He waited, nibbling and tugging on her lip until her response demanded more. She angled her mouth, sought deeper contact and he gave it to her with a rush of satisfaction, slanting his mouth across hers in a kiss that didn't tease, but delivered. He didn't stop until he'd explored every inch of her mouth, drew her out of her inexperienced hesitation until their mouths were sliding hotly against one another.
His body temperature spiked. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so...lost.
Her innocence should have stopped him. Instead it obliterated his common sense. The palm he held to the small of her back pressed harder, invited her to come closer. She came willingly, her fingers curving around his bicep this time. His hand slipped to the nape of her neck, holding her still as he rocked his parted mouth over hers to request entry. Her lips parted. She tasted of fruit and wild roses. He thought for a moment that might just be her, but it was the champagne he was tasting, sweet and inebriating as it combined with the whiskey in his mouth.
He slid his tongue into her warmth to savor her more. Her response was tentative at first, then bolder, meeting the long, lazy stroke of his. When she'd mastered that, he probed deeper, tangling his tongue with hers in the most intimate of kisses. Her quick intake of breath hardened every muscle in his body.
He could take more. So much more... He wanted his fantasy.
That brought him tumbling back to reality. He pulled his mouth from hers and set her away from him with hands that weren't quite steady. His breathing sounded fractured, rough in the silent confines of the car.
The dazed look on Francesca's face turned to horror. "That was my fault," he growled. "Not yours."
She shook her head, her fingers moving to her lips. "I-ah-I was just as much a part of that as you were."
Maybe true, but he was the one in authority here. He had no business indulging himself. Being reckless at the most important crossroads of his life. With an employee at that. What the hell was wrong with him?
He ran a hand through his hair. His brain worked quickly to defuse the situation. "It's been quite a night for both of us," he said slowly. "I think we can agree that was a mistake. A brief lapse of sanity."
Francesca's head bobbed up and down. "Absolutely. It was..." Her voice trailed off, a frown furrowing her brow. "Inappropriate. In every aspect. It will never happen again."
"Good." He rested his gaze on her face. "Tonight you proved what a valuable asset you are to me, Francesca. You went above and beyond the call of duty. I'm going to need that from you and more over the next few months...It's not going to be easy and sometimes I'm going to be a son of a bitch. But I guarantee if you stick with me you will learn more in six months than you would in six years working for someone else."
A determined light flickered in her gray eyes. "I can be brilliant for you, Harrison, I promise."
"I know that. We make a good team." So no more of that.
She bit her lip and nodded. The car traversed the final couple of side streets to the hotel and slid to a halt in front of the Chatsfield. He got out, helped Francesca from the car and ignored the electricity still buzzing between them. It was easy for him to cut off his emotions, what little he had. Francesca, on the other hand, was obviously still processing what had happened as they rode the lift to their suite. He could read it in the myriad of emotions flickering in her gray eyes.
He said good-night to her at the door to her bedroom. She echoed his words, walked through it and closed the thick slab of wood with a soft click. He paused for a moment when he didn't hear her footsteps walking away on the marble. Instinctively he knew she was on the other side of the door, back pressed to the frame. Thinking.
"Forget the kiss, Francesca," he said. "It was nothing."
"It's already forgotten."
Her muffled response from directly behind the door made his mouth curve. Better to put that one to bed entirely. He'd almost capped a hugely successful evening with a mistake that would have cost him dearly. Cost him his focus. And he couldn't allow that. The end was in sight. Time to focus on the master plan.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRANKIE SPENT THE weekend replanting the flower boxes on her terrace with miniature roses, having brunch with her roommate, Josephine, and generally attempting to restore some sanity to her brain after having kissed her boss. She almost would have believed the party at Leonid Aristov's house had been a bizarre and unreal dream that could never have actually happened, except she knew for a fact it had happened when at 10:00 a.m. on Monday morning two dozen full-size white roses landed on her desk with a card from Viktor Kaminski.
Apparently he didn't intend to take no for an answer. Allow me to take a treasure to see the treasures of the Met, the card said. Friday night? Viktor.
She winced at the corny line. She'd told Viktor her schedule was impossible this week. She was just going to have to stick to that. And she really was too busy. The stack of work she had on her desk was monumental. She was going to have no life for the next six months.
The sweet smell of the dove-white blooms filled her nose. A wave of longing settled over her. She would die to receive roses from a man she really liked. Instead, they were from Viktor and she'd kissed her boss.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Just when she'd proven she was a valuable asset, she'd gone and done that. She had to wonder if her mind was off if she was doing things like this.
She stared grumpily at her favorite flower. The fact that Harrison Grant, her stern, sometimes scary, stunningly attractive boss was attracted to her, was irrelevant. As he'd said, the kiss meant nothing. Except, it had been the most sensational experience of her life. It was one thing to feel chemistry with another person every time you were in the same room together. Another thing entirely to feast on it.
Her email pinged. The report she needed from marketing had come in. Josh was coming up to discuss it with her. Good. She could definitely use the distraction.
By the time Harrison strolled into the office late afternoon looking every inch the automotive magnate he was in a light gray suit and a white shirt that showed off the color he'd acquired sailing with a business acquaintance on the weekend, she'd made a significant stab at the outline of the Aristov plan.
He shot a pointed look at the flowers. "Don't tell me...Viktor."
She nodded.
He shook his head. "Best to give him the permanent brush-off this time."
"I know. I really wish I didn't have to do it in person."
His mouth quirked. "Oh, come now, Francesca. The art of a good brush-off is an excellent skill to have as a young woman in New York City."
She put her pencil down. "I can't imagine you've ever been on the receiving end of one. I wouldn't think it's very nice."
"The point isn't to be nice. That's what gets you kissed in elevators."
She was considering a clever response when he grabbed the card from the flowers and scanned it. She held out her hand. "Give that back."
He waved it at her. "It's in Russian. What did he say?"
Heat filled her cheeks. "It's a private note."
His ebony gaze sat on her face. "My principled Francesca," he murmured sardonically. "I would expect no less from you. Do you want me to talk to him?"
"Absolutely not. I'll handle it."
"Fine." He nodded toward his office. "I need to make a couple of calls then we can start on the plan for Leonid."
"I'm almost done the outline." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost five. Should I order dinner in?"
He flexed his shoulders and frowned. "I've been inside all day. It's gorgeous out there. Why don't we do the work on my terrace and my housekeeper will make us dinner?"
She wasn't at all sure putting them on anything but a business footing was a wise move at this tenuous stage, but she wasn't about to stir the waters of what seemed like an inordinately sunny Harrison day either.
"Sounds good," she agreed. "It'll be much nicer to get out of the office."
He finished up his calls, they collected their work and drove to his penthouse on Central Park West in Harrison's elegant Jaguar. His penthouse was located on the top level of the coveted Central Park West address that everyone who was anyone seemed to be bickering over, but few were lucky enough to obtain. It was beautifully decorated, of course, customized by Harrison's architect during construction so that an entire grand staircase had been moved to one end to create a wide-open floor-to-ceiling-window-lit main level that accommodated his art collection.
Done in sleek, bold colors, with blue and slate dominating, the penthouse reminded her of his office. Sterile and unobjectionable. She slipped her shoes off and wandered over to survey the art. It was not a collection on the scale of Leonid's-maybe twelve pieces in total, but priceless no doubt from Harrison's four-million-dollar Chagall purchase. She walked from one to the next, remembering Viktor's sermon about what to look out for. When she reached a Chagall done in the same vibrant blues as the one Harrison had bought in London, she stopped and took it in. They could be from the same collection.