The conversation between Harrison and Oliver Burchell looked like more than a friendly hello. Was he planning a run for the presidency? The Grant family was as connected as any family in the upper echelons of political power so it absolutely made sense they could put Harrison on every ballot in the country as an independent candidate. But he was only thirty-three. He had his hands full running a company that had just gotten back on its feet. Was now the right timing?
Her boss registered her arrival with that ever-watchful gaze of his. He held up two fingers. Frankie nodded and took the time to study him in a brief, unobserved perusal. She hadn’t yet gotten used to how extraordinarily good-looking he was up close. Today, in dark-wash jeans and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal muscular forearms, he looked like her college accounting professor, except where Frankie had considered him nerdily cute, Harrison was a whole other ball game. He was Clark Kent good-looking with his impressive physique and dark designer glasses, as if he was about to dash into a phone booth to go save the world.
Her mouth twisted. Air Force One was about to acquire a whole new sex appeal.
The senator clapped Harrison on the back and moved off toward the plane sitting behind the Grant Industries jet. Frankie pulled in a Harrison-fortifying breath as he strode toward her. “Ready to go?’
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said brightly.
He lifted a brow at her as he stopped in front of her. “I’ve been that bad?”
She knew when to keep her thoughts to herself. “I meant I’m not a good flyer. I just need to get this over with.”
“So I should tell the pilot to lock the doors to the cockpit?”
She made a face at the amusement twisting his lips. “We haven’t had one disaster since the coffee incident. Perhaps we can let that joke lie?”
“I’m still keeping my guard up.” He pointed their luggage out to the crew who loaded it on to the plane. “You know, statistically speaking,” he counseled, gesturing for her to proceed him up the stairs, “flying is safer than any other form of travel. You should be more frightened of getting on the freeway.”
“I am frightened of getting on the freeway. And fear of flying is not a rational thing,” she countered, climbing the steps.
“Ah, but I thought that’s what you are...rational Francesca Masseria, who needs to figure out how things work before she fully commits.”
She looked down at him from her higher position on the stairs. Who was he really? The big bad wolf or this intuitive, sardonic version of him who made the occasional visit? And did she dare say what she thought?
She exhaled a breath. “I perform better when I have a clear sense of the objectives. I’m more left-brained than Tessa. I need guidance. I can promise if you offer that to me I will give you what you need.”
His gaze narrowed. The undercurrent between them that always seemed to simmer below the surface sprang to life. A tutelage of a far different type was filtering through that brilliant mind... She would have bet money on it. Heat rose to her cheeks. He studied the twin spots of fire. Then he turned it off with one of those dismissive looks.
“All right, Francesca Masseria,” he drawled. “We’ll give it a shot. You’ve been a good sport this week. I like that about you. You have a question—a good one—ask. I’ll do my best to answer it.”
He strode past her up the stairs and into the jet before she could close her mouth. No way had the beast just thrown her a crumb. She thought maybe they should break out the champagne, particularly when once seated and buckled in opposite Harrison in a bank of four seats, she realized how small the plane was. She’d never flown on a private jet before. Coburn preferred to travel on his own and have her work from the office, and this, this little plane didn’t look hearty enough to carry them across the Atlantic if a storm hit as it had on her last trip to Mexico.
Her shoulders climbed to her ears in protest as the pilot revved the engines.
“Relax,” Harrison ordered, pulling his laptop out of his briefcase. “This is going to be the smoothest ride of your life, trust me.”
“Now you’ve jinxed us,” Frankie said grimly. She picked up her cell phone to turn it off. He waved a hand at her.
“Not necessary on this flight. You can use the Wi-Fi anytime.”
Of course they could. Why waste one usable moment when you could be poring through the stock market? Checking the price of precious metals? She sighed and settled into her seat. Her hope that at some point Harrison’s battery might run out had been wishful thinking.
Her phone pinged with a text message. It was from Danny, who was managing Tomasino’s party in her absence.
The cake’s not here. When is it supposed to arrive?
Frankie frowned and glanced at her watch. An hour ago. Surely her brother hadn’t forgotten?
Call the restaurant, she texted back. I’m sure it’s on the way.
Harrison looked over at her. “Problems?”
She shook her head. “Just this thing I’m supposed to be at. He’ll figure it out.”
The attendant came by to check their seat belts and ask what they’d like to drink once they were airborne. Harrison requested a scotch. Frankie gladly followed suit and asked for a glass of wine. Anything that calmed the anxiety clawing its way up her throat was a good thing.
Another text came in. He hasn’t left yet. Dammit. Frankie sent a text to her brother Salvatore. Get that cake there, now. You owe me.
“Men,” she muttered. Why couldn’t they be as buttoned-down as women?
Her boss glanced up from his laptop. “Trust me, he’ll be fine. If he has any sense he’ll be waiting with an armful of flowers when you get back.”
Frankie gave him an uncomprehending look. “Oh—no, it’s not that. It’s my brother. He’s supposed to be delivering a birthday cake to the party I was hosting and he’s late.”
His dark brows came together. “You were hosting a party?”
“At the church, yes.” The engines roared. She kept talking as her pulse skyrocketed. “I host Wednesday night bingo games for the seniors. I’ve been doing it since I was eighteen. Tomasino Giardelli, whose birthday it is, is like a grandfather to me. It’s his eightieth, so we decided to throw him a party and Mama made Tomasino her special tiramisu cake. Which,” she added darkly, “he is going to love if Salvatore gets his behind over there with it before it’s over. The seniors are wilting as we speak.”
“Salvatore?”
“My brother.”
A sober look crossed his face. “I’m sorry you’re missing the birthday party.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I didn’t ask.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that so she looked down at her hands clasped together in a death lock. His gaze sat on her as the jet taxied off to sit in line behind two others. “You really spend every Wednesday night hosting bingo?”
She tightened her seat belt, her heart going pitter-patter as the captain announced they were two minutes to takeoff. “It’s always been part of what we do as a family— giving back to the community is important for my parents. It’s been good to them.”
“Coburn said they have a restaurant in Brooklyn?”
She