Monte Carlo Affairs: The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal

She rubbed her bare wrist and then wiped her palms over her pencil-slim skirt and opened the front door. If they were truly lovers this was the point where she’d rush down the walkway to embrace him and welcome him home. Instead, as he approached she stood frozen inside the door unsure exactly what he expected of her.

The closer he came the more shallow her breathing became. While her gaze fed on his lean dark-suited form, he inventoried her lavender blouse, navy skirt and sensible low-heeled pumps. Suddenly she felt dowdy, and she wished she’d slipped into the flirty and feminine sundress hanging in his closet. That she’d even consider dressing to please him rattled her. “Hi.”

“Bonsoir, Stacy.” His arm encircled her waist. He snatched her close, taking her mouth in a ravenous kiss that bent her backward. She clutched his lapels and held tight. Their thighs spliced and the heat of his arousal nudged her belly. His tongue stroked hers and hunger suffused her with embarrassing swiftness.

By the time he released her she was breathless and dizzy, with her pulse galloping out of control. She unfurled her fingers from his suit coat and sagged against the door frame. He swept past her, set the gift bag on the credenza and continued through the living room and toward the kitchen.

Stacy stared at the bag, her curiosity piqued. Maybe it wasn’t for her. After taking a few moments to gather her composure—and to battle the urge to peek into the bag—she closed the front door on the balmy evening and followed him.

Franco had removed his suit coat and laid it over the end of the center island. He held a martini shaker in his hands. The flexing and shifting of his muscles beneath his white shirt as he mixed the sloshing liquid filled her mind with images of those bare muscles bunching and contracting beneath his supple skin as he braced himself above her. She plucked at her suddenly sticking blouse and exhaled slowly.

He poured the contents into a glass and set it on the counter in front of her. Her eyebrows rose.

“You are surprised I noticed you never drink more than one glass of wine at dinner and you ordered fruity drinks at the club?” he asked as he opened a bottle of red wine with practiced ease.

“I guess I am.”

He filled his wineglass and lifted it in a silent toast then nodded toward the martini. “Try it.”

Stacy lifted the glass and sipped. Chocolate, cherry and vanilla mingled on her tongue. “Very good.”

“It is made with Midas Chocolate liqueur.” He reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a handful of gilt-edged cards which he placed on the counter. “Le Bal de L’Eté is this Saturday. I have tickets.”

There were more than two tickets in the pile. “A summer ball?”

“Oui, it is an annual charity event to mark the opening of the summer season at the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. Europe’s l’aristocratie, including royalty, attend. You and your friends might even meet the prince.”

She gaped. “Of Monaco?”

“Oui.”

She’d heard it wasn’t uncommon to see members of the royal family on the street or at sporting events, but to meet them … “Will either of the two long dresses you’ve seen me wear work?”

He shook his head. “Non. I will arrange for you—”

“Then I can’t possibly go.”

“—and your friends to have appropriate gowns,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted.

She sighed. He had her cornered and he knew it. “And if I refuse then Candace, Madeline and Amelia will miss the ball.”

He shrugged. “Tout a un prix.”

Everything has a price. Yes, he did seem to live by that rule. But how could she deny the other women this opportunity to rub elbows with royalty? “You fight dirty.”

“I play to win.”

“Okay. On behalf of my friends, I accept.” Jeez. That had sounded ungracious. But she hated being manipulated.

“Bien. And while you are in an accepting mood …” He left the kitchen and returned moments later carrying the bag. “For you.” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “Open it before you refuse.”

She reluctantly accepted the bag, withdrew a small box, opened it and gasped. Her watch. Hugging it to her chest, she ducked her head, blinked her stinging eyes and struggled to contain the happy sob building in her chest. He couldn’t possibly know how much this meant to her. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome. The limo driver found it. The band was broken. I had it replaced with a similar one.”

“My mother gave me this when I graduated high school. It was the last gift she gave me before she—” Her throat thickened, choking off her words.

Franco smoothed his hand from her brow to her nape. His fingers clenched in her hair and then stroked forward to lift her chin. “I am glad we found it. Now finish your drink and then go downstairs and remove your clothing. The masseuse will be here in ten minutes.”

“Masseuse?” Stacy wasn’t wild about the idea of someone else seeing or touching her naked body. She hadn’t joined her suitemates in the hotel spa for sea-salt massages for that very reason. But she wouldn’t mind Franco’s hands on her. “You’re not going to, um … massage me?”

A slow naughty smile curved his lips. “I am going to watch. And after she has turned your muscles to butter and departed, I am going to take you on the massage table.”

The image he painted sent a shiver of arousal over her. Stacy realized she was beginning to like not only Franco, but this mistress stuff too.

And that was definitely not good news.

My God. He had almost hugged her.

Franco fisted his hands and watched the lights of Stacy’s taxi disappear into the night. What kind of fool was he to be swayed by eyes brimming with tears and gratitude? And yet when Stacy had looked at him earlier tonight, clutching that cheap watch to her breast and smiling through tear-filled eyes, he’d almost succumbed to the urge to embrace her.

He did not hug or cuddle or any of those other relationship things that would lead a woman to expect more from him than he could give. And he did not trust tears. Tears were nothing more than a weapon in a woman’s arsenal. How often had Lisette used tears to get her way during their marriage? After the abortion she’d tried to soften him by crying and claiming that he’d been spending more time at work than with her, and she’d been afraid he no longer loved her and would not wish to have a baby with her.

Regret crushed his chest in a vise. He had spent more time at work during that final year of his marriage. His father’s latest divorce settlement had forced him to borrow against the estate, and that meant finding new sources of revenue to cover the debt. Franco had not explained that to Lisette which meant if he were to believe her story, he would have to accept part of the blame for the loss of his child. And that was a burden he could not bear.

Much better to remember that Lisette, like his mother, had been selfish. She’d made a decision she had no right to make without his input, and then she’d tried to place the blame on a scapegoat—him. And of course, there had been more to her story, as he’d discovered the day the hospital released her and his replacement had arrived to carry her to her new home.

He slammed the front door. Stacy Reeves was no different from any other woman. He simply hadn’t figured out her strategy yet. But he would. In the meantime, he would make use of her beautiful body and then send her back to her hotel each night until he had his fill of her. And he would sleep alone—as he always did.

“Ohmigod, is that Prince William?” Amelia asked in a hushed voice on Saturday night.

Stacy followed Amelia’s wide-eyed gaze over the glittering guests gathered in La Salle Des Etoiles in the Monte Carlo Sporting Club to the tall blond with an aristocratic nose. Stacy had never been a royal watcher. She probably wouldn’t recognize a prince if he walked up and shook her hand, but that didn’t dilute the excitement of being in the room with the kind of people who graced the pages of the magazines in her former employer’s waiting room.

“It could be. Franco said there would be royalty here.” In the minutes since they’d climbed from the limo and made their way inside Stacy had spotted at least a dozen American movie stars, two rock idols and a late-night talk-show host. She was so far out of her element it wasn’t even funny.

“You want to tell me how you scored tickets for Le Bal de L’Eté?” asked Candace, looking stunning in a platinum satin dress. Vincent hadn’t been able to get away from the job site to join them, but Candace had handled her disappointment well. “Vincent said they’re almost impossible to get unless you’re famous or one of the super-rich upper class.”

Stacy glanced at her suitemates, each wearing an evening gown Franco had purchased. He’d given Stacy the name of an elite shop on Avenue des Beaux Arts and told her the proprietress would take care of them. “You’ll have to ask Franco.”

Amelia fidgeted beside her in pale-yellow tulle. “So is it getting serious between you two? Because from where I stand he’s looking a lot like Prince Charming and the Fairy Godfather rolled into one very attractive package.”

Stacy stroked her hand over the delicate floral beading on her turquoise dress and searched for an answer that wouldn’t shock her friends. Telling them the driver had picked her up Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings and delivered her to Franco’s villa for sex and dinner probably wasn’t the best response. Just thinking about those nights made her tingle.

But Franco had been out of town since Thursday morning, and her body, which had happily gone without sex for so many years, was having withdrawals. And withdrawal is all it is, she assured herself. Just because he’d shown her facets of her sexuality that she’d never known existed didn’t mean she was developing an emotional attachment to him. She hadn’t missed him or anything mushy like that. Besides, his absence had allowed her to spend time with her suitemates.

She was actually beginning to feel like one of the group instead of an outsider. The bonds of friendship were forming, and tonight while they’d fussed over each other’s clothes, hair and makeup in preparation for the ball she’d had a hint of what it might have been like to have sisters. But she wasn’t comfortable enough yet to tell her suitemates the unvarnished truth. “Not serious, no. I’m just having a holiday romance as Madeline suggested.”

“Are you sure it’s not more than that?” Candace asked. “You certainly jumped on that gown the moment the shop owner told you Franco had suggested she help you choose something the color of your eyes.”

Heat rushed to Stacy’s cheeks. So she wanted to look attractive for him. What was wrong with that? She was beginning to realize he wasn’t an arrogant ass even though he did a good imitation of one quite often by pulling away immediately after making love—having sex. But if he were truly a jerk he never would have had her watch repaired or treated her friends to this Cinderella evening. He’d shown his generosity in a dozen other ways outside of bed, like the museum and theater tickets that had been delivered to their suite Thursday morning, the basket of chocolates yesterday and the flowers today. He was showering her with gifts her friends could share—gifts she couldn’t refuse without depriving her suitemates.

She shrugged. “He’s paying for my gown. He ought to have some say about it.”

“Uh-huh,” Madeline said, her disbelief clear. She’d chosen a drop-dead-sexy black dress guaranteed to make heads turn, but Madeline seemed to be searching for someone in particular and was unaware of the attention her dress garnered. “Don’t get your heart involved, Stace. Remember, we go home in two weeks.”

Stacy nodded. How could she forget that in a matter of days she’d either leave Franco and the most sensual period of her life behind or discover she’d repeated her mother’s mistake? The first filled her with regret, the second with stomach-twisting apprehension. She forced a smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

She scanned the crowd searching for Franco. He was supposed to meet them here tonight, but they were a little late arriving. Her gaze collided with his across the room and her stomach took a nose-dive to her sandals. He turned and spoke to the group he was with and then headed in her direction. Her pulse skipped erratically and her mouth dried.

He looked amazing in a tuxedo. Rich. Powerful. Sexier than any man in the room. And hers. For now. The thought filled her with pride …and doubts. Why her when, judging by the heads turning in his wake, he could have any of these more sophisticated women?

Desire flared in his eyes as he climbed the shallow stairs. His gaze lingered on her décolletage before gliding to her toes and back to her face, and then he took her hand in his and bent to brush his lips over her knuckles. He straightened and looked into her eyes. “Tu es magnifique, mon gardénia.”

Before she could find her voice he turned toward her companions and bowed slightly without releasing her hand. “Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles. Vous êtes très belle ce soir. As before, the limo is at your disposal. You will forgive me if I steal Stacy for a dance.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, but tucked her hand in his arm and led her away. Stacy glanced over her shoulder at the women who offered her a trio of grins and thumbs-up.

On the dance floor Franco pulled her into his arms, leaving her with the sensation of being swept off her feet and into another world—a world in which she wasn’t a lonely, staid and unemployed accountant. For a few moments she could pretend to be one of the beautiful, glamorous people who attended exclusive balls, traveled by limousine, rubbed elbows with royalty and captivated a millionaire.

But this wasn’t real. She had to remember that.

She laced her fingers at Franco’s nape, relishing his slight shudder when she inadvertently teased the sensitive skin with her nails. Each night he’d taught her something new about giving pleasure as well as receiving it. She loved knowing she had the power to make him tremble with desire, but the downside of learning her strength was that her fear of letting anyone get too close faded more with each intimate encounter. Keeping her walls strong wasn’t as easy as before—especially when his touch made her feel so alive.

The muscular length of his thighs and torso brushed hers as he swayed to the music. He nuzzled her temple and inhaled deeply, his chest rising to tease her breasts through the thin fabric of her gown. “J’ai manqué ton parfum.”

She tilted her head back and studied him through her lashes. His passion-darkened eyes cut short any attempt at translating his words. Her skin prickled with awareness and desire smoldered within her. Only inches separated their mouths and the urge to rise on her toes and kiss him tugged at her, but this was his turf, not hers. She didn’t know the rules here and until now had never been tempted to make a public display.

“What did you say?”

His lips thinned, as if he regretted speaking. Finally he said, “I have missed your scent.”

Her heart stalled and her breath caught. “Me too—yours.”

A muscle in his jaw bunched. His fingers flexed against her hips, urging her closer to his thickening arousal. A corresponding heat pooled low in her abdomen. “We must stay until Vincent arrives and then we go. I want you naked and hungry for me.”

She gasped and jerked in surprise, but Franco held her close. “Vincent’s coming? I should tell Candace. She’ll be thrilled.”

“It is a surprise. He should be here any moment.” He tucked her head beneath his chin. “I must go to Avignon tomorrow. You will accompany me.”

She wanted to see where Franco had grown up, but at the same time, her duty to Candace came first. “I don’t know if I can, Franco.”

“I have paperwork I must peruse. It cannot wait and neither can I.” He smoothed a hand over her bottom. The song ended, but he made no effort to release her or leave the dance floor.

Stacy’s pulse drummed in the silence. She glanced to where she’d left her suitemates, but they weren’t there. “I’ll have to check with Candace.”

“I have already discussed it with Vincent. He has not seen his fiancée for a month, and he assures me he will not let her leave his bed for the next few days.” A flame burned in his eyes. He tightened his arms and melded his hips to hers as the orchestra began another song. “I understand his needs.”

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. Franco wanted her and he made no attempt to hide his desire. What would it be like to have that forever?

Stop it. This isn’t about forever—especially not with a man like him.

She tried to pull back, mentally, physically, but the steel band of Franco’s arms held her captive. His hands and body subtly rubbed and nudged hers. The rich and famous faces around her blurred as she focused on the man who seduced her at every turn. Moisture gathered in her mouth and much lower. Dancing with him was like foreplay. Her arousal grew so intense she was tempted to find a coat closet and drag him inside. Her face burned and she buried her nose against his neck. How had he turned her from a sexually reticent woman into one who craved his touch so badly she was considering public indecency?

What seemed like eons later Franco said, “Vincent is here. Come.”

She glanced toward the entrance and saw a handsome man with brown hair. He resembled the man in the photos she’d seen, and yet Franco led her in the opposite direction. That wasn’t Vincent? But then the man in question turned his head to scan the room and Stacy saw the tight, burned skin on the right side of his face. Definitely Vincent. She caught her breath in sympathy. She couldn’t imagine the pain he’d endured. Candace had told her about the series of surgeries he’d already undergone and those yet to come.

Franco shot her a hard look and his grip on her hand tightened. “His scars repel you?”

“Of course not. Besides, I knew what to expect. Candace showed me a picture. She’s very protective of him.” And from the hard and cool tone of Franco’s voice and the warning glint in his eyes, it seemed as if he might be as well. Loyalty to his friends was yet another interesting facet of Franco’s personality, but reading him was like trying to decipher a foreign language. There were bits she couldn’t understand. “Where are we going?”

“To retrieve his fiancée.” They reached a group of women gathered on the far side of the room. “Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles. I must borrow Candace.”

Candace frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“Non. There is someone you need to see.”

Candace noted Stacy’s hand held tightly in Franco’s and a smile curved her lips. “Having a good night?”

Stacy’s face and neck warmed. “Yes.”

“And it is about to get better,” Franco muttered for Stacy’s ears only, sending a flash fire through her.

He led them toward the entrance and stopped at the bottom of the stairs where Vincent waited with love in his eyes so intense Stacy’s heart stuttered.

Candace spotted him, squealed and launched herself into his arms. Given Stacy’s already erotic thoughts, witnessing their passionate kiss made her squirm and glance at Franco. His thumb stroked over the inside of her wrist and his eyes promised soon. Her pulse tripped.

The couple drew apart, hugged and parted again with blinding smiles. And then Vincent turned to Franco. The men embraced and exchanged a few words too quiet for Stacy to overhear in the noisy ballroom. The genuine affection between them surprised Stacy. To date, Franco had seemed somewhat aloof except when in seduction mode.

When they parted, Candace dragged Stacy forward. “Stacy, this is Vincent. Vincent, Stacy.”

Vincent extended his hand. Ignoring the scars, Stacy shook it. From Candace she knew he’d come a long way in his recovery, but other people’s squeamishness sometimes bothered him. “It’s good to meet you, Stacy.”

“You too, Vincent. And thank you for this once-in-a-lifetime vacation.”

“You’re welcome. Anything that keeps Candace from overdoing it with the wedding plans works for me.” Vincent encircled Candace’s waist and spread his left hand possessively over her still flat belly. The couple exchanged another intimate, love-laden glance.

What would it be like to have a man look at her that way?

The rogue thought staggered Stacy. Suddenly it hit her that she would never experience the bond that Candace and Vincent shared. Until now that hadn’t concerned her. In fact, being alone and safe was a path she’d deliberately chosen, but now the solitary life she’d planned yawned ahead like a barren stretch of desert road.

Because of her bargain with Franco she’d soon have a home. But it would be empty.

She’d never fall in love.

Never experience the hope, joy and anticipation of having a child with someone she loved—all of the emotions written clearly on Candace’s face.

Stacy would live alone. Die alone. And the world would be no different because of her time in it.

Sadness settled over her like a cold, wet blanket. Every lesson she’d learned to this point had made her afraid to let anyone get too close. But she’d found the courage to make friends. Could she also find the courage to allow a man into her life and into her heart?

Not a powerbroker like Franco. But maybe someone tamer. Someone less wealthy. Someone she could trust.

If such a man even existed.

Eight

Stacy had shared intimacies with Franco that made her blush, and yet she still knew very little about him beyond the physical. She hoped a night in his family home would fill in a few of the blanks.

“Do you always buy your women?” she asked to fill the silence during the hours-long Sunday-afternoon car ride to Avignon.

Franco’s jaw hardened and he shot her a chilly glance. “I have never offered a woman money for sex before you.”

If that was supposed to make her feel special, it failed. “Good, because it seems a little like … prostitution.”

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