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Stacy stood in front of the mirror and smoothed her hands over the gown they’d found in a European designer clothing outlet. Claiming it would be perfect for the rehearsal dinner, Candace had overridden Stacy’s polite refusal and insisted on buying it for her. The sapphire fabric skimmed Stacy’s figure without clinging, and the halter top gave her enough support that she didn’t need a bra. She felt worlds more sophisticated in this gown than in anything she’d ever owned.
The phone rang and Stacy nearly jumped out of her gold sandals. Her suitemates were out. She crossed her bedroom and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Bonsoir, Stacy,” Franco’s deep voice rumbled over her. “I am in the lobby. Shall I come up?”
Her pulse fluttered like the flag over the prince’s palace in a stiff breeze. Franco in her suite? Absolutely not.
“No. I’ll come down.” She hung up the phone and pressed a hand over her pounding heart. “One dinner. You can do this.”
She draped her lace wrap over her shoulders, grabbed her gold clamshell evening purse and headed out the door. Her stomach stayed behind as the elevator swiftly descended from the penthouse to the lobby level. The doors opened and there he was, a six-foot-something package of irresistible—correction, completely resistible—male. Franco leaned against a marble pillar looking as rich and sinful as the chocolate he’d fed her. Stacy inhaled slowly and then moved forward on less-than-steady legs.
Franco spotted her and straightened. A midnight-blue suit and a shirt in a paler shade emphasized his eyes as his appreciative gaze glided from her upswept hair to her newly polished toenails before returning to her face. Every cell in her body quivered in the wake of the leisurely visual caress. He took her hand and bent over it, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a touch so light she could have imagined it. The whisper of his breath on her skin made her shiver.
He straightened and his intensely blue eyes burned into hers. “Vous enlevez mon souffle, Stacy.”
There was no way she could translate even the simplest sentences when he looked at her or touched her that way. “I’m sorry?”
“You take my breath away.”
“Oh.” Oh? That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with? She tugged her hand and after a moment’s resistance he released her. “Thank you. And thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely. But you shouldn’t have.”
“I could not resist. Their fragrance reminded me of you.” He offered his elbow. Stacy couldn’t think of a courteous way to decline. Reluctantly, she threaded her hand through his bent arm and let him escort her from the cool interior of the hotel into the warm evening air. The lights of Monaco twinkled around them in the falling dusk. He paused outside the entrance. “The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Shall we walk? Or would you prefer a taxi?”
“You didn’t drive?” She’d pictured him as the powerful-sports-car type, the kind who careened around the hairpin turns at breakneck speed like a Grand Prix driver.
“I drove. My villa is in the hills overlooking Larvotto. Too far to walk. But there is no parking near the restaurant.”
She and Candace had taken the bus to Larvotto beach yesterday before she’d met Franco. In a country covering less than one square mile how likely was she to be able to avoid him until the wedding once this obligatory date ended? The odds weren’t in her favor. “Let’s walk.”
A breeze stirred her hair. He caught a stray strand and tucked it behind her ear. The stroke of his finger on the sensitive skin along her jaw made her hormones riot and her pulse leap. “I would like to show you the view of Larvotto from my terrace. C’est incroyable.”
No matter how incredible the view she had no intention of seeing it. Get this date on an impersonal footing. “How is it that you know Vincent exactly?”
A knowing smile curved his lips, as if he knew she wanted to tread safer ground. He turned and led her down the sidewalk. “We shared an apartment during graduate school.”
She frowned up at him. “But didn’t Vincent go to MIT?”
“Oui.”
“You lived in the States? No wonder your English is so good.” They turned the corner and the smell of Greek food from a nearby sidewalk café permeated the air. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the cake overdose this morning.
“Midas Chocolates distributes product on six continents. It pays to be fluent in several languages. Interpreters are not always available or reliable.” He turned down a narrow alley she would have missed and stopped in front of a salmon-pink building with a red tiled roof. The only signage was the address in brass script above an unremarkable wooden door. “Here we are.”
“This is a restaurant? It looks like a private residence.” She’d hoped for something less intimate, like one of the numerous cafés lining the streets. She still couldn’t get over how people brought their pets into restaurants. Stacy pulled her arm free on the pretext of adjusting her wrap and instantly missed his body heat even on this sultry night. Get over it.
“It is a secret kept by the locals. Good food. Good music. Exceptional company.”
She cursed the flush warming her skin. The man issued compliments too easily, and she didn’t intend to be swayed by his glib tongue. She’d been burned by insincere flattery once before. The humiliating aftermath wasn’t something she wanted to relive.
He opened the door with one hand. The other curved behind her waist, palm splayed. She could feel the imprint through the thin fabric of her dress as he guided her forward. She hurried inside only to stop suddenly in the tiled foyer.
This must have been someone’s home once, but now a maître d’s stand occupied the niche beneath a curving staircase. The dining rooms Stacy could see to the left and right were furnished with half a dozen widely spaced, candlelit tables draped in white linens. Crystal and silver glinted in the flickering light, and music played quietly in the background. Intimate, but not unbearably so. Some of Stacy’s tension eased. She could handle this.
But internal alarm bells rang as the hostess led them upstairs and finally stopped in a small private room with only one table. This very likely had once been a bedroom. Any plans Stacy might have had to keep this meal impersonal by watching the other patrons or trying to translate their conversations evaporated. The same music she’d heard downstairs drifted through exterior doors left open to a wrought-iron railed balcony. A gentle flower-scented breeze stirred the sheer curtains and made the candle flames dance.
Franco seated her. She startled when his fingertips brushed her upper arms, dragging her wrap back so that it bared her shoulders. He draped the lace over her chair, and then sat at a right angle to her, his knee touching hers beneath the table. She shifted away from the contact, but that didn’t stop the buzz of awareness vibrating through her.
An older man entered. He and Franco held a rapid-fire discussion Stacy couldn’t understand, and then he departed. “Was that French?”
“Non. Monégasque, the local dialect. It’s a combination of French and Italian.”
“Is that what you were speaking at your shop the day we met?”
“Oui, but French is the language spoken most often in Monaco. Do you speak French?”
“A little. I had the required two semesters in college and then I listened to some instructional CDs before coming here.”
He covered her hand with his on the table and stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse bolted like a startled rabbit. “You may practice on me, if you wish.”
The spark in his eyes said she needn’t limit her practice to the language. Stacy pulled her hand free and tangled her fingers in her lap. Looking away, she chewed the inside of her lip and tried to ignore the tension knotting low in her belly.
Their server returned with a tray of tiny stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms, poured the wine and departed even though they hadn’t ordered yet.
“There aren’t any menus?”
“Non. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.”
Trust. He couldn’t possibly know how difficult it was for her to trust anyone but herself. “What if I have food allergies?”
“Do you?”
“No,” she admitted, feeling slightly ashamed for being difficult. She sipped her wine, sampled a crab-stuffed tomato and struggled to find a topic that would dilute the romantic atmosphere. “I was surprised to discover that Monaco relies heavily on French laws, including the French wedding ceremony and that they’ve removed the promise of fidelity from their vows. Why is that? Can French men not be faithful?”
Franco sat back, the smile slipping from his face. “I was faithful to my wife.”
That doused the warmth in her belly. “You’re married?”
“Divorced.” And bitter by the sounds of that one bitten-off word. “You?”
“I’ve never been married.” She’d never even been in a long-term relationship. She’d had one clumsy encounter in high school and a brief intimate relationship with a guy from work. She shoved the bad memories back into their cave. “How long were you married?”
“Five years.”
“What happened?” None of her business really, but she’d never met a divorcé who didn’t want to talk about the unpleasant experience, and dull as it may be, hearing about someone else’s dirty laundry was better than having Franco focus his seductive charms on her.
He shrugged, but the movement seemed stiff instead of casual. “We wanted different things.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Non.”
Had she imagined his hesitation? “Do you keep in touch?”
“I have not seen Lisette since the divorce.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Absolument.”
Absolutely. She studied Franco, trying to gauge his sincerity. His direct gaze showed no doubts, no prevarications.
Her father hadn’t willingly let go. Had that been because he’d loved her mother so much or because he’d considered her a possession, as the therapists had said? Stacy shook off the questions to which she’d never have answers and focused on her date. “Have you always lived in Monaco?”
“Non. I grew up outside Avignon, France. My family home is still there. I relocated my residence and Midas Chocolates headquarters here eight years ago after my divorce.” His expression turned speculative. “You are trying very hard not to enjoy our evening, Stacy. Why is that?”
He read her too easily. “You’re mistaken.”
“Then prove me wrong by dancing with me.”
When he put it that way how could she refuse? “I’m not much of a dancer.”
He rose, pulled back her chair and offered his hand. “Pas un problème. I will guide you. Relax. I am not going to devour you before dessert.”
But after dessert, then what? She wanted to ask, but she was too overwhelmed by his proximity to form the words. He laced his fingers through hers and rested their joined hands over his heart. She could feel the steady thump against her knuckles. He looped his other arm around her waist, spreading his palm over the base of her spine and pressing his chin to her temple. He held her as close as a lover with his thighs brushing hers. Too close. She tried to retreat, but the muscles hidden beneath his expensive suit flexed and held fast.
Her breath quickened. His scent, a blend of tangy lime and something totally masculine filled her nostrils. Her mouth dried and her skin steamed. She could barely hear the music to which he swayed over her thudding heart. Regardless of how unwise it might be she could feel herself weakening and wanting to give in to the desire that welled inside her each time he was near.
Pressing her palm against his lapel, she angled her upper body away from his. The move had the unfortunate consequence of aligning their faces. His mouth was much too near. If she rose on her tiptoes she could—
No. She couldn’t.
“Where is the music coming from?”
His indulgent half smile sent a spiral of need through her. “There is a string quartet on the terrace.”
He danced her through the open doors and then raised his arm for her to spin, but instead of letting her turn a full circle he caught her with her back to his chest and held her facing the flower-filled courtyard below the balcony.
Stacy gasped at the hot length of him spooning her back and then she lifted her gaze from the couples whirling around the flagstone dance floor and the air left her lungs in a long, appreciative, “Wow.”
The rocky terrain of Monaco spread out in front of her. One thing about having a country clinging to the side of the mountain was that no matter where you looked you had a postcard-worthy view. Lights twinkled on the landscape like constellations blanketing a clear night sky, and in the distance she could see a brightly lit cruise ship anchored in the harbor. “It’s beautiful.”
His breath stirred the hair at her temple a second before his lips touched her skin. “And so are you.”
He cupped her shoulders and turned her to face him. His palms glided down her arms and then he grasped the railing on either side of her, caging her between a twenty-foot drop and temptation. Either one could leave her broken. The warmth of the iron railing pressed her back, but the heat of his hips and thighs against hers set her afire. He feathered a kiss on one corner of her mouth and then the other. Teasing, fleeting, tantalizing kisses. Insubstantial and unsatisfying.
Her insides quivered and she wanted more. She wanted him to kiss her—to really kiss her—in a way she’d never wanted any man before, and that was dangerous territory. It had to be Madeline’s talk of a vacation affair making Stacy yearn for what she couldn’t have.
“Come home with me tonight, Stacy. Je veux faire l’amour avec toi.”
I want to make love with you. Blood rushed to her head and then drained with dizzying speed to settle low in her belly. She closed her eyes, bit her lip and shook her head. “I can’t.”
But she wanted to. She really, really wanted to. Sex had never been the exciting event for her that everyone claimed it was. She had a feeling it would be with Franco, but he was exactly the kind of man she’d sworn to avoid.
“Non? Because even though your mouth tells me no, this—” his head bent and his lips scorched a brief kiss over the frantically beating pulse in her neck “—this says yes.”
Torn between desire and common sense she pressed her palms against his chest and prayed for the strength to keep refusing. A flash of movement beyond his shoulder caught her eye. She sent up a silent thank-you for the reprieve. “The waiter is back.”
Ever so slowly Franco straightened, but the banked fires in his eyes promised “later.” He released his hold on the railing beside her, stepped back and gestured for her to precede him into the room. Her legs were almost too weak to carry her.
Close call. Good thing this was their one and only date because she doubted she could continue saying no.
And saying yes would be far too dangerous.
“What is it you want, Stacy?”
Stacy’s yearning expression as she gazed at the moonless midnight sky hit Franco with the impact of a sailboat boom. Whatever it was she wanted, he wanted to give it to her. Within reason, of course. And he would reap the rewards for his generosity.
She stopped in the corner of Hôtel Reynard’s garden. “What do you mean?”
Why her? Why did this woman arouse him so easily? He didn’t have the answer to the question he’d been asking himself since seeing her outside Midas yesterday, but he would find it. Sipping from her soft, fragrant skin at the restaurant tonight had only whetted his appetite. “What is it you wish for when you look upon the stars?”
“What makes you think I’m wishing for anything?”
“Your eyes give you away.”
She bit her lip and hesitated. “Financial security.”
“Money?” He almost spat the word. It always came down to money, but he had expected Stacy to at least make an attempt to hide her greed. Disappointment dampened his satisfaction over being right about her. Had he believed Stacy was different from any of his father’s ex-wives or from his own? Non. Life had taught him a hard lesson. All women were the same. Yes, they came in different sizes, shapes and colors, but the craving for money is what made their mercenary hearts beat. And Stacy’s greed played directly into his hands.
“My mother struggled to make ends meet when I was a child. Sometimes she had to choose between rent and food. Until I landed the job with the accounting firm I wasn’t in much better shape, and now I—” She turned her back abruptly and dipped her fingers into the fountain. “I don’t ever want to be in that position again.”
“Your father?”
Her spine stiffened and her hands fisted. “Not part of the picture.”
The personal insights—of which she’d shared few during dinner—softened him and he couldn’t afford sentimentality. Time to close the deal. “And if I could offer you that financial security?”
“What do you mean?” She frowned at him over her shoulder. “Are you offering me a job?”
He joined her beside the fountain. “I am offering you a million euros to be my mistress for the remainder of your time in Monaco. One month, is it not?”
Shock parted her lips and widened her eyes. “You’re joking.”
“Non. I realize you have obligations to Candace and Vincent, but the remainder of your time would be mine. There will be no declarations of love. No false promises. Just passion and for you, profit. Tu comprends?”
She shook her head as if confused. “No, I don’t understand. Are you offering to pay me to sleep with you? Like a prostitute?”
“In France, being a man’s mistress is a respected position.”
