“This attraction between you and I…” Harrison shook his head. “It can’t happen. We both know that.”

Frankie nodded. But her gaze stayed glued to his as if she knew the train was running off the track and 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 with an instinctive movement 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 his former assistant’s chair.

Her lush mouth was every bit as sweet as it had promised it would be. 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.

His body temperature spiked. He didn’t know the last time he’d felt so…lost.

Her innocence should have stopped him. Instead it obliterated his common sense.

The Tenacious Tycoons

Two billionaire brothers to be reckoned with!

Brothers Harrison and Coburn, heirs to the great American Grant dynasty, have everything they could desire—the money, the power and the tenacity to take whatever they want. Yet money can’t buy everything, and if these brothers hope to live up to their family legacy they’ll each need a very special woman by their side.

But the rules of love are nothing like that of business—and when it comes to the game of passion, securing the deal is never as easy as it first seems…

Read Harrison’s story in

TEMPTED BY HER BILLIONAIRE BOSS

June 2015

And read Coburn’s story, coming October 2015

Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss

Jennifer Hayward

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNIFER HAYWARD has been a fan of romance since filching her sister’s novels to escape her teenage angst. Her career in journalism and PR—including years of working alongside powerful, charismatic CEOs and travelling the world—has provided her with perfect fodder for the fast-paced, sexy stories she likes to write—always with a touch of humour. A native of Canada’s east coast, Jennifer lives in Toronto with her Viking husband and young Viking-in-training.

For Michelle.

You’ve been a rock and an inspiration for me

right from the beginning.

Thank you for being you.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

ROCKY BALBOA PATROLLED the length of his rectangular glass-encased world with an increasingly agitated fervor, the blinding beam of the overhead fluorescent lights a far from suitable atmosphere for Frankie Masseria’s high-strung orange parrot cichlid fish. Used to the cozy confines of Coburn Grant’s muted, stylish office with its custom lighting and plentiful dimmers, Rocky apparently wasn’t making the transition to Harrison Grant III’s cold black-and-chrome domain any more easily than Frankie herself was.

Her mouth twisted in a grimace. She would make the poor joke of being a fish out of water in this startling new development of her as the replacement PA for the CEO of Grant Industries if her stomach wasn’t dipping and turning along with Rocky’s distressed flips and circles. Harrison Grant, the elder of the two Grant brothers from Long Island, heirs to an automotive fortune, was notorious for his ability to go through a PA a quarter until her predecessor Tessa Francis had taken over two years ago and tamed the legendary beast. Known for her formidable attitude and ability to whip any living thing into line, including even the snooty, tyrannical Harrison Grant, Tessa would have continued to keep the world a safer place for everybody had she not elected to do the very human thing of getting pregnant and requesting a six-month maternity leave. A reasonable request in many parts of the world, but not in the frantic, pulsing-with-forward-momentum world of Manhattan. Frankie had heard of female CEOs texting from the labor room. Yelling orders in between pushes. Not that that would ever be her. When she eventually found the perfect man to settle down with, she’d put raising her children first, unlike her parents who’d had them working in the Masseria family restaurant as soon as they were old enough to bus a table.

But that was then and this was now. She sighed and looked down at the massive amount of work sitting on her desk, unsure of what to tackle next. This wouldn’t be her mess to weed through had Tessa orchestrated the orderly exit she’d been intent on and found a new PA for her impossible boss. But, according to Tessa, Harrison had simply refused to acknowledge she was leaving. His eyes would glaze over at the subject every time she brought it up, until finally, with time running out, Tessa had gone ahead and scheduled the interviews.

That’s when the unthinkable had happened. Tessa had gone into premature labor last night while Harrison was on a business trip to Hong Kong, the interviews had been canceled and Frankie had been installed in her place by her magnanimous boss Coburn, who had decided his brother could not be without a PA. Without so much as a “would you mind, Frankie?”

“It’s the perfect opportunity to shine,” he’d told her in that cajoling voice of his. “Six months with Harrison and you’ll be back with a whole new visibility within the company.”

Or she would be just another piece of Harrison Grant’s road kill, Frankie thought miserably. It had been her dream as long as she’d been old enough to apply eye shadow and visited her friend Olga’s father in his swanky Manhattan office, to be a glamorous PA. To wear beautiful suits to the office every day, to live in the vibrant city she loved and to work in the upper echelons of power where all the big deals were made.

If that had gone against her parents’ wishes to have her remain in the family restaurant business, so be it. She’d put herself through administrative-assistant school with her tip money, graduated top of her class and gone after her dream.

Landing a job with the insanely handsome, charming younger Grant brother, Coburn, had seemed like her dream come true. Working for the legendary Grant family, who commanded one of America’s oldest automotive dynasties from one of Manhattan’s marquee skyscrapers, was like taking her “what do I want to be in five years” plan and fast-forwarding it five years.

She had seized the opportunity with both hands, molding herself into the epitome of efficiency and professionalism in her six months with Coburn. Her boss’s flashing blue eyes and easy smile wore his vice presidency with a stark sex appeal few women could resist, but resist Frankie had. She knew he’d hired her for both her skills and the fact she hadn’t fallen all over him in the interview like the others had. In return, he’d been a dream to work with. He appreciated every ounce of the tightly coiled efficiency she brought to his office, reining in his tendency to run askew with his passion for his work.

So why throw her to the wolves so easily? She swallowed past the distressed lump in her throat and took a sip of the herbal French lavender tea that was supposed to calm her. Harrison Grant was reputed to be as serious and tunnel-visioned as his younger brother was hot-blooded and impulsive. He had a filthy temper from all accounts. She said “from all accounts” because Tessa had always shielded her from her boss, coming downstairs to Coburn’s office if she needed something rather than expose Frankie to one of his moods. Frankie had accepted the arrangement gladly. She could live without having to deal with the massive ego of the man voted most likely to become president by his peers at Yale, his alma mater. Rumor had it that time wasn’t far off for the thirty-three-year-old Harrison. Her father had told her he had enough clout within the business community to run as an independent in the next election and, in these disaffected times, he just might win.

If that happened, Coburn would take over as CEO and Frankie would be head honcho admin. The perfect career scenario by all accounts. If she survived the next six months.

A throb pulsed its way from her left temple through to the center of her head as she considered the files Tessa had left marked urgent. A key takeover to help facilitate, shareholder meetings to organize, a trip to India coming up in just weeks... It seemed way beyond her means.

Rocky caught her attention out of the corner of her eye, swimming now in faster, demonic circles as if signaling an imminent disaster. His eyes bulged out of his aristocratic head, his expression foreboding. Yes, I know, Frankie wanted to reassure him, but we have twenty-four hours to prepare for his arrival.

Which meant she needed to get this work done. Despite her misgivings about the whirlwind change in plans, she was determined to prove to Harrison Grant she was the best PA he could ever have behind Tessa, a modern-day version of Wonder Woman. There was no other possible outcome.

The acquisition file was on top of the heap. Apparently Grant Industries was in the midst of attempting to purchase Siberius, a Russian automotive parts supplier. Job number one, Tessa had managed to tell her on the way to the hospital, was to finish the additional background Harrison had requested to support two outstanding contract negotiation points.

She scanned it, decided it was going to be a long night and rifled around in Tessa’s desk until she found some takeout menus. The local Thai place appealed. She ordered herself some dinner to be delivered, slipped off her shoes and got comfortable. At seven, the new security guard brought her food up, noticed she was working alone and said he’d check on her throughout the evening. Deciding Harrison Grant owed her a glass of Pinot Grigio for this one, she procured a bottle of reasonably, but not overly, expensive wine from the heftily stocked bar in his office, took it back to her desk with a glass and opened it.

She was about to dig into her noodles when she realized the restaurant had forgotten to include a fork in the bag. Eating noodles with her hands not being an option, she toed her way around for her shoes and came up empty. She stuck her head under the massive desk and looked for them. It was dark under there and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust. Finally she located a shoe she’d kicked to the left and was holding it triumphantly in her hand and reaching for the second when a deep voice laced with an arctic coolness pierced the solid wooden desk.

“It didn’t occur to me you were going to like it, Geoffrey. I pay people like you to make things happen, not for your incredibly insightful strategic thinking.”

Harrison Grant. Oh, my God. What is he doing back tonight?

She reared her head up, her skull connecting hard with the inch-thick top of the desk. Stars exploded behind her eyes. A curse escaped her as she dropped the shoe, clasped her head in her hands and absorbed the pulsing aftershocks.

“Good God.” The harsh-edged voice came closer. “Geoffrey, I’m going to have to call you back.”

Frankie was vaguely aware of strong male hands levering her chair away from the desk and lifting her chin. She blinked as he pulled her hands from her head, and tipped her skull back. A clear head might have been a good weapon to face Harrison Grant with for the first time, but her cerebral matter was hazy, her vision shadowy as she took him in at close range. Dressed in a black trench coat in deference to the rainy, overcast New York day, he was tall, imposingly tall. The charcoal-gray suit he wore beneath the trench coat, the amount of rough stubble shading his aristocratic jaw and the laser-like stare of his black eyes under designer glasses made her giddily wonder if he was the devil himself.

Biting out a low curse, he tossed his cell phone on the desk and cupped the back of her head with one of his big hands, his fingers pressing into her scalp to feel for a bump. When he located the growing mass that was causing the deep throb in her head, a furrow ruffled his brow. “What exactly were you doing down there?”

“Shoes,” Frankie muttered absently as the world began to right itself. She sucked in a couple of deep breaths and examined him closer. Along with those deadly dark eyes, he had a perfect aquiline nose that framed a firm, wide mouth. Apparently the devil came in extremely good-looking versions that also smelled amazing.

He held up three fingers. “How many?”

“Three.”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday, the sixth of August.”

He let his fingers slide from her head. His black gaze, however, remained pinned on her face. “Unless this is Goldilocks and the Three Bears redone to feature a brunette, you are sitting in the wrong chair.”

Her heart sped up in her chest at his low, silky tone, as curiosity radiated from the inky darkness of his somewhat mesmerizing gaze. “What if this is actually the right chair?” she offered in an attempt to defuse the tension.

His mouth curved. “Now I know that would have to be a tale, because this chair belongs to my assistant, Tessa, and you,” he murmured, his sweeping stare taking in all of her, including a rather comprehensive study of her legs, “are not her.”

Frankie swallowed hard and followed his gaze. In the commotion, her conservative skirt had ridden up her thighs, baring the lacy black pull-ups that were her one nod toward femininity in her proper office attire. Oh, God. She tugged the summer-weight wool back to her knees, so much heat rushing to her face she might as well have been on fire. With difficulty, she moved her gaze back up to his and saw...disappointment?

“Tessa,” she murmured, searching vainly for a way to rescue the situation, “went into premature labor and had her baby last night. Co—” Her words died in her throat as a flash of silver glinted across the room. She blinked, thinking her swimming head had manufactured it, but when she looked again, the sight of two armed guards bearing down on them, guns drawn, made her mouth drop open.

“Put your hands in the air.”

The guards roared the words at them, their attention fixed on Harrison. Frankie stuck her hands in the air, her heart slamming so violently against her chest she thought she might pass out. Her gaze sat frozen on the glare of the lights reflected off the silver barrels.

She tore her panicked gaze away finally, flicking it to Harrison, whose face had a bemused look on it. Instead of following the guard’s orders, he put his palms on his thighs and moved to straighten.

“I said put your hands in the air,” the guard bellowed, waving his gun at Harrison. “Now.”

Her boss put his suit-clad arms in the air in a slow, exaggerated movement. He might have acquiesced, but every muscle in his big body was tensed to revolt, his black gaze glittering. They sensed it, their eyes remaining trained on him. “Hands behind your back.”

The CEO’s mouth parted. “I think—”

“Hands behind your back.”

Her boss put his hands behind his back, a dark thundercloud stealing over his face. The guard closest to him holstered his gun, turned the CEO around with a careful appreciation of his powerful frame and snapped handcuffs around his wrists.

Oh, my God. Frankie’s frozen brain registered the guards now as Grant Industries security guards. But what were they doing arresting Harrison Grant?

The guard with his gun still drawn crooked a finger at Frankie. “Over here.”

The logical part of her brain told her she didn’t want anything to do with a man with a gun. Even one in uniform. Maybe these men were posing as Grant security guards. Maybe they wanted to rob them...

“Move,” the guard growled at her. Frankie’s behind left the chair in a hurry. She wasn’t sure how she did it because her legs were mush, but she wobbled over to where the guard stood, shaking so hard her teeth chattered. His partner pushed Harrison down in the chair she’d vacated.

“What happened?” the guard beside Frankie asked.

She gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘Wh-what do you mean? You just came tearing in here...”

“You hit the panic button.”

Panic button. What panic button? She vaguely remembered something in her training about an emergency button she could press if anything ever happened, but she’d laughed it off at the time, thinking it would be more useful for handling Coburn’s discarded girlfriends than an actual situation. Hers had been on the wall beside her desk.

Her gaze slid to the wall beside Tessa’s desk. No button.

“It’s under the desk on the left,” the guard said.

Under the desk? Her gaze slid to the big mahogany desk where her new boss sat handcuffed. A sick feeling enveloped her. She must have hit the button by mistake when Harrison walked in and startled her.

Oh, good lord.

The guard pointed at Harrison. “Pete said you were up here working alone. He had his hands on you when we arrived.”

Frankie’s stomach rolled. The guards were new. They’d changed to a different company last week. “He,” she clarified weakly, “is Harrison Grant, the CEO of this company. I hit the panic button by mistake.”

The guards assumed identical gray complexions. Harrison Grant’s expression moved from one of disbelief to an even darker countenance Frankie chose to avoid.

The guard beside her turned and surveyed the tall, elegant male in the chair dubiously. “You’re supposed to be abroad.”

Harrison’s dark-as-night eyes glittered back at him. “I parked underground and took the back elevators.”

“You don’t look like your picture.”

Frankie wanted to scream not to poke the beast. The glimmer in the CEO’s eyes turned deadly. “I can assure you that she,” he said, nodding his head at Frankie, “whoever she is, is telling the truth. Being the workaholic I am, I’ve acquired glasses since my last headshot.”

“You got some ID?”

Her boss dipped his chin. “Front pocket.”

The guard closest to Harrison retrieved his wallet from his jacket with a ginger movement that made Frankie hysterically wonder what he thought he’d do. Bite him? The man had his hands manacled behind his back. The guard flipped the wallet open, scanned it and went even grayer. Bile climbed the back of Frankie’s throat.

“Apologies for the confusion.” The guard slid the wallet back into Harrison’s pocket. “The situation you two were in, the bottle of wine, we read it wrong.”

Frankie’s gaze flew to the bottle of Pinot Grigio on the desk. Oh, heavens. The way Harrison had been leaning over her... They couldn’t possibly have thought this had been an assignation gone wrong...could they?

The grim look on her boss’s face suggested that’s exactly what they’d thought. He directed a laser-like stare at the guard. “You have exactly five seconds to get these cuffs off me.”

The guard retrieved his key and had Harrison stand and turn around while he removed the cuffs. “We work on rotation,” he said apologetically as he slid them off. “We’re new in this building. So sorry we didn’t recognize you, Mr. Grant.”

Her boss extended his arms and flexed his wrists to get the circulation going. “Well, now that we’ve established we’re all new, except me,” he drawled, planting his gaze on Frankie, “and we’ve also determined this was not a romantic encounter with a bad ending for the sake of the gossip mill, perhaps you can tell me who you are, Goldilocks not being a suitable answer.”

She bit down hard on her lip. “Francesca Masseria. Your brother’s PA. Actually...yours now.”

“Is that so?” Frankie watched her career hang in the balance of that dark, unfathomable gaze. It occurred to her she’d be lucky to get shipped back to Coburn.

The CEO turned his attention to the guards. “I suggest you start taking some regular walks around the building to learn who people are.”

The guards nodded in unison. “Absolutely, sir.”

Harrison waved a hand at them. “Go.”

Frankie stood quaking in the center of the suddenly silent foyer as the silver-uniformed security detail disappeared toward the elevators. Her boss stood, legs planted wide in front of her, a distinct smoky gray aura surrounding his muscular frame.

She liked him better in handcuffs.

Harrison’s mouth curled in a mocking smile. “Despite what you may have heard otherwise, Ms. Masseria, I am not a monster.”

The rebuke stung her into silence. “I’m to assume,” he drawled, “that you are filling in as Tessa’s replacement until we can find someone else?”

“Actually Coburn has asked me to work with you until Tessa comes back.”

His gaze narrowed on her speculatively. “Coburn thinks the sun rises and sets with your appearance in the office every morning, Ms. Masseria. How could we possibly expect him to get along without you for six months?”

Warmth stung her cheeks at the unexpected compliment. “I’m sure he’ll manage,” she demurred. “Nobody’s irreplaceable.”

“Tessa is.”

She flinched. He considered her for a moment, his unnervingly precise gaze seeming to take a visual X-ray of her for further examination. “I need some sleep,” he concluded. “Take your dinner and the wine, go home, get some rest and we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Frankie took a step toward him. “I have some—”

He lifted a hand. “I have just flown sixteen hours to get home to be told my brilliant right hand and irreplaceable PA is in the hospital having a baby while in the midst of helping me with a crucial acquisition. I’ve been put in handcuffs by my own security team and had guns pointed at my face. And if that isn’t enough, my body is heavily protesting the jump in time zones. The only thing,” he underscored harshly, “that is going to make me feel like a human being at this point in time is a good stiff drink and a horizontal position on a bed that is my own. And you, Ms. Masseria, are the only thing standing between me and it. So unless you would like to finish this conversation there, put your shoes on and let’s call it a night.”

Her mouth fell open. Had he actually just said that? And why did she find that idea vastly exciting instead of incredibly inappropriate?

His eyes widened imperceptibly, then narrowed. “Joking, Ms. Masseria. Go home.”

She looked down at her bare feet on the marble, her muted pink toenails the ultimate in complete humiliation. Never in the six months she had worked for Coburn had she ever acted this unprofessional.

But, she told herself lifting her chin, the first step toward redemption was moving on. They would come back in the morning as he’d said, she would show him what she was made of and it would all be fine.

“I will see you in the morning, then. We’ll go through the urgent items then.”

He inclined his head. She turned and headed toward her desk. Harrison’s deep baritone halted her. “Ms. Masseria?”

She turned around.

“Which hospital is Tessa in?”

“Mount Sinai.”

The humor that flickered in his eyes then caught her off guard. It made him look almost human. “Do you think you can send her some flowers from me in the morning without calling in the cavalry?”

She pressed her lips together. “I’ll have it taken care of.”

The beast was safely ensconced in his office repacking his briefcase when she ducked her head in to say she was leaving. He wished her an absentminded good-night and told her to take a taxi. Exhausted, she did. When she got home she swallowed down two painkillers for her throbbing head, reheated and ate half the noodles, then immersed herself in a hot bath.

She had just laid her head on the pillow when her cell phone rang. She frowned and pulled it off the bedside table. Unknown caller. She was about to decline the call when the thought they’d call back and wake her up made her reach for it.

“Francesca,” she murmured sleepily into the phone.

“Just checking that whack on your head didn’t do you in.”

Harrison Grant’s deep voice sent her jackknifing upright. How the heck did he have her mobile number? The company directory. Right.

“I was concerned about you. I should have sent you to the hospital to have your head looked at.”

“I’m fine,” she croaked. Without that arctic chill in it, his voice was the sexiest thing she’d ever heard over a phone line—deep, velvety and laced with a husky fatigue that reached all the way to her nerve endings.

Hadn’t he been about to go to bed? Was he calling from bed?

She shook her head, wincing as the throbbing reminded her she shouldn’t do that. How could she possibly be experiencing erotic images of a man who would likely send her packing tomorrow?

“Do you live with anyone?”

She blinked. “I—I don’t think that’s the kind of question I have to answer, is it?”

The warm, very masculine laughter that reached her from the other end of the line made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. “I wasn’t inquiring about your dating life, Francesca. I was going to say if you do have a roommate or significant other, you should get them to wake you up every few hours to make sure you don’t have a concussion. They can be very serious.”

“Oh.” Frankie swallowed back a fresh wave of mortification. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I do—have a roommate—that is. She’s out but I’ll do that.”

“Good. See you in the morning, then.”

She muttered good-night and disconnected the call. Punching down her pillow, she welcomed the breeze that wafted in through her old Victorian window, cooling her heated cheeks. Harrison Grant could add ridiculously naive to his new PA’s description after tonight’s debacle. That was, if he chose to keep her... She wasn’t laying odds on it.

CHAPTER TWO

HARRISON’S MOUTH WAS DRY—parched with anticipation. His entire body was rigid with the expectation of physical satisfaction as the beautiful brunette rose from his office chair and pushed him down into it. Her soft, lush thighs hitting his as she straddled him made his heart catch in his throat. The lacy black stockings she wore with garters made an appearance, sending his blood coursing through his veins. He had to have her. Now.

Her long, silky dark hair brushed his face as she bent and kissed him. His hands reached blindly for the lace on her thighs, needing to touch. She slapped his fingers away. “Wait,” she instructed in a husky, incredibly sexy voice. “Not yet.”

He started to protest, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, reached behind her and pulled out something metal that glinted in the dim light of the desk lamp. Handcuffs. Mother of God.

He jackknifed to a sitting position. Sweat dripped from his body. Reality slapped him in the face as he discovered he wasn’t being seduced in his office chair by a stunning brunette; he was in his own bed. Stunning disappointment followed. His racing heart wanted her. His body was pulsing, crying out for her to finish what she’d started...

An appalled feeling spread through him. He only knew one set of eyes that particular shade of gray. His new PA. He had been fantasizing about his new PA.

A harsh curse left his mouth. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and brought his breathing under control. His dream had been wholly inappropriate. Never had he brought sex into the office and never would he. The guns and the handcuffs had truly pushed him over the edge.

And the stockings. That might actually have been the worst.

The birds were already singing. He poured himself into the shower and attempted to clear his head. The dull throb in his temple he’d been harboring for days was still there, reminding him normal human beings needed at least six hours of sleep on a regular basis to function at optimal performance.

His mouth twisted. Not that anyone considered him a normal human being. They thought he was a machine.

He toweled himself off, put his aching body in front of a cup of coffee and the newspaper and tried to focus on the rather mundane headlines. But his utterly incongruous dream kept working its way into his head.

He never had fantasies like that. He identified his urges, satisfied them according to a convenient slot in his insane schedule with a woman who didn’t mind his lack of commitment, then he filed them back where they belonged: extracurricular activity that came after work.

His coffee cup went thump on the breakfast table. There was no way he could have that woman working for him. He took a last gulp of coffee, tossed the paper aside and headed for the gym in his building. He’d talk to Coburn when he got in. Tell him this just wasn’t going to work.

Coburn strolled into his office a few minutes after he’d landed there, looking disgustingly fresh and sharp in a navy blue Armani suit. That they were both early risers who appreciated the benefits of physical exercise was about their only similarity. Even their intent in doing it was different. Harrison slotted it into his schedule like any other appointment, because if he didn’t he’d be regularly seeing a heart specialist somewhere around fifty. It was in the Grant family genes.

Coburn, on the other hand, pursued mad daredevil-type sports that skirted death on a regular basis. Paragliding, mountain climbing, bicycle racing in European countries with tiny alpine ledges for tracks. Not to mention what it did for his physique, which maintained the steady flow of females in and out of his life so there would never be a dearth where he’d have to consider what the hell he was actually doing. His ex-wife had messed him up and messed him up good. But since that topic had long been considered subject non grata, Harrison began with the topic of the hour.

“How selfless of you to loan me Francesca Masseria.” He sat back in his desk chair and took his Kenyan brew with him.

“Isn’t it?” Coburn grinned. He took the seat opposite him. “Sometimes I can sacrifice for the greater good, H.”

Harrison frowned. He hated when Coburn called him H and he knew it. “How many times have you slept with her?”

His brother gave him a look of mock offence. “Not even once. Although it’s tempting. If God designed the perfect woman and set her down on this earth, it’d be Frankie and those legs of hers.”

“Francesca,” Harrison corrected, refusing to go there. “And you don’t speak about an employee in that manner.”

You just had hot, explicit dreams about them.

Coburn rolled his eyes.

“You’ve moaned about not having a good PA for years, then when you get one you love, you hand her over to me. Why?”

His brother trained his striking blue gaze on him the way he did the board when he wanted them on their knees. “Self-preservation. Frankie is a knockout. Of late, I’ve discovered she has a crush on me, although not one of her very proper bones would ever admit it. It’s only a matter of time before we end up in bed together and I want to prevent that from happening because I want to keep her as my PA.” He shrugged. “So I send her to the school of Harrison for six months, you train her with that regimental authority of yours, and I get her back when I am fully immersed in someone else, better than she was before.”

If Harrison hadn’t known his younger brother as well as he did, he would have assumed he was joking. But this was Coburn, who possessed every genetic trait the youngest born was created to feature, including an exaggerated sense of the need for his own independence from everything, including serious relationships with females and his responsibilities to Grant Industries.

“You do realize if HR heard even a quarter of that speech, I’d have to fire you.”

Coburn lifted a Rolex-clad hand. “Then I retire to the south of Italy, road-race most of the year and manage my shares from there. Either works for me.”

Harrison tamped down the barely restrained aggression he felt toward his younger brother. “She’s not experienced enough for the job.”

“This is Frankie we’re talking about. You’ll see when you meet her.”

“Francesca,” Harrison corrected again. “And I met her last night.”

Coburn frowned. “How? You’ve only just gotten back.”

“She was working late. Likely trying to make sense of things with Tessa’s abrupt departure... I stopped in for a file.”

“Your own fault,” Coburn pointed out. “You’ve known for months Tessa was leaving and you did nothing about it.”

Because he couldn’t bear to be without his mind-bogglingly good PA who made his insane life bearable. Avoidance had been preferable...

“Anyway,” Coburn continued, “it’s the perfect solution for both of us. Frankie is incredible. Green, yes, but just as smart as Tessa. And,” he added, pausing for effect, “she speaks Russian.”

“Russian?”

“Fluently. Plus Italian, but I’m thinking the Russian is going to be more useful to you right now.”

“How does she speak Russian?”

Coburn frowned. “I think she said her best friend is Russian. Something like that...”

Given his solitary goal in life at the moment was to obliterate Anton Markovic, the man who’d put his father in his grave, and negotiations to make it happen were at an extremely fragile stage with Leonid Aristov balking at the deal to acquire his company, a PA who could speak Russian could be a very valuable asset.

The amusement faded from Coburn’s face. “You don’t have to keep at this, you know? Father is ten feet under. He’s never going to see you bring Markovic down. You’re doing this for you, Harrison, not him. And lord knows you need a life.”

His hands curled tightly around his coffee mug, his knuckles gleaming white. His younger brother’s lack of interest in avenging the man who had built this company was a position he had long understood. His personal opinions on how he lived his life? Meaningless, when he had always been the only person holding this company together.

He put his coffee cup down on the desk before he crushed it between his fingers, and focused his gaze on his brother. “How about you keep playing with those international markets and making us money like you do and save your philosophical sermons for someone who cares?”

Coburn’s easygoing expression slid into one approaching the frigidness of his. “Someday you’re going to realize that cold heart of yours has left you alone in this big empty world, H. And when you do, nobody is going to care anymore. But that’s okay, because you will have your vengeance.”

Harrison flashed him a “see yourself out” look. Coburn stood, straightened his suit coat and paused by the door. “I gave you Frankie because you need her. But if you so much as cause one tear to roll down her face, you’ll answer to me for it. You hear me?”

His brother disappeared in a wave of expensive aftershave. Harrison glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty. It was 7:30 a.m. and already he was exhausted. His life exhausted him.

* * *

Frankie came to work armed and ready, although that might be an unfortunate turn of phrase given last night’s occurrences. “Okay,” she admitted to Rocky, who still looked less than thrilled to be in his new surroundings, but marginally calmer than yesterday, “let’s just say that was a bad choice of words.”

She had worn her most expensive suit today, which wasn’t very expensive given her limited budget for a wardrobe after paying rent for the brownstone apartment she shared with Josephine. But she’d altered it so it looked custom, the lightweight, charcoal-gray tailored jacket and skirt hugging her curves without broadcasting the depth of them. The color did something for her dark hair and gray eyes she considered inferior to those of her striking female siblings, and her chignon, well, it was the most perfect she’d ever attempted. Geri from Accounting had looked noticeably envious this morning on the elevator, and if there was a morning she needed to win their dueling hairstyle competition, it was this.

She needed all the confidence she could muster facing her new boss this morning. If he decided to keep her.

Dumping her purse in her drawer, she ignored her rumbling stomach. She’d tried to eat, but she hadn’t been able to get any breakfast down except a slice of toast and juice. She refused to call it nerves because she needed to have full armor on this morning. She’d been noticeably jumpy when the security guard had checked her ID downstairs and that scene of her boss in handcuffs kept replaying itself over and over in her head.

And then there had been his bedroom voice last night on the phone and her resulting descent into lunacy... Her stomach dipped. Today she was going to revert back to her usual, capable self: five steps ahead of her boss at all times, unruffleable and cheerful no matter what the request. And she was going to stay far, far away from that panic button. In fact, she was going to cover it with tape.

Mouth set in a firm gesture of determination, she ran her hands over her head to ensure every hair was in place and, satisfied she was all cool sophistication, walked toward Harrison’s office. His brisk, clipped voice directing a conference call stopped her in her tracks. This was good. It would give her time to get organized. Having a boss who came in at 7:00 a.m. left you a bit flat-footed.

She made herself a cup of tea and scanned her email. Tessa had evaded her husband’s watchful eye long enough to send her some notes from her smartphone. Frankie sank back in her seat, took a sip of her tea and ploughed gratefully through her list of Harrison rules.

Triage his email first thing in the morning and keep an eye on anything urgent. He’s married to his smartphone, but the volume is overwhelming. You might have to jump in.

Take his phone messages on the pink message pad on the desk, not the blue one, and don’t write on the second half of the page. He likes to make notes for follow-up there.

Fail on that one. She’d put a stack of messages on Harrison’s desk last night that had used the whole page. She’d fix that today...

Don’t ever put a call through to him from any woman other than a business contact or his mother. Casual dates like to pose as girlfriends when they’re not. He hasn’t had a regular woman in his life for a while. Apparently, as you likely know from the gossip pages, he’s supposed to be marrying Cecily Hargrove to cement the family dynasty, but I have seen no evidence of her of late, so proceed with caution and never talk with the press.

Fascinating. She was nothing if not discreet.

If he asks you to send flowers to a woman, send calla lilies. They’re his go-to choice. If he ever asks you to send anything else, you can bet she’s “the one.”

Frankie smiled. Although she couldn’t imagine Harrison Grant ever falling for a woman like that.

Somewhere between eight and nine he will call you into his office to put together a to-do list for the day. Execute the list in the order he gives it to you. He’s like the Swiss train system. He needs things done in a certain way at a certain time. Stick to this and you’ll be fine.

Wow. He was even more of a control freak than she was.

And, finally, don’t ever interrupt him when he’s on a conference call. Put a note in front of him if you have to. But since he spends four or five hours on them a day, do bring him coffee. The Kenyan blend—black. He figures out lunch himself.

Ugh. She glanced toward Harrison’s office. She hadn’t done that. That necessitated facing him.

Getting to her feet, she brewed a steaming cup of Kenyan blend in the kitchen, slipped into Harrison’s office with the stealth of a cat and headed toward his desk. He was on speakerphone, pacing in front of the windows like a lethal weapon as he talked. She had almost made it to the desk when he turned around.

Her nerves, the intensity of his black stare and the depth of his intimidating good looks in the pinstriped three-piece suit he wore like billionaire armor set her hand to shaking. Hard. Coffee sloshed over the side of the mug and singed her hand. Fire raced along the tender skin between her thumb and forefinger. She bit back a howl of pain, set the mug on the desk, speed walked to the outer office and put it under cold water in the kitchen.

A couple of minutes under the tap made the burn bearable. She spread some salve from the emergency kit on it and retraced her steps into Harrison’s office where he was still spewing point after point into the speakerphone. Her gaze locked on the precious dark wood of the desk. A large water ring stared back at her, embedded into the wood. Oh, no. Please, no.

She scrubbed at it to no avail. Moved the mug to a coaster and retreated to her desk. Sat there mentally calculating how long it would take him to fire her. Five more minutes on the conference call, a couple of minutes to think of how he was going to do it and bam—she’d be gone.

“Get ready to move again,” she told Rocky.

Coward, his elegant snout accused.

“You try dealing with tall, dark and dangerous. Heavy on the dangerous.”

Footsteps on the marble brought her head up. Dangerous had emerged from his office and conference call, three minutes early. He was looking at her as if she was quite possibly mad. “Who are you talking to?”

Frankie waved her hand at Rocky. “Rocky Balboa, meet Harrison Grant.”

A dark brow lifted. “Rocky Balboa as in the boxer, Rocky?’

She nodded, heat filling her cheeks.

“You talk to a fish?”

“That is true, yes.”

There was a profound silence. Frankie closed her eyes and waited for the two words to come. You’re fired.

“Give me your hand.”

She opened her eyes. He was looking at her burnt hand. “It’s fine,” she refused, tucking it under the desk. “I’m so sorry about the coffee stain. I’ll see if the cleaners can work some magic.”

“It can be sanded and refinished.”

At an insane cost. Why was he being so reasonable about it? She swallowed hard. “Do you want to go through the priorities for today?”

“No, I want to see your hand. Now.”

She stuck it out. He took it in his and ran the pad of his thumb over her fire-engine-red knuckles. Frankie’s stomach did a slow roll at the innocent contact. It didn’t seem innocent coming from her fire-breathing boss. It seemed—disturbing.

He sighed. “If we’re going to be able to work together, you have to stop being afraid of me.”

Gray eyes met black. He wanted her to keep working for him?

“I’m not afraid of you.”

His thumb settled on the pulse racing at the base of her wrist. “Either you are or you have the fastest resting pulse of any human being I’ve encountered.”

She yanked her hand away. “Okay, maybe I am—just a little intimidated. Last night wasn’t exactly a great introduction.”

“Stand up.”

“Pardon me?”

“Stand up.”

She eyed him for a moment, then rose to her full five feet eight inches, which, with the added height of her shoes, brought her eyes level with his smooth, perfectly shaven jaw.

“Look at me.”

She lifted her gaze, bracing herself for that intimidating stare of his up close, and it was no less formidable than she’d expected it to be. Except she learned there were exotic flecks of amber in it that warmed you up if you dared to look. They disputed the coldness went all the way through him, suggested if he chose to use the full power of that beautiful, complex gaze on you in a particular way for a particular purpose you might melt in his hands like a hundred-plus pounds of useless female.

His mouth tilted. “I’m intense to work with, Francesca, but I’m not the big bad wolf. Nor am I unreasonable. Especially when I’ve had a full night’s sleep.”

Right.

“Now say it again like you mean it.”

“Say what?”

“I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”

Her mouth twisted. “You’re making fun of me.”

His sexy mouth curved. “I’m curing you. Say it.”

She forced herself to ignore the glitter of humor in his eyes, which took his dangerously attractive vibe to a whole other level. “I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”

“Don’t ask me to take that seriously.”

She pursed her lips, feeling ridiculous. Injected an iron will into her tone. “I am not afraid of you, Harrison. You’re not that scary.”

He nodded approvingly. “Better.”

His undoubtedly sinfully expensive aftershave worked its way into her pores. They said a person’s own chemistry combined with a fragrance to make it what it was and in this case, it was spicy, all male and intoxicating. She wished he would take a step back and relinquish her personal space.

“Francesca?”

“Yes.”

His gaze was hooded. Unreadable. “I agree last night was a...disconcerting way to meet. I suggest we wipe it from our memories and start fresh.”

The message conveyed was unmistakable. He wasn’t just talking about the handcuffs...he was talking about the attraction between them.

She firmed her mouth, taking a step backward. “I think that’s an excellent idea. Exactly what I was thinking this morning.”

“Good.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Back in five. Can we go over the day then?”

She nodded. “Should I really? Call you Harrison, I mean?”

“Tessa does...so yes.”

Frankie watched him go, then sat down with the loose limbs of a prisoner who’d just escaped execution and was profoundly grateful for the fact. She found her notebook, carried her tea into Harrison’s office and was pondering why Cecily Hargrove hadn’t been named Mrs. Harrison Grant yet if he really did have a sense of humor along with the brooding sex appeal, when the phone rang.

She went and picked up the call at her own desk. Leonid Aristov’s assistant announced herself briskly and rather snootily. Frankie shifted into Russian, feeling a tug of satisfaction when the other woman paused, took the development in and continued on in her own language. “Mr. Aristov,” Tatiana Yankov stated, “would like to have a meeting with Mr. Grant in London next week.”

Frankie glanced at Harrison’s schedule. “Impossible,” she regretted smoothly. If he had time to go to the bathroom it would be a miracle. “Perhaps the last week of August?”

“If Mr. Grant would like to discuss closing this deal with Mr. Aristov, which I believe he is eager to do, he needs to be in London, next week,” the other woman repeated, as if unconvinced of her command of the language.

Frankie kept her tone perfectly modulated. “Could you tell me what this meeting is to be about? That way I can discuss it with Mr. Grant.”

“I couldn’t say,” came the distant response. “Mr. Aristov simply asked me to schedule the meeting. Call me back when you have a date.” Tatiana rattled off a London phone number.

Frankie jotted the number down. “I can’t schedule a meeting without knowing what it’s a—” A dial tone sounded in her ear. She held the phone away from her and stared at it. She had not just done that. She was still staring at the phone when Harrison walked past her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Ready?”

She followed him into his office. “That was Leonid Aristov’s assistant on the phone.”

He wheeled around, coffee sloshing in his mug. Frankie’s gaze flew to the boiling liquid as it skimmed the rim of the cup, wavered there like the high seas, then elected to stay in.

“What did she want?”

Frankie returned her gaze to his face. “Aristov wants a meeting next week.”

“A meeting?” A frown furrowed his brow. “He’s already agreed to everything in principle. Did you ask what the meeting was for?”

“I did. She wouldn’t give me anything. She just said Aristov wanted the meeting and it had to be next week.”

“Have you had a look at my schedule?” He trained his gaze on her as if she had an IQ of fifty. “This deal is scheduled to pass regulatory authorities next month, Ms. Masseria. I don’t fly around the world on a whim because Leonid Aristov wants me to.”

Great, they were back to Ms. Masseria... She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I’m not suggesting you should. But she was very rude. She hung up on me.”

He blinked at her. “Why would she hang up on you?”

“She seemed busy. I was trying to probe for more information when she cut me off and hung up.”

He impaled her on that razor-sharp gaze of his that had turned him from beauty to the beast in the space of a round second. Then he thrust out an elegant hand. “Give me the number.”

She held on to it. “I can call her back. Just give me some direc—”

“Give me the number.”

Frankie went back to her desk, grabbed the pink message pad, marched into his office and gave it to him. And called him a bad name in her head. A big, bad one. She had liked him so much five minutes ago. She really had.

He was dialing the ice queen back when she left. She put her head down and started working through his email. God forbid she’d missed something they’d need for their briefing.

He came out minutes later. She suppressed a victorious thrill at the dark scowl on his face. “Cancel everything for Thursday and Friday of next week. We’ll fly to London Wednesday night, meet with Aristov Thursday morning then leave ourselves a buffer day in case we have more to talk about with him.”

“Did you find out what the meeting is for?”

“No,” he said icily. “It’s all going to be a pleasant surprise.”

Frankie kept her eyes on the notepad she was scribbling on. “You said Wednesday night we fly out?”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

‘Yes— No—” She lifted her gaze to his in a pained look. “It’s just that I have a special—commitment Wednesday night.”

His expression darkened. “Taking into account you actually want this job, Ms. Masseria, you will learn to eat, breathe and sleep it for the next six months. So I suggest you...uncommit yourself.”

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?

Call the restaurant, she texted back. I’m sure it’s on the way.

Harrison looked over at her. “Problems?”

She shook her head. “Just this thing I’m supposed to be at. He’ll figure it out.”

The attendant came by to check their seat belts and ask what they’d like to drink once they were airborne. Harrison requested a scotch. Frankie gladly followed suit and asked for a glass of wine. Anything that calmed the anxiety clawing its way up her throat was a good thing.

Another text came in. He hasn’t left yet. Dammit. Frankie sent a text to her brother Salvatore. Get that cake there, now. You owe me.

“Men,” she muttered. Why couldn’t they be as buttoned-down as women?

Her boss glanced up from his laptop. “Trust me, he’ll be fine. If he has any sense he’ll be waiting with an armful of flowers when you get back.”

Frankie gave him an uncomprehending look. “Oh—no, it’s not that. It’s my brother. He’s supposed to be delivering a birthday cake to the party I was hosting and he’s late.”

His dark brows came together. “You were hosting a party?”

“At the church, yes.” The engines roared. She kept talking as her pulse skyrocketed. “I host Wednesday night bingo games for the seniors. I’ve been doing it since I was eighteen. Tomasino Giardelli, whose birthday it is, is like a grandfather to me. It’s his eightieth, so we decided to throw him a party and Mama made Tomasino her special tiramisu cake. Which,” she added darkly, “he is going to love if Salvatore gets his behind over there with it before it’s over. The seniors are wilting as we speak.”

“Salvatore?”

“My brother.”

A sober look crossed his face. “I’m sorry you’re missing the birthday party.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I didn’t ask.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that so she looked down at her hands clasped together in a death lock. His gaze sat on her as the jet taxied off to sit in line behind two others. “You really spend every Wednesday night hosting bingo?”

She tightened her seat belt, her heart going pitter-patter as the captain announced they were two minutes to takeoff. “It’s always been part of what we do as a family— giving back to the community is important for my parents. It’s been good to them.”

“Coburn said they have a restaurant in Brooklyn?”

She nodded. ‘I’m the youngest of six procreated bus people.”

He smiled at that. “Shouldn’t you be out on dates instead of hosting bingo? Living the Manhattan single life?”

She made a face. “The last date I was on, the very well-mannered stockbroker I thought I was out with accosted me in the elevator on the way down from the restaurant. That was enough for me.”

His brows rose. “Accosted?”

Frankie gave an embarrassed wave of her hand. “He kissed me. He wouldn’t stop kissing me. And frankly, he was bad at it. I mean, can you imagine?”

The amusement in his eyes deepened. “I can. I mean I can’t in that he should never have put his hands on you without your permission but the poor guy was probably just desperate.”

Frankie crossed her arms over her chest, an image of her flashing him with her lace pull-ups filling her head. Did he think she usually gave men come-ons like that? She wished she could wipe that entire night from their heads.

“You still don’t do that,” she said stiffly.

“No,” he agreed. “You don’t.” He gave her a thoughtful look as the jet revved its engines and started down the runway, the speed at which the gray pavement flew by making Frankie light-headed. “Poor-mannered guy aside, there must be a man in your life. You’re too attractive for there not to be.”

Her chin dipped. “I’m married to my work for the next few years.”

“Or you’re hung up on someone.”

The inflection in his voice made her lift her chin and narrow her gaze on him. “No—just not dating.”

He shrugged. “Good. Because I’d hate for you to waste your time on my brother, Francesca. He is undoubtedly a magnetic personality and an inspiring leader, but he is not boyfriend material by any stretch of the imagination.”

Boyfriend material? She blinked at the twin assaults being mounted on her, one from the air as they climbed at a petrifyingly steep angle and one from the man opposite her. “Is that what he thinks? That I have a crush on him?” Good God. So she’d responded to a few of her boss’s flirtatious smiles lately. She was human.

“I can assure you,” she said crisply, “I do not have a crush on Coburn.”

He held up a hand. “Just a friendly piece of advice. I’ve seen it happen too many times.”

The jet climbed swiftly into the clouds. Frankie gave the receding ground an anxious look, her stomach swooping as the plane rode a current of air. Was that why Coburn had handed her over so easily to Harrison? Because he thought she had a crush on him? That was wrong. So wrong.

A scowl twisted her lips. Good to know the two Grant brothers both had egos the size of their fortunes... Her resentment faded to terror as they went through a bumpy patch of cloud, her fingers digging into the armrests.

Harrison sighed and set his computer aside. “You really are terrified of flying.”

She clamped down harder on the leather. “Something else to add to my list of eccentricities.”

He smiled. “I rather like Rocky. And all joking aside, the seniors, your work in the community, I appreciate your altruism, Francesca. It’s refreshing.”

“The Grant family does the same.”

A cynical light filled his eyes. “There is an intent and purpose behind everything my family does. It’s all done with a camera in sight and cleverly crafted messaging at the ready. Hardly the same thing.”

His candor caught her off guard. “Hardly surprising with the White House in mind.”

He arched a brow at her. “Do we? Have the White House in mind?”

Warmth seeped into her blood-deprived cheeks. “Everyone thinks you do.”

He tipped his head at her. “Anyone considering a presidential run spends the years leading up to it coyly denying they’re interested. Dropping little hints that never might not mean never, but then again, maybe it does. Then they sit back and take the pulse of every interest group in the nation and see if it’s a viable proposition. It’s a game, Francesca, a long, bloody battle that would sap the stamina of even the strongest man.”

She frowned. So did that mean he was going to or he wasn’t?

An elusive smile claimed his lips. “What that means is right now I am focusing on Grant Industries and specifically what Leonid Aristov is going to bring to the table tomorrow.”

And with that Harrison Grant cut off whatever valuable insight Frankie might have glimpsed into his psyche and got to work. He pulled up the presentation he’d done for the meeting that addressed two of Aristov’s final concerns, asked her to get her notes out and the marathon work session began. This time, however, she was grateful for any distraction that would keep her mind off the fact they were traveling at thirty thousand feet in a glorified tin can.

* * *

A couple of hours into their trip across the Atlantic, Harrison thought he might finally have gained some sort of symbiosis with his PA. He could not question Francesca’s intelligence after the week they’d just spent together. She was whip-smart, just as Coburn had said, with street smarts to go with it that gave her an uncanny ability to see through people and situations. And now that he’d given her permission to delve deeper with her questions, she was starting to give back to him what he needed—intelligently thought-out ideas on how to present the information she’d gathered to a tricky prospect in Leonid Aristov.

The Russians, he conceded on a deeply exhaled breath, were a thorn in his side. Aristov was playing with him as if he held all the cards when, in fact, he held none. The Russian’s fortune was disintegrating in front of his eyes. He needed to sell Siberius and yet he was intent on making Harrison’s life difficult for a reason he had yet to divulge. Which hopefully, he would wrangle out of him tomorrow.

And Markovic? Well, Markovic was Markovic—an arrogant oligarch with too much money to play with, too flashy a lifestyle and too short a memory to remember the bridges he’d burned. It antagonized Harrison to see him prosper. But soon he would remember what he’d done to his father and he would pay with the same agony Clifford Grant had. With everything he had.

Frankie curved one long leg over the other, adjusting her position as he had been over the long flight to keep the blood flowing. It was taking everything he had to ignore her five-star legs and keep his mind on work. He might have put a lock on his attraction to her but it didn’t mean he wasn’t a man with functioning parts. Evidently ones that needed some serious attention.

Coburn would have been highly amused at the situation given his older brother had been born the one with all the self-control and discipline. The one who was not ruled by his emotions. But after a week with Francesca, he almost got why his brother had punted her to him for six months. She was temptation that didn’t know it was temptation. And that was the most tempting female of all.

The pilot’s voice intruded on his thoughts. “Hey, folks. We’re anticipating some rough weather ahead. I’m going to turn the seat-belt sign on in a few minutes for about an hour so if you’d like to use the restroom, now would be the time.”

A pinched look spread across Frankie’s face. “What kind of bad weather?” she asked the attendant as she came to offer them a drink before she sat down.

“A bit of lightning in the area. It could be rough for a while but no worries. Captain Danyon is the best.”

Frankie turned a greenish color and unbuckled her seat belt. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Just going to do like the pilot said.”

When she came back, she had a set, determined look on her chalk-white face. They worked through the Aristov presentation. When the captain turned on the seat-belt sign and the bumps began, Frankie kept her gaze fixed on his computer screen and kept talking. As far as storms went, it was a good one. The tiny plane swooped on fast-moving air, then rose again, some of the plunges taking his breath away.

“We can stop,” he suggested. “Wait until it’s over...”

“Keep talking,” she commanded, clutching her seat with white-knuckled hands. “It’s keeping me from freaking out.”

He wasn’t sure how much she was taking in in her terrified state, but he kept going, working through the back end of the presentation. Forty-five minutes later, they’d finished it and were going through a checklist to make sure they hadn’t missed anything crucial.

“We haven’t included the most recent market stats,” Frankie announced, shuffling through her papers.

“They’re on the third slide.”

“Oh.” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and chewed on it. “Do we have that graphic in there, too? The one you asked me to fix and expand?”

“It’s in there.” He pulled his gaze away from her lush mouth to study her. She didn’t look as green as she had earlier, but now she was acting a bit...vague.

“Francesca, are you okay?”

“Perfect.” She forced a smile. “I think that’s it, then, isn’t it? I’ll make a note of any questions Aristov asks, although I don’t expect he’ll have any with this much information put in front of him. Oh—and I’ll bring the backup.”

The way she said that last part, as if it was a ‘nice to have,’ alarmed him. “Yes,” he said deliberately, “the backup is key. We can’t forget the backup.”

“No problem.” She rubbed her palm across her forehead. “Can we talk about the shareholder meetings now? I really need to get a handle on them.”

“If you’re a hundred percent clear on the meeting, yes.”

“A hunnndred percent, yes.” She nodded and tucked the folder in her briefcase and pulled out her notepad. “So for the shareholder thing...”

“Meetings,” he corrected. Had she just slurred that word? Or was she being funny?

“Right. The meetings... They cover the Monday and Tuesday, right? With the Wednesday afternoon kept for additional items that come up?”

“The Tuesday afternoons are for open items, yes. The meetings are over Tuesday night.”

She blinked at him. “That’s what I said. Tuesday.”

“You said Wednesday. It’s Tuesday for the open session. Here.” He pulled the schedule from her unopened folder. “Look at this.”

She studied it with the glazed-eyed look of someone who wasn’t taking anything in. “Got it.” A sigh escaped her. She put her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes. “I’m so sorry. My head is very cloudy all of a sudden.”

A wave of guilt spread through him. “You’re probably exhausted. It’s been a long week.”

“Yes, but this...” She put her palms to her temples. “I think I might need to lie down.”

He pulled her hands away from her face. “You’re not feeling well?”

“I’m fine...it’s just—” Her bleary gaze skipped away from his. “I—I took a pill my sister gave me for the turbulence. It’s making me...”

“Where is it?”

“In my purse.”

He grabbed her bag off the seat, opened it up and plucked the pill bottle off the top. Scanning the label he saw it was a sedative.

“Have you taken these before?”

“No. I didn’t think they’d hit me this hard.” She plopped her chin in her palms, elbows braced on the table, and closed her eyes. “Maybe it’ll wear off in a few minutes. Maybe I should have some coffee.”

“How many did you take?”

“Just one. But I feel...light-headed.”

He uttered a low curse. “It’s going to last for hours. You need to lie down.”

“I’d rather have some coffee.”

He stripped off his seat belt, rounded the table and undid hers. Her eyes half opened. “The seat-belt sign is—”

“Shut up.” He slipped his arms underneath her knees and back and lifted her up. She was surprisingly light for a female with her curves, and it should have been an easy carry to the bedroom at the back of the jet, but the plane was dipping and swaying beneath his feet and it was all he could do to keep his balance. Her fingers dug into his biceps with a strength born of fear, her body trembling in his arms.

He kept her braced against his chest as he negotiated the door handle to the bedroom, shouldered himself in and deposited her on the bed with a lucky move that brought him down hard beside her. The jet dropped, this time a good fifty feet, pulling a low, agonized cry from Francesca. He kept a hand on her, his body half draped over her. The jet leveled out. “Swallow,” he commanded.

Her throat convulsed as she did. “This is soooo not good.”

“It’s just turbulence.” He recovered his own breath.

“Still.” Her eyes popped open, valiantly hanging on to her terror. “Donnn’t leave me.”

“I can’t at this moment.” He gave the sky a grim look through the tiny, oval windows. It was an inky, endless black canvas crisscrossed by vibrant streaks of jagged gold lightning.

Francesca pulled him toward her as if he was a pillow. He put a palm to her shoulder to push her back into the bed. A whimper escaped her throat. “Please.”

He crumbled. Gathered her soft curves to him and held her while the storm raged on outside. She smelled like orange blossoms—like intoxication and innocence all in one. The plane leveled out and stayed that way for minutes. In the warmth of his arms, Francesca stopped trembling. He tried to remember the last time he’d held a woman like this, for comfort, and didn’t have to think long. It would have been seven years ago when Susanna had left.

The thought did something strange to his head. He glanced out the window as the lightning receded and the space between rumbles of thunder lengthened. Having Francesca wrapped around him like this was inspiring the need to find out whether his dream would come anything close to reality... The thought made him hard so fast, comfort was obliterated on a long, potent surge of lust.

He stood and dumped her on the bed. Her eyes flickered open. “It’s calming down now.” She curled up in the fetal position and used the pillow as a cushion instead of him. He turned and made for the door as a whole lot more creamy thigh was exposed. Mother of God.

Back in the main cabin, he buckled himself in and stared out the window at the storm. He’d called this one—he had. It had been a bad idea. A bad idea that was getting worse every minute.

CHAPTER FOUR

FRANKIE WOKE WITH the instinctive feeling something was not quite right. Bright light beat an assault against the throb behind her eyes. Her head felt fuzzy...heavy.

She closed her eyes harder against the overwhelming light. She must have forgotten to close the blinds. And on a morning when she had a blinding headache... Great.

A low, insistent hum beneath her ear made her frown. Were they renovating the brownstone across the street again? The floor dipped beneath her, riding a stream of air. Floors don’t move unless you live in California. Her eyes sprang open. The light streaming in was coming from tiny oval windows, a world of blue flowing by. She wasn’t in her bedroom; she was in the Grant Industries jet on her way to London. And it was morning.

Her gaze flew to the watch on her arm—8:00 a.m. Oh, lord.

Pieces of the night before assembled themselves in her head. That awful thunder and lightning storm... The way the jet had been tossed around like a toy airplane, subjected to God’s fury. That pill of her sister’s she’d taken that had knocked the lights out of her...

Oh, no. Her heart plummeted. The rest of it she didn’t want to remember. Her boss carrying her in here in the middle of that madness because she’d been half passed out. Him putting her to bed. Him holding her...

She buried her face in the pillow. She’d clung to him like a woman possessed. So far from the independent, strong woman she was it made her cringe to think of it. Made her cringe to think she’d given him yet another reason to think her less than competent.

Heat flooded her face. Tessa would never have put herself in that position. Tessa would have been cool as a cucumber in the face of almost certain aeronautic death.

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