It was the type of place that, should he run for office, would define Harrison's life. He entered the wood-paneled library with its refined decor and elaborately carved fireplaces and took a seat near the windows. You could almost feel the backroom conversations that had shaped a nation. It was that steeped in tradition. Prestige. He felt underdressed even in a suit.
Locating his target sitting across from a salt-and-pepper-haired bureaucrat near one of the fireplaces, he took the opportunity to study him. Anton Markovic was in his late fifties, graying at the temples, handsome by anyone's standards. But it was the cruel edge to his mouth that drew his eye. The knowledge of how much devastation he had wreaked with a calculated move to save a failing empire.
His body went ice-cold, as if it had been February, not the last sweltering days of August in a town built on a swamp.
He was not letting him walk out of here intact.
Markovic gave him an absentminded look, as if he half recognized him but was too wrapped up in his conversation to pursue the thought. Harrison sat down in a chair beside the fireplace and waited. It was another half hour before the two men stood, shook hands and walked toward the stairwell. Harrison unfolded himself from the chair, intercepted them at the door and held his hand out to Markovic. "Harrison Grant."
The bureaucrat looked intrigued to see him there. A wary glitter appeared in the Russian's eyes. "A pleasure," he said, shaking his hand.
Bile pooled in the back of his throat at the touch of the other man's hand. He brought a practiced, easy smile to his lips. "Could I steal you for a drink? I had something I wanted to discuss with you."
The suspicion in the Russian's eyes intensified. "I'm afraid I have dinner plans."
"Ten minutes." Harrison made it rude not to accept. You'll want to hear what I have to say, his eyes told the Russian. And not in front of your companion.
Markovic nodded and said his goodbyes to the bureaucrat. The Russian waited until the other man had cleared the landing and was walking down the lower stairs before he spoke.
"I had the feeling our paths might cross someday."
The way he said it in an almost casual tone, the complete disregard for the tragedies he'd instigated, brought Harrison's breath to a halt in his throat. The man was a monster. Without feeling or soul. He'd heard he was this way but it was something else to see it in the flesh.
"Sit down." He bit out the words before he clawed the other man's eyes from his face.
The Russian sat, his expression still that cool, controlled mask. "So?"
Harrison sat down. His disbelief overrode the speech he had rehearsed in his head hundreds of times. "You don't care, do you? What you did to my family?"
Markovic's eyes flashed a frigid blue. "I didn't kill your father, Grant, he did. Things happen in business... He could have done what you did-moved past his mistake and rebuilt. Instead he was weak."
Harrison's rage descended to a bone-deep level that scared even him. It made it almost impossible to move, to speak. "You don't feel the slightest bit of remorse," he managed finally, "for what you did?"
The Russian shrugged. "I'm sorry you lost your father. I'm sorry he had a disease. But he chose to make the deal."
"He didn't know what deal he was making. What you did was amoral and illegal. Today you would be prosecuted."
"Good thing yesterday isn't today. And we all know I suffered, too, Grant. I failed. I lost everything. I was going through my own personal hell."
"Get ready to go through it again."
Markovic's eyes flickered. "How do you figure that?"
Harrison leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. "I've bought up every single one of your key suppliers. Through offshore entities, subsidiaries, friends. When I flick a switch tomorrow morning, you will be missing one part, then another. Production will be delayed, then delayed some more. Until one morning you wake up and your entire operations have ground to a halt and you are paralyzed. And then I don't care if you feel remorse. I only want you to experience the hell."
The Russian's face went gray. "It's a global economy, Grant. There are any number of other suppliers I can turn to."
Satisfaction lanced through the numbness blanketing Harrison. "Try it." He nodded in the direction the bureaucrat had taken. "But I advise you do it before you sign your contract. You might find yourself unable to deliver."
A sick realization spread across Markovic's face. Harrison stood up. His skin felt too tight to be in the presence of such ugliness any longer.
Not one more second would he let this man rule his life.
"Enjoy your dinner."
He walked past the tapestries, the paintings three presidents had considered while they had changed a nation. Away from his past. Toward his future. And wondered why it still didn't feel right.
* * *
A whisper-quick flight later, the Grant jet deposited him back in Mahattan just before eight. Standing on his terrace with a whiskey in his hand, watching the lights from the skyscrapers cast the city in a glow of prosperity versus the history of Washington, New York seemed a lifetime away from Anton Markovic. From his past.
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.
The empty feeling in his gut so perfectly matched Coburn's prediction it was like a knife twisting a particularly painful path through him. How his brother and Frankie had both known so clearly that vengeance was never going to give him the satisfaction he craved made him wonder how well he knew himself. Avenging his father's honor was the phantom, the mirage that had kept him going all these years, but when it came down to it, Markovic had been right: his father had been sick; the Russian had not been responsible for his death.
The whiskey burned as he took a long slug of it, but not enough to ease the self-knowledge that seared him. He had wanted to hate Anton Markovic rather than acknowledge the disease that had ravaged his all-powerful father. Because if it could happen to a force like Clifford Grant, it could happen to him.
He cradled the crystal tumbler in his palm and watched the light bounce off its carefully crafted edges. Funnily enough, what was hurting him most wasn't the past, which he knew now he needed to let go. It was Frankie. He was afraid he was that cold-hearted monster Coburn had painted who had driven away the woman he loved for good.
That he loved her his heart had acknowledged weeks ago. His head had simply refused to follow. The question now was whether he deserved a chance at happiness. Was he enough to make her happy? Would the darkness continue to move away with her in his life or would he destroy her?
His fingers tightened around the glass. He wished he had a crystal ball that would give him the answers he needed. He was terrified instead that putting his heart on the line was the only thing that might save him.
Something latent but still alive stirred inside him. He had to try.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"I'M BANKING ON the fact you have beer in this bachelor pad."
If Coburn found it odd that his older brother, who rarely drank beer and even more infrequently dropped by for a chat on a Wednesday evening, was standing on his doorstep, he refrained from commenting. His expression, though, as he stepped back and Harrison walked in, was wry. "You're going to have to let me finish up. Carole is here."
"Finish up?" Coburn glanced in the direction of the bedroom. Harrison ran a hand through his hair. "Good God, Coburn." He turned around and headed for the door, but his brother stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"She's getting dressed. She has an early yoga class. Stay."
Harrison went to the kitchen, grabbed two beers from the fridge and headed for the patio. He tipped the beer back and drank a long swallow while he watched what appeared to be a raucous party on the patio opposite Coburn's in the trendy Chelsea neighborhood.
His brother came out, pulling a T-shirt over his head. Harrison handed him his beer and nodded toward the door. "You know you're going to have to get rid of that."
"When I'm seventy, maybe yes."
"Sooner than that. That type will get far too attached to the idea of bedding a CEO. Of being the one beside all that power."
The bottle stopped halfway to Coburn's mouth. "You're going to run."
He nodded. "You think you can take over without driving us into the ground?"
His brother put the bottle down. Iron determination filled his face. "You know I can."
"I do." Harrison tilted the bottle at him. "The press conference is tomorrow to announce my candidacy. I'd like you to be there with me."
To any other brother, the command would have sounded arrogant. But Coburn knew what it took for him to ask for support. His brother's eyes glimmered with an emotion he hadn't seen him exhibit in a very long time. "I'll be there."