Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss(5)

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.