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.
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,