Temptation In The Boardroom. Paula Roe

a twenty-five-year-old who’d lost his mentor and couldn’t afford to lose everything else.

      Susanna, a smart, young financial broker, hadn’t been content to live her life with a shell of a man. And who could blame her? When he’d finally come to terms with his father’s death, she’d moved on, found someone who was more “emotionally available.” It hadn’t just been the last few months, she’d told him sadly, it had been her battle over their entire relationship to get him to open up. “It’s never going to happen, Harrison. I give and you take. I need more.”

      His fingertips dug into the cool stone. He hadn’t told Susanna he’d been breaking apart inside, that he didn’t know how to let the pain out, because he was inherently flawed by his experiences. He was better off on his own. And his descent into the world of the unfeeling had worked just fine until Francesca Masseria had roared into his life and stamped her do-gooder presence all over his psyche.

      He raked a hand through his spiky, disheveled hair and frowned. So that kiss had reminded him he knew how to feel. That he didn’t have the emotional IQ of zero his brother thought he had. She was his employee. She was too innocent for a jaded animal like him and she was messing with his head.

      If that wasn’t enough, he had her tied up in knots over her ethical quandaries. Plenty of reasons to stay away.

      The sun rose higher between the buildings, insistently making its presence known to the Manhattan morning. His anxiety rose with it. The political bloodhounds chasing him had stepped up their campaign. Wanted a decision. It made his head want to blow off. To mount an independent run for the presidency meant walking away from Grant. It meant altering his life in a way he could never take back. How could he possibly make such a decision now when all he could see was a marker on Anton Markovic’s back?

      A fatalistic curve twisted his lips. Some would see such ungratefulness at so much opportunity as foolish. Yet it had never been his idea to get into politics. His grandfather had been a congressman. His father had wanted to be governor. Yes, he saw a need for change, but was he the man to do it? Or was he too much of a rebel to make it work?

      When his head got too heavy to sit on his shoulders, when he thought it might actually blow off, he headed for the gym. When he got into the office at six-thirty, Coburn was already there.

      His brow lifted. “Time change got you?”

      “Brutal. But the blondes were fantastic.”

      He shook his head. His brother had been in Germany for the past week meeting with the manufacturers who built their automobiles with Grant parts. “Try being a little less predictable,” he taunted, setting his briefcase down on Coburn’s desk.

      “I dunno,” Coburn came back thoughtfully, tossing his pen on the desk. “I think you’re holding your end of the stick surprisingly well lately. You have the political pundits on the edge of their seat.”

      “Because they have nothing interesting to talk about.”

      Coburn leaned back in his chair. “Are you going to do it?”

      “You’ll know when I do.”

      “Right.” His brother’s gaze narrowed. “And then there were the photos of you on the red carpet with Frankie in London. When did you start taking your PA to social events?”

      “Since she spoke Russian.”

      “That was quite the dress she had on.”

      He recognized his brother’s predatory look. “She looked beautiful.”

      “She was a goddamned knockout. But you, H?” His brother lifted a brow. “Haven’t seen that sparkle in your eyes in years. Sure you haven’t caught the Frankie bug?”

      “She was useful, Coburn. That’s all.”

      “I think,” his brother ventured thoughtfully, his magnetic blue eyes lighting up, “we should invite her to the Long Island party. She can wear that dress.”

      “Francesca? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

      “Why not?” Coburn challenged. “She’s good enough to take to a million-dollar Aristov party, but not good enough to mingle with your Yale friends?”

      His brows came together. “This has nothing to do with class. Frankie is an employee.”

      “You invited Tessa last year.”

      “Because she’d worked with me for two years.”

       Because he hadn’t wanted to put his hands all over his married assistant...

      “I’m going to invite her,” Coburn announced definitively. “She’s my employee and she deserves to come.”

      He crossed his arms over his chest. “Don’t you think she’s going to feel out of place with all those people she doesn’t know?”

      His brother shrugged. “She can come with me.”

      A discomforting feeling speared his insides. “You don’t have a date?”

      Coburn spread his hands wide. “Dry. Completely dry. I can make sure Frankie has a good time.”

      He didn’t like that idea at all. “You said you were going to stay away from her.”

      “I intend to. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve to come.” Coburn pursed his lips, his gaze moving over his brother. “Unless you want to take her. Or are you escorting the poor, neglected Cecily?”

      “I haven’t seen Cecily in months.”

      “Like I said—” Coburn winced “—poor Cecily. Anyway, Mother would like to know if you’re bringing a date.”

      He was sure she would. It was only then that he realized the party was next week. “I’ll invite Francesca,” he rasped. “You inviting her would give her the wrong idea. I can position it as a job well done.”

      “Fine. Aristov sign?”

      “Today’s the day.” He borrowed a page from Francesca’s book of optimism. He needed it. Badly.

      * * *

      Frankie took one look at a beautiful, Tom Ford–suited Harrison as he walked into the office and knew she’d never seen him wound so tight.

      “Good morning,” she said carefully. “Coffee?”

      He gave her a distracted look. “Sorry?”

      “Did you want some coffee?”

      “Oh...yes. Stronger the better, thanks.”

      She decided that might not be a good idea. She made the cup half strength and carried it into him.

      He took a sip. Frowned. “It doesn’t taste strong.”

      “It’s strong.” She gave the bags under his eyes a critical look. The man didn’t sleep. But she was not his mother.

      “Tom Dennison called a few minutes ago. He says you haven’t responded about the fund-raiser.”

      Harrison scowled, fatigue creasing the lines of his face. “Tell him I’m in China.”

      She gave him an even look. Tom Dennison was one of the most powerful businessmen in America, the CEO of a consumer packaged-goods company as well as a highly political animal who liked to shake things up.

      “I’ll tell him you’re occupied with the shareholder meetings,” she suggested instead. “And ask him to please send over the details again so you can get back to him tomorrow.”

      “Brilliant.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

      Leonid better sign tonight. It was her only hope. She took a deep breath. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

      “No, thanks.”

      “I’ll