announced, affairs would surface and rumors would abound about everything from political campaigns—namely his or his lack of one this year—to high-profile job losses and corporate defections. The only thing that changed was the players. And sometimes, if they were misguided or unlucky enough, they stayed the same, too.
He’d been in a filthy mood ever since Francesca had walked out of his office, her back ramrod-straight, her icy look telling him exactly what she thought of him. Which was so unfair. They were adults, they’d done what they’d done and sulking wasn’t going to help the situation.
Meanwhile, he was struggling. Did she think this was easy for him? He had done everything, everything to put her out of his head and move on, including setting up his “accidental” meeting with Anton Markovic with exquisite care. He had buried himself in work, used the nights to consider his future and refused to think about how much he craved Francesca’s level set outside the office as much as he valued it inside.
While he attempted to deny that that night with her had changed everything.
He muttered an oath. Picking up his jacket, he rode the elevator to the parking garage and drove the short distance to Francesca’s apartment on the east side.
Something inside him did a slow roll when he saw her standing on the sidewalk, glowing in a crimson-colored gown that was less body-hugging than the one she’d worn to Leonid’s party, but still heart-stoppingly sexy on her hourglass figure. She was an unattainable goddess for a man still mired in his head.
He got out, walked around the car and stopped in front of her. He couldn’t help taking a long look. Her hair was up, done in a million curls caught on top of her head. Sparkly earrings dangled from her perfect ears. Her feet were encased in dainty silver shoes that accentuated the arch of her delicate foot. But it was her eyes that tugged at his heart. They were a deep, unsure gray, so unlike her usual spirited self.
It was going to be a long, long night.
“Hi.” His voice when it rumbled from his chest was rusty and not his own. Frankie’s eyes flickered. How insanely articulate of him. That was the way to handle a tough crowd.
He cleared his throat. Took another stab at it. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.” Her stiff demeanor wasn’t bending one bit. Fine. He could play this game. He put her in the car, walked around to the other side and started driving. Relentlessly he plied her with small talk. Frankie gave one-word answers, sometimes a handful. It was a ninety-minute drive to Long Island and that got old fast. She was angry, concluded the male in him. Women didn’t know how to separate the emotional from the rational while men were rarely in touch with their feelings. He wondered how it actually ever worked.
He even asked her how Tomasino and the gang were doing at the church. Instead of scoring him points, it made her mouth tighten even more. So he shut his mouth, turned on the radio and drove.
They arrived at the Grants’ redbrick Georgian mansion on Long Island Sound just in time for cocktails. Dropping their bags in their rooms, he gave her a quick tour of the elegant, dark-paneled house with its checkerboard marble grand hallways and massive tapestries. He could tell instantly Frankie liked it more than his penthouse.
The minute they appeared in the back garden, his mother pounced on them, emerging from a crush of people gathered under the fairy-light-strung trees with her usual gray-haired, impeccable elegance. She had Frankie summed up in three seconds flat, her keen blue gaze sliding over the brunette who bested her petite frame by a good six inches.
“So you’re the Frankie my boys are so enamored with.”
Frankie blushed. “Enamored is hardly the word. You have lovely sons, Mrs. Grant. I’m lucky to have my job.”
“They’re lucky to have you,” Evelyn Grant countered smoothly. “Every powerful man needs a supporting cast.”
Harrison kept a supporting hand at Frankie’s back, even though it was clear she didn’t want it there. If anyone knew the value of a supporting cast, it was his mother. She had been that her entire life as the matriarch of this family, these days focusing far too much of her attention on her sons’ careers.
His mother gave him a pointed look. “Tom Dennison was asking after you. Perhaps I can introduce Francesca around?”
He didn’t know why it bothered him to let Frankie go. It was better that way, keeping their distance from each other, and his mother would undoubtedly do a superb job being the social queen that she was.
He glanced at Frankie. “Okay?”
She nodded, but he knew her well enough now to catch the trace of trepidation in her eyes. His mother had a reputation, no doubt about it, but Frankie was more than up to it handling her. She had no problem handling him.
He left the women and found Tom Dennison enjoying a drink on the far end of the patio with a couple of other power-broker CEOs. Dennison made a joke about him being a mirage, then folded him into a tight-knit discussion of politics and current affairs. It was clear Dennison was offering him his backing and that of his political sidekicks if he elected to run. He kept his poker face on and tested the waters.
His mother, true to her word, introduced Frankie around. At some point she handed her off to Coburn, who kept her at his side as he moved from group to group, his usual life-of-the-party self. As the night wore on, he watched Frankie’s sparkle return. Her eyes glowed, and as Coburn’s eligible friends flirted with her, she smiled often with that combination of shyness and pleasure he found so damn appealing.
A knot formed itself in his chest. More than a few of the single, imminently successful types seemed interested in the beautiful brunette. And why not? She was everything a man could ever want in a woman. Gorgeous, smart and witty. The type of girl they could put a ring on and know they were damn well lucky to have her.
He grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray, the tightness in his chest growing. He was not those men. No man could ever really change his spots for a woman. Not even for one who’d turned his mind and body upside down in the space of a few weeks. If the darkness in him didn’t destroy her, his life would. Because after he’d brought Anton Markovic to his knees, he might enter the nastiest arena of all—a place he could never imagine good-hearted, ethical Frankie in.
Hors d’oeuvres were served and the champagne flowed. The four-piece band who’d been playing the Grant party for almost two decades struck up a tune. He had just extricated himself from a long discussion with one of his father’s oldest friends when Cecily Hargrove found him in all her bubbly blond enthusiasm.
“Harrison,” she admonished, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “You didn’t return my phone call.”
When had that been?
“A month ago,” Cecily clarified, shaking her head at him. “Daddy is a workaholic, but you are worse.”
