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 nodded. ‘I’m the youngest of six procreated bus people.”
He smiled at that. “Shouldn’t you be out on dates instead of hosting bingo? Living the Manhattan single life?”
She made a face. “The last date I was on, the very well-mannered stockbroker I thought I was out with accosted me in the elevator on the way down from the restaurant. That was enough for me.”
His brows rose. “Accosted?”
Frankie gave an embarrassed wave of her hand. “He kissed me. He wouldn’t stop kissing me. And frankly, he was bad at it. I mean, can you imagine?”
The amusement in his eyes deepened. “I can. I mean I can’t in that he should never have put his hands on you without your permission but the poor guy was probably just desperate.”
Frankie crossed her arms over her chest, an image of her flashing him with her lace pull-ups filling her head. Did he think she usually gave men come-ons like that? She wished she could wipe that entire night from their heads.
“You still don’t do that,” she said stiffly.
“No,” he agreed. “You don’t.” He gave her a thoughtful look as the jet revved its engines and started down the runway, the speed at which the gray pavement flew by making Frankie light-headed. “Poor-mannered guy aside, there must be a man in your life. You’re too attractive for there not to be.”
Her chin dipped. “I’m married to my work for the next few years.”
“Or you’re hung up on someone.”
The inflection in his voice made her lift her chin and narrow her gaze on him. “No—just not dating.”
He shrugged. “Good. Because I’d hate for you to waste your time on my brother, Francesca. He is undoubtedly a magnetic personality and an inspiring leader, but he is not boyfriend material by any stretch of the imagination.”
Boyfriend material? She blinked at the twin assaults being mounted on her, one from the air as they climbed at a petrifyingly steep angle and one from the man opposite her. “Is that what he thinks? That I have a crush on him?” Good God. So she’d responded to a few of her boss’s flirtatious smiles lately. She was human.
“I can assure you,” she said crisply, “I do not have a crush on Coburn.”
He held up a hand. “Just a friendly piece of advice. I’ve seen it happen too many times.”
The jet climbed swiftly into the clouds. Frankie gave the receding ground an anxious look, her stomach swooping as the plane rode a current of air. Was that why Coburn had handed her over so easily to Harrison? Because he thought she had a crush on him? That was wrong. So wrong.
A scowl twisted her lips. Good to know the two Grant brothers both had egos the size of their fortunes... Her resentment faded to terror as they went through a bumpy patch of cloud, her fingers digging into the armrests.
Harrison sighed and set his computer aside. “You really are terrified of flying.”
She clamped down harder on the leather. “Something else to add to my list of eccentricities.”
He smiled. “I rather like Rocky. And all joking aside, the seniors, your work in the community, I appreciate your altruism, Francesca. It’s refreshing.”
“The Grant family does the same.”
A cynical light filled his eyes. “There is an intent and purpose behind everything my family does. It’s all done with a camera in sight and cleverly crafted messaging at the ready. Hardly the same thing.”
His candor caught her off guard. “Hardly surprising with the White House in mind.”
He arched a brow at her. “Do we? Have the White House in mind?”
Warmth seeped into her blood-deprived cheeks. “Everyone thinks you do.”
He tipped his head at her. “Anyone considering a presidential run spends the years leading up to it coyly denying they’re interested. Dropping little hints that never might not mean never, but then again, maybe it does. Then they sit back and take the pulse of every interest group in the nation and see if it’s a viable proposition. It’s a game, Francesca, a long, bloody battle that would sap the stamina of even the strongest man.”
She frowned. So did that mean he was going to or he wasn’t?
An elusive smile claimed his lips. “What that means is right now I am focusing on Grant Industries and specifically what Leonid Aristov is going to bring to the table tomorrow.”
And with that Harrison Grant cut off whatever valuable insight Frankie might have glimpsed into his psyche and got to work. He pulled up the presentation he’d done for the meeting that addressed two of Aristov’s final concerns, asked her to get her notes out and the marathon work session began. This time, however, she was grateful for any distraction that would keep her mind off the fact they were traveling at thirty thousand feet in a glorified tin can.
* * *
A couple of hours into their trip across the Atlantic, Harrison thought he might finally have gained some sort of symbiosis with his PA. He could not question Francesca’s intelligence after the week they’d just spent together. She was whip-smart, just as Coburn had said, with street smarts to go with it that gave her an uncanny ability to see through people and situations. And now that he’d given her permission to delve deeper with her questions, she was starting to give back to him what he needed—intelligently thought-out ideas on how to present the information she’d gathered to a tricky prospect in Leonid Aristov.
The Russians, he conceded on a deeply exhaled breath, were a thorn in his side. Aristov was playing with him as if he held all the cards when, in fact, he held none. The Russian’s fortune was disintegrating in front of his eyes. He needed to sell Siberius and yet he was intent on making Harrison’s life difficult for a reason he had yet to divulge. Which hopefully, he would wrangle out of him tomorrow.
And Markovic? Well, Markovic was Markovic—an arrogant oligarch with too much money to play with, too flashy a lifestyle and too