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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...
CHAPTER THREE
FRANKIE ARRIVED AT Teterboro Airport in New Jersey on Wednesday night of the following week as bruised and battered as Rocky Balboa himself after going fifteen rounds with Harrison Grant over the past week. He’d been tense and edgy ever since that call from Leonid Aristov’s assistant, pushing them both to the limits of their endurance in ensuring every i was dotted and every t crossed in advance of their meeting.
She was dead on her feet and they hadn’t even left yet. Plus, she didn’t sleep on planes...
The limousine pulled to a stop on the runway in front of the black-and-red-logoed Grant Industries jet. She slid out and waited while the driver deposited her luggage on the asphalt. If she was curious as to why her boss was obsessed with a deal that, in the great scheme of things, would be a minor acquisition for a behemoth like Grant Industries, she didn’t voice her thoughts. She was paid to do, apparently. That was all. And if that made her frustratingly aware she wasn’t turning in her best work, if she knew she’d do better had he been just a bit more collaborative and explained things fully, there was nothing to be done about it. She had tamed her natural instinct to question.
Survival was the game of the day.
Hand arced over her eyes, she searched for her boss in the still blinding final rays of the sun. He was standing by the jet speaking to a gray-haired man in his fifties Frankie thought she recognized as the chairman of the senate committee on foreign affairs. She knew this only because her father loved politics and followed it closely, which meant the entire Masseria clan also did so by virtue of association.
The conversation between Harrison and Oliver Burchell looked like more than a friendly hello. Was he planning a run for the presidency? The Grant family was as connected as any family in the upper echelons of political power so it absolutely made sense they could put Harrison on every ballot in the country as an independent candidate. But he was only thirty-three. He had his hands full running a company that had just gotten back on its feet. Was now the right timing?
Her boss registered her arrival with that ever-watchful gaze of his. He held up two fingers. Frankie nodded and took the time to study him in a brief, unobserved perusal. She hadn’t yet gotten used to how extraordinarily good-looking he was up close. Today, in dark-wash jeans and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal muscular forearms, he looked like her college accounting professor, except where Frankie had considered him nerdily cute, Harrison was a whole other ball game. He was Clark Kent good-looking with his impressive physique and dark designer glasses, as if he was about to dash into a phone booth to go save the world.
Her mouth twisted. Air Force One was about to acquire a whole new sex appeal.
The senator clapped Harrison on the back and moved off toward the plane sitting behind the Grant Industries jet. Frankie pulled in a Harrison-fortifying breath as he strode toward her. “Ready to go?’
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said brightly.
He lifted a brow at her as he stopped in front of her. “I’ve been that bad?”
She knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. “I meant I’m not a good flyer. I just need to get this over with.”
“So I should tell the pilot to lock the doors to the cockpit?”
She made a face at the amusement twisting his lips. “We haven’t had one disaster since the coffee incident. Perhaps we can let that joke lie?”
“I’m still keeping my guard up.” He pointed their luggage out to the crew who loaded it on to the plane. “You know, statistically speaking,” he counseled, gesturing for her to proceed him up the stairs, “flying is safer than any other form of travel. You should be more frightened of getting on the freeway.”
“I am frightened of getting on the freeway. And fear of flying is not a rational thing,” she countered, climbing the steps.
“Ah, but I thought that’s what you are...rational Francesca Masseria, who needs to figure out how things work before she fully commits.”
She looked down at him from her higher position on the stairs. Who was he really? The big bad wolf or this intuitive, sardonic version of him who made the occasional visit? And did she dare say what she thought?
She exhaled a breath. “I perform better when I have a clear sense of the objectives. I’m more left-brained than Tessa. I need guidance. I can promise if you offer that to me I will give you what you need.”
His gaze narrowed. The undercurrent between them that always seemed to simmer below the surface sprang to life. A tutelage of a far different type was filtering through that brilliant mind... She would have bet money on it. Heat rose to her cheeks. He studied the twin spots of fire. Then he turned it off with one of those dismissive looks.
“All right, Francesca Masseria,” he drawled. “We’ll give it a shot. You’ve been a good sport this week. I like that about you. You have a question—a good one—ask. I’ll do my best to answer it.”
He strode past her up the stairs and into the jet before she could close her mouth. No way had the beast just thrown her a crumb. She thought maybe they should break out the champagne, particularly when once seated and buckled in opposite Harrison in a bank of four seats, she realized how small the plane was. She’d never flown on a private jet before. Coburn preferred to travel on his own and have her work from the office, and this, this little plane didn’t look hearty enough to carry them across the Atlantic if a storm hit as it had on her last trip to Mexico.
Her shoulders climbed to her ears in protest as the pilot revved the engines.
“Relax,” Harrison ordered, pulling his laptop out of his briefcase. “This is going to be the smoothest ride of your life, trust me.”
“Now you’ve jinxed us,” Frankie said grimly. She picked up her cell phone to turn it off. He waved a hand at her.
“Not necessary on this flight. You can use the Wi-Fi anytime.”
Of course they could. Why waste one usable moment when you could be poring through the stock market? Checking the price of precious metals? She sighed and settled into her seat. Her hope that at some point Harrison’s battery might run out had been wishful thinking.
Her phone pinged with a text message. It was from Danny, who was managing Tomasino’s party in her absence.
The cake’s not here. When is it supposed to arrive?
Frankie frowned and glanced at her watch. An hour ago. Surely her brother hadn’t forgotten?
