Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss(17)

The fury in his eyes channeled into a livid black heat that was so  focused, so intense, it scorched her skin. "I know all about karma,  Francesca. I know more about it than you will ever want to know in your  lifetime. Trust me on that."

She watched with apprehensive eyes as he got up, paced to the railing  and looked out at the fading light of New York. Having him ten feet away  allowed her to pull in some air and compose herself. This job meant  everything to her; she was proving she could make it on her own. But so  did the principles upon which she'd been brought up.

"I'm not trying to be difficult," she said quietly to his back. "But my  father taught me to treasure my ethics at all costs. That if I was ever  in a situation that would make it hard for me to sleep at night, maybe I  shouldn't be a part of it."

He turned around, leaned back against the railing and rested his elbows  on it. His anger had shifted into a cold, hard nothingness that was  possibly even more disconcerting than the fury.

The chill directed itself her way. "Although my grandfather built Grant  Industries, it was my father who had the foresight and brilliance to  modernize its methods and transform Grant from a successful but stagnant  regional player in the American auto industry to a force to be reckoned  with worldwide. He spent every minute of his life at the office,  sacrificed everything for the company and eventually it paid off. When I  was ten, my father came home one night with a big smile on his face and  told us Grant Industries had made the list of the one hundred most  profitable companies in America." He lifted a brow. "Imagine. Coburn and  I were only eight and ten-but we got that, we got what that meant."

She nodded. Wondered why he was telling her this.

"As soon as we finished university, Coburn and I joined the business. It  was in our blood just like it was in our father's. We had the bug. But  neither of us ever expected to take on the mantle so soon."         

     



 

Because his father had killed himself.

Her insides knotted, a cold, hard ball at the core of her. The skin on  his face stretched taut across his aristocratic cheekbones, a blank  expression filling his eyes. "One day my father's usual superhuman  working day stretched into two. Then three. He looked like a wreck. He  would go into the office, put his engineering teams through crazy  all-night sessions, then come home and sleep it off. At first we weren't  too concerned-it wasn't unlike him to be tunnel-visioned when he was  working on a project. But the pattern started getting more and more  frequent. More dramatic. One particular night, he came home and he was  talking so fast none of us could understand him. We couldn't get him to  rest so we called a doctor. He was diagnosed that night as a manic  depressive."

Her heart went into free fall. "How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"Oh, Harrison." She went to get up but he held out a hand, staying her.

"His condition got progressively worse as the years went on. The stress  of success and the accompanying pressure made the cycles more acute,  sent him into longer bouts of mania. My mother had to focus entirely on  keeping him well and ensuring his condition was kept under wraps so the  press, the shareholders, didn't catch on."

To the detriment of her boys' emotional well-being.

"We thought we had his condition under control after handling it for two  decades. Then my father made a deal with Anton Markovic to buy one of  his Russian-based companies."

Anton Markovic? The sadistic oligarch Juliana didn't like in her house?

For the first time since he'd starting speaking, a flare of emotion  moved through his dark gaze. "My father saw the potential in a  post-Communist era and knew it would only grow. Buying Markovic's  company was supposed to cement Grant as the most powerful auto parts  manufacturer in the world. Except Markovic sold us a false-bottomed  company that was on the verge of bankruptcy. Under normal circumstances,  Grant would have easily absorbed the hit but we were overexposed at the  time, in the midst of leveraging capital for an expansion. As a result,  the debt from the deal almost crippled us."

She tried to absorb all the information he was throwing at her. "Couldn't you have gone to the courts?"

"We did. His holding company was bankrupt by then."

She swallowed hard, not sure she wanted to know where the story went  after this. The emotion in his eyes became hard to watch. "Coburn and I  told him it'd be fine. We'd rebuild ourselves stronger than ever. But  the miscue threw him into a depressive state he couldn't pull himself  out of. There was also the stress of his impending race for governor of  New York." His lashes swept down over his cheeks. "My mother left the  house for a half hour one day, thinking he was asleep. I came home to  find he'd shot himself."

Oh, my God. Her heart broke into a million pieces. It was public  knowledge that Clifford Grant had shot himself at the family residence.  But to find your father like that, by yourself? This time she did get up  and walked over to him, setting her hand on his bicep.

"I am so sorry, Harrison."

He looked down at her hand as if it was an intrusive appendage that had  crept into his lair and threatened his solitary confinement. She could  feel the emotion he declared he didn't have vibrating through him. Then  his eyes hardened until they resembled an exotic, impenetrable rock,  polished by the elements he'd endured until there were no cracks, no  dents, just icy determination. "I'm not looking for your pity,  Francesca. I told you this because I need you at my side with this deal.  I need you to understand where I'm coming from. Acquiring Siberius is  the final piece in my plan to cut Anton Markovic off at the knees for  what he did to my father. The company is valuable to me only because it  supplies Markovic with vital instruments."

Understanding dawned. Suddenly all of it-Harrison, Coburn, the way they  both were-it all made sense. Coburn spent his days running from the  truth, Harrison pursuing vengeance.

He wanted her on board so he could land this deal and finish Markovic. Collateral damage in Leonid was inconsequential.

"So we finish the presentation, he signs and it's done. What does this have to do with me?"

His expression was implacable. "I need you to be a part of this until he  signs. Leonid likes you. Kaminski likes you. You will smooth out the  rough edges."

She turned to look out at the park. It was lit by the skyscrapers  surrounding it, a beautiful oasis in a cutthroat city of deal makers. It  wasn't lost on her that Leonid was a cutthroat businessman himself who  undoubtedly had his share of blood on his hands. No one in a position of  power could avoid the gray areas. It was the gray that defined you.         

     



 

But it was the emotion she'd just seen in Harrison's eyes that clutched  at her heart. A raw incomplete grief that was as present now as it had  been when Anton Markovic had torn out his heart.

Dampness attacked the corners of her eyes. She blinked it back and did  what her father had always taught her to do. She went with her gut. And  perhaps a large slice of emotion. Because no human being should ever  have to go through what Harrison had without making it right.

She turned to him and nodded. "Let's get back to work, then."

His gaze darkened. "I'm an honorable man, Francesca. I will keep my  promise to Leonid if I can. But it will ultimately be up to the board."

She hoped he could. But sometimes a need for vengeance could wreak havoc on such honor.





CHAPTER EIGHT

HARRISON WAS HAVING trouble sleeping. Dawn was breaking across  Manhattan, a vibrant ribbon of burnt orange stretching low across the  skyline, casting the base of the skyscrapers in a mist of shimmering  fire. It mirrored the turmoil inside of him, the slow burn that  threatened to engulf him.

He'd had maybe three, four restless hours of unconsciousness before he'd  abandoned his bed and greeted the morning. There was too much on his  brain, too much to accomplish, too many decisions that impacted too many  people.

He watched the sun, a bright ball of fire, penetrate the mist and make  its way into the sky. Today was the day Leonid Aristov would either  cement or destroy his seven-year plan to wipe Anton Markovic's empire  from the face of the earth. To do that, he must stretch the truth, make a  man believe something that was quite likely not possible.

It was eating at him. Plaguing him. He grimaced and set his elbows on  the smooth limestone ledge that bounded the terrace. At thirty-three his  conscience was making an unexpected appearance and he had little  difficulty wondering why. Francesca. His personal moral compass who sat  on his shoulder, reminding him that the world was not black and white.  That one wrong did not right another.

Except in this case it did. Leonid would lose his legacy regardless of  who bought Siberius. And he would never let Anton Markovic get away with  what he'd done.