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The line formed between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to buy presents for me.”
He would make sure she wore it when she met his father. He shrugged. “Open it.”
She set aside her wine, hesitantly opened the box and stared. Seconds later she snapped the lid closed and shoved the box toward him. “I can’t accept that.”
He stilled. “You don’t like diamonds?”
“Of course, but—”
“You have a diamond bracelet?”
“No.” She closed her eyes, swallowed and then met his gaze. “Franco, we already have a deal. Can we just stick to it?”
He masked his surprise and puzzlement. He had never had a woman refuse his gifts before—especially not expensive jewelry. “Perhaps I wish to see you wearing the diamonds. And nothing else.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “Oh,” she repeated and fiddled with the stem of her glass for a moment before looking at him through her thick lashes. It was a worried glance rather than a flirtatious one. “Diamonds do it for you, huh?”
He reared back. “No, diamonds do not do it for me. I merely wished to give you a gift.”
“And I’m telling you that you don’t have to.”
What game was she playing? He examined her face, her guileless eyes. Was her innocence an act? It had to be. Otherwise she never would have accepted his offer. He rose. “I will return momentarily with dinner.”
In the kitchen he mechanically plated the smoked mozzarella with sundried tomatoes and peppercorns in a puddle of olive oil while mulling over Stacy’s refusal. She had to have an ulterior motive. He retrieved the filet barole from the warming oven, divided it onto dishes and poured the cognac and mushroom sauce over it.
Was she after a bigger prize? Perhaps a diamond ring instead of a bracelet? If so, she would not get one from him. He would never marry again. His one and only failed marriage had taught him that women were selfish creatures. Nothing mattered except their wants. Nothing.
Not even life.
His throat tightened at the memory of the babe his wife had carelessly discarded without his knowledge or consent. Had there not been complications with the abortion, causing the doctors to hospitalize Lisette and call Franco to Paris, he would never have known her “shopping trip” was a lie or that she had conceived his child—a child she did not want. And then there were his father’s costly divorces. Stacy was no different from any other greedy woman. She had revealed her true nature by accepting his terms. He set his jaw.
Non. He did not trust women. He enjoyed them briefly and then he moved on. But he was a generous lover both in bed and out. Stacy would have no complaints.
Stacy was not at the table when he carried the tray outside. He scanned the dimly lit terrace and found her in the shadows by the railing overlooking the garden below. Or perhaps she studied the whirlpool. His arousal stirred in anticipation.
After placing the meal on the table he joined her. “Dinner waits.”
She turned slightly. A gentle breeze lifted tendrils of hair. “I’m sorry, Franco. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by refusing the bracelet. I just don’t think we should try to make this into something it’s not.”
Again she surprised and perplexed him. “What would that be?”
“A relationship.”
His thoughts exactly, but hearing her voice them disturbed him in an inexplicable way. “We are going to be lovers, Stacy. We will have a relationship, albeit a temporary one. And if I choose to buy things for you then I do so because it pleases me, not because I expect more from you than our original agreement. Now come. We will eat and then we will pursue our mutual pleasure.”
Would she be worth a million bucks?
Stacy’s stomach clenched. She had absolutely no appetite and her taste buds had deserted her, but she forced down another bite of tender steak to drag out the meal as long as possible. Throughout dinner she’d watched Franco’s hands as he cut his meat or cradled his wineglass, and her mind had raced ahead. Those hands would soon be on her. Cupping her flesh. Stroking her skin. Was that anticipation or dread making her dizzy?
What if after they did this Franco decided she wasn’t worth the money? After all, she wasn’t experienced. She could count her intimate encounters on one hand, and her knowledge was limited to the basics—which in her opinion were overrated. If he expected anything like the fancy stuff she’d read about in the women’s magazines she’d borrowed from work, then he’d be disappointed.
Franco placed his knife and fork on his empty plate. “The food is not to your liking?”
Chew. Chew. Chew. Gulp. “It’s delicious. Did you cook?”
His knowing eyes called her a liar. “No. It is catered. Perhaps your appetite lies elsewhere.”
Her fork slipped, the tines screeching across the china. She winced. Franco had probably never encountered a more gauche female. He was sexy and sophisticated down to the soles of his shoes and she was … not. So why had he chosen her?
She abandoned her utensils, blotted her mouth with her cloth napkin and then knotted her fingers in her lap. “I guess I’m just not very hungry.”
“I am ravenous.” He abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “But not for food.”
Stacy’s heart stalled and then raced, but Franco reached for their plates instead of her, piled them on the tray and carried them toward the kitchen.
Time’s up. Time to deliver your end of the bargain.
Stacy slowly exhaled and then lurched into action, nearly overturning her glass in the process. She gathered the stemware and then followed Franco inside, wishing she’d drunk more than one glass of wine. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t be so nervous. But she’d never acquired a taste for wine. She preferred girly drinks with umbrellas, and she drank precious few of those because she kept herself on a strict budget. Unfortunately, sobriety left her tense and clear-headed enough to doubt her sanity in accepting his proposition. Besides, getting drunk would be stupid. She needed to stay in control.
Whatever had possessed her to believe she was qualified to be Franco’s mistress? How could she satisfy a worldly man like him? And how could she become intimate with a man she barely knew? Franco wasn’t much of a talker. If he’d shared half as much conversation as he had lingering, desire-laden, toe-curling glances, then she could write an in-depth biography about him. But he hadn’t. Then again, neither had she.
Details aren’t necessary. This isn’t about friendship or forever.
Stacy stiffened her spine. She could get through this. She’d survived attending fourteen schools in ten years, her mother’s shocking and unexpected death and her father’s betrayal. Four weeks as Franco’s plaything would grant her the economic freedom to buy a home and to stop feeling like a visitor in her own life—a visitor who might have to pack up and leave at any moment.
But thinking about the money made her feel a little like a hooker. A lot like one, actually. So she shoved those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the man. About how sexy and desirable Franco made her feel …
When she wasn’t thinking about the money. She winced.
Franco deposited the tray beside the sink and then took the goblets from her and set them on the counter.
“Let me help you wash those,” she offered, hoping to buy time.
“The dishes can wait. I cannot.”
Before Stacy could do more than blink, Franco’s arms surrounded her and his mouth crashed onto hers. Possessive. Hungry. Demanding. He cupped her bottom, pulling her flush against the length of his hot muscle-packed body, and his tongue found hers, stroking, tasting, tangling. Arousal simmered beneath Stacy’s skin, but it couldn’t completely overcome her stomach-tightening trepidation or doubts.
Franco was a wealthy, powerful man who had the money to buy whatever he wanted—including her. Would he play by the rules? She was on foreign territory here—both in Monaco and in this affair. Who would protect her if this turned ugly?
She pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”
“For?” His barely audible growl swept across her damp lips, and his passion-darkened eyes bored into hers.
She licked her lips and tasted him. “What if I don’t meet your expectations?”
“I find that unlikely.” His hand covered her breast, his thumbnail unerringly finding and caressing her nipple with a back and forth motion.
Tendrils of sensation snaked through her defenses. She had to stay clear and focused. Letting go meant becoming vulnerable. Perhaps she should just take care of him? But how? Drop to her knees and take him in her mouth? If so, she had a problem, because her one and only experience with that in high school had not gone well. She shuddered.
He gripped her upper arms and set her from him. “Stacy, what game are you playing?”
“I’m not playing a game. I just …” She bit her bottom lip. “We don’t know each other very well.”
“What is there to know except the pleasure we can give one another?” His fingers threaded through her hair, tugging gently and tipping her head back. “Have you never experienced immediate attraction for someone you have just met and let passion lead?”
“Uh …no.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine. But I, um …”
“You haven’t had many lovers.”
Was it obvious? Heat scalded her cheeks. She wanted to hide her face, but his grip on her hair prevented it. “No.”
His nostrils flared. “I will teach you what pleases me, and I will satisfy you, mon gardénia.”
He stated it with surety and she wanted to believe him, but why would he bother? He’d bought her whether she liked sex with him or not. “If you say so. You probably should have asked about my sexual experience before offering your bargain.”
“Ce n’est pas important.”
Not important? How could her lack of experience be unimportant?
He released her hair and laced his fingers through hers. “Come. The kitchen is not the best place for our first time.”
Nerves twisted tighter in her stomach with each step. She knew where they were headed long before they reached the carved double wooden doors. His bedroom. Once inside the large chamber he faced her. “I have pictured you here. Sprawled on my sheets. Naked except for the flush of passion on your skin.”
She wheezed in a breath at the sensual image his words painted and blurted, “Do you have condoms? Because I’m not on the pill.”
“And even if you were, the pill is not protection against sexually transmitted diseases—of which I have none,” he stated matter-of-factly.
Her discomfort with the current conversation further illustrated her lack of qualifications to become Franco’s mistress. A more experienced woman could probably have this preliminary chat without as much as a blush. But not her. She shifted on her feet. “Me neither.”
“I have protection.” He turned her toward the bed, reached for the zip of her dress, swiftly pulled it down to her hips and then flicked her bra open.
Oh God, were they going to just do it? She shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. Despite what the magazines said, in her experience, that’s the way it happened. Rushed, fumbling hands followed by awkward contact and grunting. At least it would be over soon.
Air cooled her skin and then warm hands slipped inside the gaping fabric of her dress to trail down her spine with a feather-light touch. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her toes curled in her pumps.
Franco’s thumbs worked upward from her lower back, massaging her knotted muscles all the way to her neck. His fingers drew ever-widening circles over her shoulders, down to her waist and back again. Her eyelids grew heavy and she shivered as unexpected pleasure rippled over her.
A hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nape surprised a gasp from her, and then her dress and bra fell from her shoulders. Startled by the swift disrobing, she grabbed at her clothing, but too late. The garments puddled around her ankles. She crossed her arms over her chest, covering her breasts.
“Non. Do not hide.”
Her eyelids jerked open. She found her gaze locked with Franco’s in the large gold-leaf mirror hanging over the dresser. Slowly, painfully, she lowered her hands and fisted her fingers beside her. Her heart pumped harder as his gaze devoured her breasts, her black hipster panties and then her legs. In her opinion, her body was okay, her breasts merely average, but if Franco was disappointed in what he’d bought he didn’t show it.
Behind her, he discarded his coat and tie, tossing both toward a chair without breaking her gaze. His belt whistled free and then thumped into the chair. Each movement stirred the air around them and teased the fine hairs on her body. He unbuttoned his cuffs and then his shirt and tugged his shirttails free, but didn’t remove the garment. Part of her wanted to turn and examine him as he had her, but the governing part of her stood transfixed, muscles locked and rigid.
“Tu es très sexy, Stacy.” His hands, shades darker than her pale skin, curved around her waist.
Her lungs failed, but whooshed back into action when his palms splayed over her belly, one above her navel and one below. An unaccustomed urge to shift until his hot hands covered more intimate territory percolated through her, but she remained as still as a statue.
“Your skin is like ivory. You do not sunbathe?” he whispered against the sensitive skin beneath her ear a second before his lips made electrifying contact.
“I d-don’t have the time. When I’m not working I volunteer my time mentoring at-risk teens.” Kids who were lonely outsiders like she’d been.
His gaze searched hers for a moment and then lowered to the tiny birthmark above her right hip bone. He traced the small reddish splotch with a fingertip. The delicate caress made her feminine muscles clench.
His mouth opened over her skin, laving her pulse point. At the same time he pulled her back against his bare chest. She hardly had time to register the heat of him seeping into her or the tickle of his chest hair before his hands swept upward. His thumbs stroked beneath her breast once, twice, three times. Her nipples tightened painfully. She mashed her lips on a whimper.
Involuntarily, her head tipped back against him. He trailed kisses down her neck, across her shoulder and back to her jaw. She shouldn’t be enjoying this. She didn’t know him and wasn’t certain she could trust him, but the rasp of his hands across her skin aroused her unbearably.
And then he covered her breasts. His fingers tweaked her nipples and something inside her detonated, radiating a delicious sensation from her core. A moan slipped between her teeth.
Franco murmured words in French as he caressed her, words she was too distracted to translate. Stacy squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to maintain control, to remember this was a business transaction, and then Franco’s hand slipped into her panties and his fingers brushed over her most sensitive spot. Her thighs automatically clamped together against the intrusion, but Franco continued to stroke. He delved into her wetness and plied it over her flesh again and again. Circling. Tormenting. Tempting her to let go.
His foot nudged hers apart, opening her for deeper access, and his fingers plunged inside her. Her lungs emptied. Warmth expanded in her belly and her body trembled with need—need she fought to restrain. He pulled her hips flush against his. The length of his erection nudging the base of her spine fractured what little control she had maintained. And then suddenly the tension snapped and orgasm washed over her in waves of pulsing heat, buckling her knees and making her clutch Franco’s arms to keep from falling to the floor. His caresses slowed, easing her though the aftershocks buffeting her.
So that’s what all the fuss is about.
Winded and stunned by the intensity of her response, Stacy forced her lids open and met Franco’s gaze in the mirror. Questions filled his eyes and her skin baked with embarrassment. Feeling raw and exposed, she ducked her head. He must think her totally shameless.
But then shameless is what he’d bought.
Five
Franco could not believe the evidence before him, but the wonder on Stacy’s face and her current embarrassment could only have one cause. “Your first orgasm?”
She winced and dipped her chin in the slightest of nods.
Franco swiftly withdrew his hands. Not because her revelation repulsed him, but because her confession sent a volatile cocktail of emotions through him. Anger rose swiftly toward those who’d misused her, and possessiveness wasn’t far behind. Stacy would be his, certainement, but only temporarily. The third and possibly the most dangerous reaction was understanding. Inexperience, not manipulation, explained the mixed signals she’d been sending him. None of those responses had any place in this relationship.
“Stacy.” He waited until she eased open her eyes again. “Your first, but not your last.”
Her lips parted and then relief replaced the surprise in her eyes. Had she thought he would reject her because her past lovers had been selfish bastards? She might be a pawn in the game with his father, but she would not suffer for it.
He turned her in his arms and covered her mouth, gently this time. Seducing instead of taking. Sipping, suckling her bottom lip and teasing the silken inside with his tongue instead of ravaging her as he’d done earlier.
He still desired her, still hungered for her, but for her sake, he would dull the sharp edges of his need and make this good for her. Good for both of them. By the end of their month Stacy would be a sexually confident woman. She would not forget the lessons he taught her. That other men would benefit bothered him marginally, but he brushed the concern aside.
Inexperienced or not, she accepted your proposition. That makes her like all the others.
Stacy clutched his waist, bunching his shirt in her hands. He wanted her hands on his skin. He released her long enough to rip off the garment and cast it aside.
Stacy’s breath caught. Her pupils expanded as her gaze explored his torso, following the line of hair to his waistband. He captured her hands and spread them over his skin and then glided their joined hands over his burning flesh. Her fingers threaded through his chest hair, tugging slightly, and sending electrifying bolts of pleasure straight to his groin. Her palms dragged across his nipples. His whistled indrawn breath mingled with her gasp as hunger charged through him. He released her hands and fisted his by his side, fighting the need to crush her to him.
She tentatively traced the lines defining his abdominal muscles, and his flesh contracted involuntarily beneath her curious fingers. His control wavered like tall trees in the hot sirocco winds.
