Tempted by Her Billionaire Boss (The Tenacious Tycoons)

by Jennifer Hayward

  She needed all the confidence she could muster facing her new boss this morning. If he decided to keep her.

  Dumping her purse in her drawer, she ignored her rumbling stomach. She’d tried to eat, but she hadn’t been able to get any breakfast down except a slice of toast and juice. She refused to call it nerves because she needed to have full armor on this morning. She’d been noticeably jumpy when the security guard had checked her ID downstairs and that scene of her boss in handcuffs kept replaying itself over and over in her head.

  And then there had been his bedroom voice last night on the phone and her resulting descent into lunacy... Her stomach dipped. Today she was going to revert back to her usual, capable self: five steps ahead of her boss at all times, unruffleable and cheerful no matter what the request. And she was going to stay far, far away from that panic button. In fact, she was going to cover it with tape.

  Mouth set in a firm gesture of determination, she ran her hands over her head to ensure every hair was in place and, satisfied she was all cool sophistication, walked toward Harrison’s office. His brisk, clipped voice directing a conference call stopped her in her tracks. This was good. It would give her time to get organized. Having a boss who came in at 7:00 a.m. left you a bit flat-footed.

  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.

  Frankie kept her tone perfectly modulated. “Could you tell me what this meeting is to be about? That way I can discuss it with Mr. Grant.”

  “I couldn’t say,” came the distant response. “Mr. Aristov simply asked me to schedule the meeting. Call me back when you have a date.” Tatiana rattled off a London phone number.

  Frankie jotted the number down. “I can’t schedule a meeting without knowing what it’s a—” A dial tone sounded in her ear. She held the phone away from her and stared at it. She had not just done that. She was still staring at the phone when Harrison walked past her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Ready?”

  She followed him into his office. “That was Leonid Aristov’s assistant on the phone.”

  He wheeled around, coffee sloshing in his mug. Frankie’s gaze flew to the boiling liquid as it skimmed the rim of the cup, wavered there like the high seas, then elected to stay in.

  “What did she want?”

  Frankie returned her gaze to his face. “Aristov wants a meeting next week.”

  “A meeting?” A frown furrowed his brow. “He’s already agreed to everything in principle. Did you ask what the meeting was for?”

  “I did. She wouldn’t give me anything. She just said Aristov wanted the meeting and it had to be next week.”

  “Have you had a look at my schedule?” He trained his gaze on her as if she had an IQ of fifty. “This deal is scheduled to pass regulatory authorities next month, Ms. Masseria. I don’t fly around the world on a whim because Leonid Aristov wants me to.”

  Great, they were back to Ms. Masseria... She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I’m not suggesting you should. But she was very rude. She hung up on me.”

  He blinked at her. “Why would she hang up on you?”

  “She seemed busy. I was trying to probe for more information when she cut me off and hung up.”

  He impaled her on that razor-sharp gaze of his that had turned him from beauty to the beast in the space of a round second. Then he thrust out an elegant hand. “Give me the number.”

  She held on to it. “I can call her back. Just give me some direc—”

  “Give me the number.”

  Frankie went back to her desk, grabbed the pink message pad, marched into his office and gave it to him. And called him a bad name in her head. A big, bad one. She had liked him so much five minutes ago. She really had.

  He was dialing the ice queen back when she left. She put her head down and started working through his email. God forbid she’d missed something they’d need for their briefing.

  He came out minutes later. She suppressed a victorious thrill at the dark scowl on his face. “Cancel everything for Thursday and Friday of next week. We’ll fly to London Wednesday night, meet with Aristov Thursday morning then leave ourselves a buffer day in case we have more to talk about with him.”

  “Did you find out what the meeting is for?”

  “No,” he said icily. “It’s all going to be a pleasant surprise.”

  Frankie kept her eyes on the notepad she was scribbling on. “You said Wednesday night we fly out?”

  “Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

  ‘Yes— No—” She lifted her gaze to his in a pained look. “It’s just that I have a special—commitment Wednesday night.”

  His expression darkened. “Taking into account you actually want this job, Ms. Masseria, you will learn to eat, breathe and sleep it for the next six months. So I suggest you...uncommit yourself.”

  She bit her lip and nodded. If there was one event this year she didn’t want to miss, it was Tomasino Giardelli’s eightieth birthday party. But this was her job and she needed it. And it had gotten off to a rocky enough start as it was.

  “May I ask a question?”

  He waved a hand at her.

  “I’ve been working through that last bit of research you wanted Tessa to compile for the Aristov deal. I get what you’re asking for, but, well, Coburn always counseled me to understand the big picture so I can visualize what you need in the end product. Give you my best work... What I don’t get,” she ventured frowning, “is why Grant Industries is buying a company that mirrors the exact capabilities of one of our subsidiaries...”

  His jaw went lax. She had the distinct impression he didn’t know how to answer her question from the silence that followed. But of course he did, didn’t he?

  “Coburn,” he rasped finally, “and I have different management styles, Ms. Masseria. Coburn likes to collaborate, to involve people in decisions. I don’t. I prefer people to do what I tell them. That’s what works for me.”

  Not a tyrant? Blood rushed to her face as if he’d physically slapped her. “Fine,” she agreed quietly. “If I have a specific question I’ll ask it.”

  “Excellent.” He scraped a hand through his hair, looking weary for a man who hadn’t yet hit lunch. “Book us a suite at the Chatsfield so we can work.”

  She nodded. Then, unable to help herself because she needed to get the rules straight, she asked, “Would you prefer me to use Mr. Grant instead of Harrison now that you seem to have reverted to Ms. Masseria?”

  He gave her a long, hard look. Frankie’s stomach dipped but she held her ground with a lifted chin.

  “My slip,” he stated in a lethally quiet voice. “First names are fine.”

  She nodded and turned back to her PC. Harrison started toward his office, then paused outside it. She looked up ex
pectantly.

  “We are pursuing Siberius because it commands alternate markets to the ones we already have control of with Taladan. It makes business sense.”

  “Got it.”

  He turned to go. She shifted her gaze back to her computer.

  “Oh, and, Francesca?”

  She looked up.

  “Please don’t write on the bottom half of these.” He waved the pink message pad at her. “It distracts me.”

  He disappeared into his office. Frankie raised her gaze heavenward. Not only did she have to survive life with Harrison Grant for six months, which must prove she was doing penance for something she wasn’t yet aware of, she now had to fly across the Atlantic with him for a crucial meeting that seemed shaky in nature.

  Nothing could go wrong with that scenario, could it?

  At least there weren’t air marshals on privately chartered flights...

  CHAPTER THREE

  FRANKIE ARRIVED AT Teterboro Airport in New Jersey on Wednesday night of the following week as bruised and battered as Rocky Balboa himself after going fifteen rounds with Harrison Grant over the past week. He’d been tense and edgy ever since that call from Leonid Aristov’s assistant, pushing them both to the limits of their endurance in ensuring every i was dotted and every t crossed in advance of their meeting.

  She was dead on her feet and they hadn’t even left yet. Plus, she didn’t sleep on planes...

  The limousine pulled to a stop on the runway in front of the black-and-red-logoed Grant Industries jet. She slid out and waited while the driver deposited her luggage on the asphalt. If she was curious as to why her boss was obsessed with a deal that, in the great scheme of things, would be a minor acquisition for a behemoth like Grant Industries, she didn’t voice her thoughts. She was paid to do, apparently. That was all. And if that made her frustratingly aware she wasn’t turning in her best work, if she knew she’d do better had he been just a bit more collaborative and explained things fully, there was nothing to be done about it. She had tamed her natural instinct to question.