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.
“It’ll have company now...” She jumped when Harrison spoke from behind her. He moved with a catlike grace that made him virtually undetectable.
“Relax,” he drawled, his mouth tilting with amusement. “I’m not Viktor Kaminski.”
No, he wasn’t. He was far more dangerous. Especially when he smiled like that. It was like watching the sun come out on a rainy day. She shifted her gaze back to the painting to get her pulse under control. A bird and a woman were perched in a magnificently colored bouquet of flowers floating over the waters of what must be Nice, with its palm trees and similarity to the one she’d seen in London. Again, as with the other one, the image did not make complete sense. The bouquet had the tails of a fish instead of stems, and the buildings dotting the Riviera were curved not straight.
“It’s fantastical, almost supernatural,” she murmured. “Things that shouldn’t be together are and it seems perfectly natural. Like he envisioned some sort of alternate universe.”
He nodded, his gaze moving to the painting. “I think he did. The art historians describe his work as figurative and narrative art. Chagall was embraced by many—the surrealists, the cubists, the suprematists—but he rejected them all. He created a new reality for himself—one that was based on both his inner and outer worlds—the story, the dream he wanted to tell. This series in Nice,” he said, waving a hand at the painting, “is always very mystical and inspirational. The colors are incredible.”
She got that completely. “Is he one of your favorites?”
“Likely my favorite.” The amber flecks in his eyes she found so fascinating glimmered in the expertly angled lighting, giving him a softer appearance. “Some of his later works are much more heartbreaking. They speak of the personal tragedies he suffered before he ended up here in New York.”
“I would like to see some of those. I’m sure they’d be amazing.”
“They are very moving.”
She found herself fascinated by this side of him. The emotion in his eyes when he talked about the artist hinted at a depth to him, an ability to feel he kept hidden underneath the layers.
He read her expression. “You’re surprised.” His lips curled. “The beast does feel, Francesca. When he lets himself.”
Like that night in the car...when he’d let go of