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The brunette’s lips curved. “Very much so. Mensa-level IQ. Hard. Tough as nails. But good to his friends, good to those who work for him and a marshmallow with me despite the fact his ex-wife took half his money and ran.”
“One of the good oligarchs, then.”
Juliana nodded. “Unlike some. Anton Markovic, for instance.” She gave a delicate shiver. “I wouldn’t have him in this house if Leonid didn’t do business with him.”
Frankie knew of Markovic, of course. He was one of the world’s richest men, two places higher on the list than Harrison last year. “Is he here?”
“He’s out of the country, thank goodness. I don’t have to pretend I like him.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
The smile faded from the brunette’s face. “He’s dangerous. Far too many underworld connections, far too nasty and far too unfriendly to his women.”
Frankie made a mental note to avoid Anton Markovic if she ever came into contact with him. Which was unlikely since this was probably the last time she’d ever be at a party like this.
“Anyway,” Juliana said, holding her glass up to Frankie’s, “enough about business. Cin-cin.”
Frankie sipped her champagne slowly as Juliana introduced her around. But the spirit hit her quickly as it always did. By the time Juliana delivered her to Harrison the better part of an hour later, she was in a much more relaxed mood. Harrison, unfortunately, was not. Leonid was not with him and it was clear from the tense set of her boss’s jaw he had yet to have the talk he needed to have with the Russian.
Juliana left them to facilitate the auction that was to begin shortly and Viktor disappeared to greet a guest. Harrison threw back the last swallow of whatever amber liquid he was drinking and scowled. “I have no idea why we came. He’s been avoiding me, pawning me off on his guests when he knows I want to talk to him.”
Frankie thought about what Juliana had said. Did she dare speak up or would that be the last straw for her and Harrison? She pressed her empty glass to her chin and surveyed the beast at his most riled. She had valuable information. She needed to tell him.
She took a deep breath. “Juliana said with Leonid it’s not all about business. That he needs to feel good about the decisions he’s making. She said if something is holding him back with this deal, it’s not about what’s on paper, it’s about what’s in his heart.”
The deadly stare he directed at her made Frankie shift her weight to both feet. “You discussed the deal with her?”
Her chin snapped up. “You asked me to feel her out. She was the one to bring it up. She could sense the tension between you two.”
He muttered an oath under his breath. She stood her ground, palms moist, knees shaky as he turned and prowled over to stare into one of the cascading pools. “He doesn’t need to feel good about the bloody deal,” he growled. “It’s going to save his hide.”
“And what’s going to save his pride?” Frankie returned softly. “Leonid is in financial difficulty. His empire is suffering a very public defeat, yet he throws a party like this one tonight to make a gesture. It sends a message that he is not bowed by it. That he will survive. Let him see you understand that. Show him you understand.”
He turned around, a savage light in his gaze. “This is all from Juliana?”
She quaked a little inside. “Yes.”
He scowled. “Even if I could show him I understand, how can I do it when he won’t talk? He is never alone. Kaminski hasn’t left his goddamned side for a minute.”
“There has to be an opportunity.” Frankie had always been a glass-half-full kind of person. “Juliana said the auction is very important to Leonid. He wants it to go well. Maybe he’s keyed up about it and you’ll have your chance afterward.”
“Or maybe it’s another giant waste of my time.”
“You won’t know until you try.”
The glass-half-full part of her hoped she was right.
He stared hard at her. Deposited his empty glass on the table. “Let’s go, then.”
* * *
The over-the-top ballroom done in gold and imperial red was buzzing with anticipation when they arrived. Again, as it seemed with all of Leonid Aristov’s estate, it was like nothing she’d ever seen before. Slavic in feel, it dripped with ornate, antique chandeliers, featuring a half-dozen tiny balconies that opened to a view over the man-made lake Leonid had created. All of the little balconies reminded Frankie of the inside of a Russian opera house.
Tuxedo-clad waiters circulated with trays of champagne to whet the appetites of bidders, while staff passed out gold embossed lists of the items up for auction.
The list would have been impressive, she was sure, if Frankie had known anything more about art than Viktor Kaminski had bent her ear with earlier. Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head when she saw the opening bids for some of the paintings. They were in the millions.
“Wow,” she murmured. “This is the real deal.”
Harrison didn’t respond. He was scanning the list with a furrowed brow.
The lights went up. Leonid took the stage and welcomed everyone, Juliana at his side. He made a joke about her not being up for auction with his dry humor that drew an amused response from the crowd. Frankie found his speech about his commitment to the arts and the artists who continued to make the world a more beautiful place heartfelt and eloquent. She could see the goodness in him Juliana had talked about. It made the charismatic Russian even more attractive and compelling.
Leonid highlighted a few of the marquee items up for auction, then exited the stage to be replaced by Juliana’s auctioneer. The Brit with his booming voice began the auction with some paintings by a new modern Russian artist. The value of the works continued to go up with every item, with the last painting selling for two million pounds.
A Chagall in brilliant blue tones came next. “I love that one,” she murmured to Harrison. It was, according to the brochure, “a piece from one of the artist’s most famous series set in Nice, featuring his famous sirens.”
Harrison nodded. “I like it, too.”
The bidding for the painting started at one and a half million pounds. A Brit in the front row signaled two. A determined look on his face, an American with a Southern accent took it up to two and a half million. The two men went back and forth until the price tag sat at three and a half million.
Harrison raised his hand. “Four million.”
Frankie gaped at him. “Four million,” the auctioneer crowed, “by the gentleman in the back.”
The auctioneer tried to persuade the other bidders to up the price, but the American and Brit weren’t biting. Apparently they were sane.
“Sold,” sang the auctioneer, “for four million pounds to Mr. Grant in the back.”
The ballroom was a buzz of conversation. Frankie looked at Harrison, her astonishment written across her face.
“It was a gesture,” he said roughly. “And I like the painting.”
A four-million-pound gesture. Two more paintings were sold, an astonishing amount of money changed hands, then Leonid appeared back on stage to thank the guests for their generosity and wrap the proceedings. When he stepped down from the stage, said something to Viktor Kaminski and slipped into the crowd, Harrison’s gaze tracked him. The Russian was finally alone.
He turned to her. “Can you occupy Kaminski for a few minutes?”
She knew what he was asking, knew it was well past her job description, but tonight she wanted to show Harrison Grant what she was made of. “No problem,” she replied crisply, smoothing her dress over her hips. “Leave him to me.”
He nodded and strode off after Leonid. Frankie kept her eyes on Viktor as he spoke to the auctioneer. When he left him and headed to the opulent bar, done in exotic dark woods and stone, she headed through the crowd and discreetly shouldered her way to the front of the line. She emerged to the right of Viktor, who had his forearms on the bar and was chatting with one of the attractive servers. She trained her gaze on the bartender as he took her order, hoping Viktor would notice her. But the Russian was lazily engaged with the attractive blonde, chatting for a few moments with her before she heard him order two cognacs. One for Leonid.
Adrenaline surged through her. She raised her voice beyond her usual soft, modulated tone as she thanked the bartender for the soda and lime. Viktor glanced over at her, his eyes lighting up as if he’d struck gold in the Yukon.
He wrapped his fingers around the two glasses of cognac that sat on the bar and made his way over to her. “You shouldn’t be getting your own drink,” he chastised. “Where’s Grant?”
“Talking to an acquaintance.” She adopted as arch a look as her limited repertoire allowed. “Maybe I can take you up on your offer to show me Leonid’s art collection while he’s occupied? I’m so inspired after the auction. It’s all so beautiful...”
Viktor flicked a glance toward the balconies. His frown belied his indecision. “Pretty please,” she murmured, laying it on thick. “I’ll never get another chance like this.”
He gave her an indulgent look. “Only if you agree to experience what a nineteenth-century Frapin Cuvée tastes like.” He held up the cognac. “I was on my way to meet Leonid.”
“Done,” she murmured. She had one more glass of tolerance in her.
She picked up the glass, took the arm Viktor offered and they made their way through the crowd to the long marble hallway that stretched the second floor of the manor. Aristov’s art collection, Viktor explained, was displayed along this and the grand hallway of the third floor. Frankie could see why. The Oriental-carpeted, ornately wainscoted hallways and expert lighting set the artwork off to perfection.
She didn’t have to feign attention. Viktor took her through each piece with an enthusiasm that was infectious. His clear love for his subject matter shone through and understanding what she was looking at made it so much more enjoyable for her. She put her hand on his arm frequently to indicate her pleasure, smiling up at him with exaggerated fascination. She could see it was working, from his animated expression and heightened color in his cheeks.
A surge of feminine power heated her veins. She really wasn’t half-bad at this femme fatale thing. Why hadn’t she tried it before?
Viktor took her through the artwork on the second, then third floors. By the time he stopped in front of what he called the pièce de résistance, an exceedingly modern piece by one of the great Russian masters that looked like random splotches of black and green to Frankie, a good twenty minutes had gone by.
“It’s so...interesting,” she commented, cradling her cognac in her hands. She was sipping the five-thousand-dollar-a-bottle spirit as slowly as she could, but its faint spiciness and floral aroma was delicious, sending a smooth, silky warmth through her bloodstream.
“It’s breathtaking,” Viktor countered, resting a palm against the wall where she stood. “I really should get back. Leonid is waiting for me.”
“Oh,” she murmured in disappointment, not sure they’d been gone long enough. “I was hoping there was more.”
The Russian’s eyes flashed. “There is an even more glorious Chagall in Leonid’s personal rooms. I’m sure he won’t mind me showing it to you.”
Alarm bells went off in Frankie’s head. The expression of intent in Viktor’s light brown eyes was clear. He was so close she could smell his overwhelming aftershave, a spicy combination that made her want to sneeze.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t dare intrude on Leonid’s personal space.”
“Are you sure?” He moved closer. “You’ve been such a good audience.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. She put a hand to the wall to lever herself away from it, but Viktor stepped closer, stopping her. He was going to kiss her. She’d been flirting outrageously with him to keep his attention, so why wouldn’t he?
Her heart raced. “Viktor...this has been so sweet of you to give me a tour but—”
He set his other hand on the wall beside her so she was well and truly captured. “Don’t run away,” he said in Russian, his voice low and gravelly. “Stay.”
Panic sliced through her. He dipped his head toward hers. She ducked under his arm and took a step away from him. He gave her a bemused look. Frankie held up her almost empty glass. “I think I need another one of these first.”
He eyed her glass. “Another?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “It was sooo delicious. Just one more.”
His generous mouth curved into a smile. “We’ll make a full Russian out of you yet with that...appetite.”
Her stomach did a little churn. Then relaxed as he good-naturedly held out an arm and led the way back down the hallway to the stairs and the ballroom below. He kept a possessive hand on her back as they wound their way through the crowd toward the bar. Frankie searched furiously for Harrison while he got their drinks, but the crowds were thick now, massed on the dance floor with a strobe light passing over them. She couldn’t see him anywhere.
Viktor came back with their drinks, handing one to her. “We should dance,” he announced.
Frankie thought that might be a good idea because she really didn’t need any more to drink. She went to put the glass down on a table. Viktor waved a hand at her. “Bring it with you.”
He led her onto the dance floor, where the band was playing a slow enough tune that they could dance and drink at the same time. She fake-sipped the cognac as Viktor’s free hand around her waist kept her close. The champagne she’d consumed combined with the first cognac had cast the world in an all-over rosy glow, which would have been nice except this was a bit of a nightmare. The dance floor was packed, the heat of hundreds of bodies was magnifying her partner’s überstrong cologne and he kept moving her closer with his free hand. She had the feeling he was going to try and kiss her again any minute...
Goddamn you, Harrison Grant. Where are you?
CHAPTER SIX (#u0e140246-1a69-5adc-862e-4bafba8f68a9)
LEONID ARISTOV WAS a solitary figure on the balcony that overlooked the lake. His elbows rested on the marble ledge that bounded the tiny alcove; his tall, thin body tilted forward as he studied the play of light on the water in the moonlight.
He did not seem at all surprised when Harrison joined him at the railing. His trademark crooked smile flashed white in the darkness. “A Chagall fan? I had no idea.”
“Always have been.” Harrison rested his forearms on the ledge, mimicking the other man’s stance.
“And here I thought you were above trying to impress me.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Call it a gesture of good faith. I’m trying to understand the backpedaling, Leonid. I thought we had an agreement.”
A laconic smile curved the Russian’s lips. “I’m like a bride on my wedding day. I’m having second thoughts.”
“About the two insignificant clauses you keep tripping over?”
“I don’t care about those.”
“Then what?” Harrison kept his temper in check, recalling Francesca’s words. “Help me to understand.”
Leonid stared out at the water. “A man gets philosophical when his life’s work is crumbling at his feet. What was once important to me has become less so.”
Harrison’s gaze sharpened on the Russian’s craggy profile. “You’ve made a few questionable decisions, Leonid. You’re a brilliant businessman. You will rise from the ashes.”
“As you did.” Aristov flicked him a sideways glance. “My gut tells me this deal is not about Siberius, Harrison. It’s about Anton Markovic and your desire to make him pay. The crowning act of your ascension back to glory.”
Alarm rocketed through him. How could the Russian know? It was impossible. Impossible. But somehow, his mind raggedly conceded, he did.
He kept his face expressionless. “Why would you think this has anything to do with Markovic? That’s ancient history.”
Aristov turned to him, pinning him with the full force of that whiskey-hard gaze. “Because Markovic has become one of the most powerful men in the world. He put your father in his grave...I would want him to suffer.” His lips twisted at the confusion in Harrison’s eyes. “A few questions to a friend in Mergers and Acquisitions at a major investment bank and I had my answers. I know you’ve purchased another key supplier of Markovic’s. I put two and two together.”
A red mist descended over his vision, fury mixing with a fear that froze him solid. Heads would roll if it was discovered a banker had divulged that type of information. But that didn’t matter now... He had a way bigger problem. Leonid and Anton Markovic did business together. If Leonid chose to, he could blow his entire plan out of the water.
Why hadn’t he done so already?
“I can’t stand Markovic.” Leonid answered his unspoken question. “Yes, I do business with him but you can’t always pick your dance partners. My issue,” he drawled, “is not what you choose to do to Markovic. I would take pleasure in watching him fall. It’s Siberius and your ultimate plans for it I care about.”
Relief poured through him, slackening his limbs. He lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug. “It becomes a complementary subsidiary to Taladan that gives Grant International access to the markets we need.”
“Or it becomes extraneous. Superfluous...nonexistent.” Aristov’s gaze narrowed. “The market coverage Siberius brings to the table is not robust beyond the Slavic countries. You may choose to simply fold it into your megalith and it becomes a distant memory.”
He kept his expression neutral as Aristov read the situation with deadly accuracy. “That market,” he offered, “will become crucial in the next decade. We can’t afford not to play in it.”
Leonid trained that highly intelligent gaze of his on him with an intensity that would have broken a lesser man. “We have something in common, Harrison. My father built Siberius. It was the foundation for everything that came after it. I care about the company. Maybe it’s this newfound philosophy of mine clouding my judgment. But I will not sell it to you to have it dismantled in an act of vengeance.”
A wave of conscience enveloped him. He pushed it away. This deal was not about sentimentality. It was about watching Anton Markovic shrivel up and die a slow death. He would not allow it to be sidelined by emotion.
“This deal is not about dismantling Siberius,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s about cutting Markovic off at the knees.” If the board insisted he absorb Siberius and its operations within Taladan and wipe out Leonid’s legacy as it surely would? Beyond his control...
