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She backed toward the exit. “I’m sorry. I just remembered I have a … a dress fitting.”
She yanked open the shop’s glass door and fled.
Stacy slammed into the luxurious four-bedroom penthouse suite she shared with Candace, Amelia and Madeline at the five-star Hôtel Reynard. There were perks in having a friend marrying the hotel chain owner’s son.
All three women looked up from the sitting area.
“Why are you back so soon?” Candace asked.
“Why did you throw me at that man?” Stacy fumed.
Candace tsked. “Stacy, what am I going to do with you? Franco is perfect for you, and the sparks between the two of you nearly set the shop’s awning on fire. You should have had lunch with him. Do you know who he is? His family owns Midas Chocolates.”
“The shop?”
“The globally famous company. Godiva’s number-one competitor. We have a store in Charlotte. Franco’s the CEO of the whole shebang and one of Vincent’s best friends. He happens to be absolutely yummy.”
No argument there. “I’m not looking for a vacation fling.”
Madeline, a nurse in her early thirties, swept her long, dark curls off her face. “Then let me have him. From Candace’s description before you arrived Franco sounds beyond sexy. A short, intense affair with no messy endings sounds perfect, and I won’t have to worry about getting dumped because we’ll be leaving after the wedding anyway.”
A vacation affair. Stacy couldn’t imagine ever being so nonchalant about intimacy. Intimacy made her feel vulnerable which is probably why she avoided it 99 percent of the time. In her nomadic life she’d never had a friendship that lasted more than a few months until she and Candace had bonded over an IRS audit three years ago when the large accounting firm Stacy worked for had assigned her to Candace’s case. Having a friend was a new experience—one Stacy liked—even if she did sometimes feel like an outsider with this trio of hospital workers. Madeline and Amelia were Candace’s friends, but Stacy hoped they’d be hers too by the time they left Monaco. Otherwise, if Candace moved away after the wedding Stacy would have no one. Again.
But the idea of Madeline with Franco made Stacy uneasy, which was absolutely ridiculous considering she’d spent less than ten minutes in the man’s company, and she had no claim on him. Nor did she want one. Could she have a vacation romance? No. Absolutely not. It just wasn’t in her cautious makeup.
“So, is he sexy?” asked Amelia, the starry-eyed romantic of the group.
The women’s expressions told Stacy they expected some kind of response. But what? She knew nothing about girl talk. “Yes. B-but in a dangerous way.”
“Dangerous?” the three parroted in unison, and then Candace asked, “How so? Franco seemed perfectly civilized to me and very polite.”
None of these women knew about Stacy’s childhood. And she didn’t want to share the shameful details. Not now. Not ever. From the time Stacy was eight years old she’d known she and her mother were running from something every time they packed up—or not—and moved to a new city. Stacy hadn’t figured out from what or whom until it was too late.
She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. “Franco Constantine exudes power and money. If things went wrong between you, he could afford to track you down no matter how far you ran.”
The women looked as if her answer made no sense to them. But it made perfect sense to Stacy. Her father had been a wealthy man. When he’d abused his wife the authorities had looked the other way, and when she’d run he’d used his resources to track her down. It had taken him eleven years to get even.
Wealthy, powerful men bent the rules to suit their needs, and they considered themselves above the law. Therefore, Stacy did her best to avoid them.
Franco Constantine definitely fell into the Avoid column.
***
Franco studied Stacy Reeves from across the casino. She was perfect for his purpose, exactly the type of female his father had described. And he would have her. No matter the cost. With women there was always a cost. The question was, would she be worth it?
Without a doubt.
In all his thirty-eight years he’d never had such an instant visceral reaction to a woman before. Not even to his ex-wife. From the moment he’d caught the reflection of Stacy’s expressive eyes in the shop window this morning he had wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the chocolate. Ravenously.
The contrast between her demure dress, the reserve she wore like a cloak and those hungry eyes had intrigued him. The touch of her tongue on his finger had electrified him. If she could arouse him with such a small gesture, then he couldn’t wait to experience the results of a more intimate encounter.
A quick call to Vincent had garnered him a few pertinent details about Mademoiselle Reeves and had confirmed that she was suitable for his needs. Yes, playing his father’s game would indeed be pleasurable.
Franco ordered two glasses of champagne and made his way toward her. She stood back from the roulette table in the Café de Paris, observing the trio of women she’d come in with, but not participating in the gambling. In fact, she hadn’t made a single wager since she’d arrived half an hour ago.
Tonight she’d twisted her shoulder-length chestnut hair up on the back of her head, revealing a pale nape, a slender neck and delicate ears he could not wait to nibble. Her floor-length gown—a sleeveless affair the color of aged ivory—gently outlined her curves but unfortunately covered her remarkable legs. She’d draped a lacy wrap over her shoulders and strapped on high-heeled gold sandals.
Elegant. Subtle. Desirable.
Mais oui. They would be magnificent together. Anticipation quickened his blood as he reached her side. He paused long enough to savor her scent. Gardenias. Sultry, yet sweet. “Vous êtes très belle ce soir, mademoiselle.”
She startled and turned. “Monsieur Constantine.”
“Franco.” He offered a flute and ignored her stiff, unwelcoming posture. Her blue-green eyes, as changeable as the Mediterranean, were more azure than they’d been earlier in the day. What color would they be when they made love? He had every intention of finding out.
After a moment’s hesitation she accepted the drink. “Merci, Mon—”
He covered her fingers with his on the fragile crystal, stilling her words. He wanted to hear his name on her lips. “Franco,” he repeated.
Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue glided over her plump cherry-red flesh. He nearly gave in to the need to taste her, but he restrained himself with no small effort. She was skittish. He had to move slowly if he wanted to successfully close this deal.
“Franco.” She gave his name the French pronunciation not the nasally American one he’d grown to hate during his graduate studies in the U.S.
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “À nous.”
She blinked and frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“To us, Stacy.” She hadn’t given him leave to use her name, and he was taking liberties—the first of many he intended to take with the alluring American.
Her eyes darkened and rejection stamped her fine features, but her cheeks pinked. “I don’t think—”
“Monsieur Constantine,” a feminine voice interrupted.
He reluctantly released Stacy’s hand, and forcing his lips into a polite smile, turned to the trio of women. “Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles.”
Vincent’s fiancée introduced her friends, and while etiquette decreed Franco greet each lady, every fragment of his being remained focused on the woman who would soon be his lover. He noticed each nervous shift of Stacy’s body, heard the sounds of her silk dress sliding over her skin the way his hands soon would, and he relished the catch of her breath as he deliberately brushed against her when he motioned for a waiter. He ordered beverages for each of the women and then held Stacy’s gaze as she lifted her flute to her mouth. He mimicked her actions, wishing it were her warm lips against his instead of the cool glass.
The brunette Madeline sidled closer, making her interest known with her direct stare and come-hither stance while the auburn-haired Amelia blushed and looked away from the other woman’s bold behavior. Both women were attractive, but he only had eyes for Stacy. Eventually, the trio turned back to the roulette wheel, affording him the privacy with his quarry he craved. Or as much privacy as one could have in a crowded casino.
“Have you wagered?” He knew she hadn’t. He’d been watching.
“No.”
He reached in his pocket, retrieved a handful of chips and offered them to her. “Try your luck?”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “That’s ten thousand doll—euros.”
“Oui.”
Wide-eyed, she backed away. “No. No, thank you.”
“You wish to play for higher stakes? We can go to the Salon Touzeta, if you like.”
“That’s a private room.”
“Oui.”
She looked at her friends, as if hoping they’d rescue her, but the wheel held their attention. “I don’t gamble.”
The more she refused, the more he wanted her. Was she playing hard to get to torment him or to raise her price? Very likely both. But he would win. Since his wife’s betrayal he always did. “You owe me the pleasure of your company at a meal.”
Wary eyes locked with his. “Why me? Why not someone who’s interested and willing?” A slight tilt of her head indicated her brunette companion.
He shrugged. “Who knows why a body sings for one and not the other?”
Her lace wrap slipped from her shoulder. Franco lifted his hand and dragged a knuckle along the exposed skin of her upper arm. Her shiver before she stepped out of reach gratified him. She would be a responsive lover. “Have dinner with me, Stacy.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “If you choose not to see me privately again afterward, then I will accept your decision.”
Her chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”
Enjoying her cat-and-mouse game, he smiled. Her breath caught audibly. Bien. The attraction wasn’t one-sided. “Then you and your friends will be seeing me quite often.”
Slightly imperfectly aligned white teeth captured her bottom lip. How had she escaped the American obsession with a perfect smile? “One dinner. That’s it?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Because I can take no for an answer when the woman really means it.”
Her shoulders squared. “I mean it.”
He could not prevent a small smile. “Non. Your mouth says one thing, but your beautiful eyes say another. You want to have dinner with me.”
Her cheeks flushed and her kissable lips compressed. She nodded sharply. “One dinner and then you leave me alone.”
A surge of adrenaline shot through him at the small success. He touched his champagne flute to hers. Victory was within his grasp.
“À nous, Stacy. Nous serons magnifiques ensemble.”
Two
Nous serons magnifiques ensemble.
“We will be magnificent together.” Stacy groaned and tossed her French-to-English-to-French dictionary on the coffee table. Her flushed skin and restlessness had nothing to do with the morning sun streaming through the hotel sitting room’s open curtains or her eagerness to get out and see more of Monaco. The blame for her twitchiness could be placed solely on the desire in Franco’s eyes last night when he’d said the mysterious phrase before taking his leave.
She’d dreamed about him, about those hungry eyes and that deeply cleft chin. No surprise there, since the man’s blatant sexiness was an assault on her senses.
Franco Constantine was pursuing her and she had no idea why. The country was full of more beautiful, more sophisticated and more available women, but for some incomprehensible reason he wanted her. And, like it or not, as foolish as it might be—and it was incredibly foolish—she was attracted to him too. Scary, heady stuff. Her instincts told her to blow him off, but his friendship with Vincent made that tricky. Stacy couldn’t afford to be rude and risk upsetting Candace.
Stacy shifted uneasily on the sofa. Surely she could manage a meal with him without getting in over her head? One dinner and then he’d promised to leave her alone. She’d eaten with a number of clients who’d implied they wanted her handling more than their books, and she’d resisted easily enough. Of course, she’d never been tempted like this. Franco was beyond her experience, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d made a deal she would regret.
The door to Madeline’s bedroom opened and the brunette shuffled into the sitting area. Her gaze roamed over the coffee carafe Stacy had ordered from room service and Stacy’s empty cup. “My God, how long have you been up?”
“A few hours. My body clock is confused.”
“So are you and Franco going to hook up?”
Stacy’s blouse and pants abraded her suddenly warm flesh. “We’re going to have dinner and then he’s all yours.”
Her skin prickled anew. Why did that bother her? Franco was too rich and powerful for her and far out of her league, but that didn’t mean the other woman couldn’t enjoy him.
“No thanks. I met someone after you came upstairs last night, and man oh man, is he hot.” Madeline poured herself a cup of coffee.
This was the girl talk Stacy didn’t do so well. Where were the boundaries? What was she supposed to ask? What topics should she avoid? She settled for a noncommittal, “Oh?”
“Oh yeah.” Madeline smiled as she sipped. “He’s going to act as my tour guide after we kill our diets this morning sampling the different wedding cakes the hotel chef has prepared.”
Amelia glided silently into the room. “Did I hear you say you’re going out today? Me too, if for no other reason than to avoid Toby Haynes.”
“Who?” Stacy asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
Amelia grimaced. “Toby Haynes, the race-car driver for the NASCAR team Reynard Hotels sponsors. It was a fire in his pit that burned Vincent.”
“Speaking of Vincent, I guess you’ve both met the groom since he was a patient at the hospital where you work?” Stacy hadn’t—just one more reason she felt like the outsider in the group. Story of her life.
“Yes and his cocky Casanova driver is here in Monaco and determined to be a pain in my backside,” Amelia grumbled.
“Perhaps you and I could do the tourist thing together,” Stacy suggested somewhat hesitantly. These women barely knew her and might prefer to spend their time with someone else.
“Sounds great. I’ll get dressed.” The suite doorbell chimed. Amelia, already on her feet, answered. When she turned around she held a beautiful bouquet of gardenias. “They’re for you, Stacy.”
Stacy’s heart stalled. No one had ever sent her flowers. She accepted the fragrant arrangement, extracted the card and read the slashing black script. Tonight. 20:00. Franco.
“Who are they from?” Amelia asked.
Stacy couldn’t find her voice. Were the gardenias a coincidence or had he actually noticed her perfume?
Madeline read the card over Stacy’s shoulder. “Her delicious chocolatier. Monaco operates on military time. He’s picking you up tonight at eight. Bon chance, mon amie.”
Stacy forced an unsteady smile. She’d need more than luck to resist the sexy Frenchman.
Madeline rose, stretched and yawned. “Amelia, make sure Stacy has something suitably sexy to wear. And Stace, tuck a few condoms in your purse. Be prepared.”
Prepared for Franco Constantine? Impossible.
Thanks to Candace and Amelia, Stacy was as prepared as she possibly could be for her evening with temptation in the form of Franco Constantine, minus the condoms which she most definitely would not need.
After sampling enough wedding cakes to send her blood sugar into orbit, she, Candace and Amelia had attempted to walk off the calories by touring La Condamine, the second-oldest section of Monaco, this morning, and then exploring the wonderful shops on the Rue Grimald in the early afternoon. Afterward the women had returned to the hotel and turned Stacy over to the spa staff for a facial, a manicure and a pedicure.
