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.
Frankie kept her tone