Temptation In The Boardroom. Paula Roe
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Harrison’s black-label credit card down on the counter was the back of the dress. The gorgeous cutout that revealed the graceful sweep of her shoulder blades and much of her back was sexy yet ladylike.
A knock sounded on the connecting door. Her nerves amped up another notch or two. Harrison. Tessa had been right. You could have timed the Swiss train system after him, he was that punctual.
Wary of keeping the beast waiting, she picked up her wrap, draped it around her shoulders and swung the door open. Her breath stopped somewhere in her chest. He looked obscenely handsome in a tux that was undoubtedly as expensively made as her dress, the elegant formal wear a perfect foil for his clean-edged, dark masculinity.
She looked up at him before her gaping became obvious. But he was too busy looking at her to notice. His dark gaze seemed to be caught in a state of suspended animation as it moved over her, taking in the daring dress. And he didn’t remove it right away. The full-on stare went on for a good three or four seconds, sending a wave of heat through her. Unlike some men’s open admiration that had, in the past, made her feel uncomfortable, Harrison’s stare made her feel unbalanced.
He cleared his throat. “You look...beautiful.”
His uncharacteristic struggle for words unleashed a fluttery feeling deep in her stomach. Stop it, she told herself. He’s your boss. Now is the time to act cool and collected so he knows you can actually do it.
“I hope it’s not too much,” she offered casually. “The saleslady said it was perfect for tonight.”
“It’s not too much.” He looked as if he was going to say something else, then clamped his mouth shut. “We should go.”
The ride to Highgate was smooth and quiet as London flashed by the tinted windows of the Rolls-Royce. Harrison was silent, a frown etched in his brow, formulating a plan of attack for Leonid Aristov, no doubt. Her nerves skyrocketed as they entered the exclusive London suburb. Georgian homes shook hands with fascinating Victorian Gothic structures. Not to be outdone, a handful of architecturally brilliant modern homes made their own statement on the tree-lined street.
All impressive, but it was Leonid Aristov’s Georgian Revival mansion that was the most impressive of all. Tucked between a canopy of trees as they climbed the hill, the redbrick mansion stood white-pillared and regal on rolling acres. Massive. She’d read it contained fifty-two rooms, including eighteen bedrooms and ten bathrooms, an Imperial-inspired ballroom and an underground bath that harked back to Roman times. As they continued to climb, she stared up at the structure gleaming with light. She’d never seen anything like it.
When they reached the top of the hill, they turned a corner and accessed the property from the official entrance off a quiet road cradled in the branches of giant oak trees. Limousines pulled to a halt in a parade of arrivals in the circular driveway.
Frankie tugged the low bodice of her dress up and checked her hair for the tenth time as they waited in the queue. Harrison shot her a quelling glance. “Stop fidgeting. You look perfect.”
She stuck her hands back in her lap. “I suppose you do this once a week.”
A fleeting smile crossed his lips. “Not once a week. Remember—they are people like you.”
Her heart did a little flip. He was breathtaking when he smiled. How had she ever thought Coburn the better-looking brother? Where Coburn was stunning in a flashy, attention-getting way, Harrison was devastating in a complex, unforgettable way. He had about fifty layers. She wondered if anyone ever got to the bottom of them. It made a woman want to try, that was for sure.
She removed her gaze from him. The only lover she’d had was a year-long relationship two years ago in college. What did she know about unpeeling layers? Heavens. She needed to focus on keeping her job, not unraveling her boss in a very distracting way.
The car slid forward to the pillared entrance. A white-gloved, uniformed staff member stepped forward to open the door. “Welcome to Gvidon House.”
Harrison stepped out and offered her his hand. She took it and emerged into the flashing bulbs of paparazzi cameras. He leaned down to her. “Gvidon House?”
She blinked against the blinding lights and rested her hand on his arm for balance. “He’s a prince from a Russian fairy tale. Apparently Leonid is a big fan of them.”
“Fairy tales?”
She nodded, settling her weight firmly on two feet as she eyed the red carpet. It seemed long and never ending.
Harrison set a hand to the small of her back to guide her toward it. “How do you know that?”
“I did my research.”
He gave her a measuring look. “Then you know his current girlfriend is Juliana Rossellini, who works for one of London’s top auction houses.”
“Who is fifteen years his junior.”
He nodded. “See if you can gain some intelligence about Leonid from her.”
She would, but right now she was too consumed by the distracting feeling of his palm on the bare skin of her back as the handlers indicated they could start down the carpet. It was big and warm. Comforting yet disconcerting at the same time.
His fingers increased their pressure on her skin. “Relax. Pretend it’s a walk in the park. You’re smelling the flowers...enjoying yourself.”
The park didn’t have fifty cameras stuck in her face. The park hadn’t just realized it was Harrison on the carpet, causing an unexpected buzz. They called his name as they moved forward. Frankie stuck the fakest smile of her life on her lips and held it.
“What if they connect us in the photo?”
His mouth quirked. “It wouldn’t do my reputation any harm having a stunning brunette on my arm. I’ve apparently been going through a dry spell.”
A stunning brunette. A flush she was certain would show up in the photographs deepened her cheeks. She was quite sure she didn’t compare to any of his beautiful escorts. She’d seen them. They were way out of her league.
“Does it bother you?” she asked. “Being in a constant media spotlight?”
He shrugged. “It’s been my life. You get used to it.”
They made it down the carpet without incident to the entrance where a queue was forming. People were removing their wraps, shoes... “Metal detector,” one of the greeters explained.
A metal detector?
Frankie looked around for something to hold on to while she took off her shoes. Harrison held out his elbow. “Why is it always the women’s shoes?” she complained.
His mouth curled. “Because they are weapons. With you, they could be a dangerous thing.”
She made a face at him. They made it through the metal detector unscathed and were directed to the terrace where the cocktails were being served. Frankie was gobsmacked by the scene. Some guests were milling about the exquisitely landscaped, multilevel terrace in the same formal wear she and Harrison had on, jewels dripping from their necks and ears. Others were lounging in the pool in bathing suits, cocktails in hand.
Her eyes widened at the sight of a diamond-encrusted blonde in the pool across the bridge. She was pretty sure those were real diamonds making up the hardly there bikini. They were just too sparkly not to be.
“Apparently,” she murmured to Harrison, “I just needed to bring my bathing suit. It would have been a lot cheaper.”
He gave her one of his dark, fathomless looks. “I think you’re a lot safer in the dress.”
The heat that passed between them was swift and unmistakable. She bit the inside of her mouth. Unfair, her eyes told him. I thought we were playing by the rules.
You asked for that one, his gaze flashed in return. Be honest.