Monte Carlo Affairs
Shakily, Stacy crossed to the railing. Not because she wanted to see the whirlpool below and visualize the decadent scene Franco had planted in her head. No, definitely not that. She looked because the view of Monte Carlo and Larvotto Beach from Franco’s patio was more beautiful than any of the postcards she’d bought as souvenirs of her trip.
To her right a stone staircase wound down to the lower level of the terraced yard. Trees and flowers dappled the lush slope of green grass with shadows and brilliant splashes of color. And fight as she might, Stacy couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping to the exposed half of the spa.
Why not? You want to.
She’d have to be crazy to risk it. From what she’d seen of his home Franco had to be ten times wealthier than she’d suspected. And ten times sexier. He arouses you with nothing more than words. Why not give those big hands a try? It’s not like you’re ever going to let yourself fall in love with anyone. So why hold out?
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Candace interrupted Stacy’s illicit thoughts. “I can’t imagine living like this.”
Stacy pushed aside the tantalizing images. “Neither can I. It must be a real power rush to have enough money to buy whatever you want. We should find a shady spot to sit and wait for Franco.”
“He knows about the baby, doesn’t he? Did you tell him?” Candace asked as they strolled toward the shady covered loggia.
“Yes, he knows. Vincent told him.”
“I should have guessed Vincent would. He’s very protective, and he would trust Franco not to betray our little secret.” Candace plopped onto a rattan lounge chair covered by a deep white cushion, lay back and closed her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be great to live in paradise like this only two doors apart?”
Stacy chose a chair. She couldn’t relax in Franco’s home—not with him stalking her like a predatory beast. And then Candace’s meaning sank in. “There’s nothing like that between Franco and me.”
“Oh please. He undresses you with his eyes whenever he thinks I’m not looking. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
Stacy had noticed, and she was ashamed to admit the desire simmering in Franco’s gaze sent a reciprocal surge through her. At least she assumed that achy, itchy tension was desire. No one had ever made her feel as attractive or feminine in her life, and she’d certainly never looked at a man and wondered how his hands would feel on her body. What would it be like to experience that kind of passion? Did she dare risk it?
“Sex is all he wants.”
“Honey, that’s all any man wants at first.” Candace yawned.
“True. But I’m not looking for a husband.”
“Then why not do as Madeline suggested and enjoy what Franco’s offering? Other than Vincent, Franco is unquestionably the sexiest man I’ve ever met. My God, his accent just melts me, and you have to admit he’s not hard on the eyes. You’ll never get a chance to live like this again. I confess I’m thoroughly enjoying the five-star treatment. But I wish Vincent was here.”
Stacy wanted to tell Candace about Franco’s insulting proposition, but she didn’t dare because telling her friend meant confessing how tempting Stacy found the offer. “Doesn’t Vincent’s wealth ever … concern you?”
Candace rolled to her side and met Stacy’s gaze. “You mean do I worry that he’ll use his money and influence to hurt me? No, I don’t. I trust Vincent. Stacy, you haven’t said much about your past, but from the bits you’ve let slip I’m guessing some rich guy did a number on you. Whoever he was, you can’t let him screw up the rest of your life. Not all rich men are jerks. And you know, I don’t think you’ve dated or gotten laid since I met you. Aren’t you overdue?”
“I’ve dated.” Twice, in three years. Pitiful. But sex? No. She needed more than a couple of dates to let her guard down with someone. If she ever could. And now that she thought about it, she probably never had, which was very likely the reason her last brief relationship had ended.
“Stacy, you’ve heard my sob story about the visiting surgeon who wooed me, bedded me and then returned home to the wife and kids I didn’t know he had. Loving and losing that jerk burned me, but then I met Vincent and realized that sometimes you have to trust your heart and move on or be stuck in the past forever.” Candace yawned again. “Do you mind if I close my eyes until Franco gets back?”
“No, go ahead.” Questions and doubts tumbled through Stacy’s mind. Was she stuck in the past? Had she given her father and that one tragic night too much power over her life? Or was she merely being prudent? If she didn’t face her fears would she continue running from them indefinitely? Running, the way she and her mother had done for eleven years of Stacy’s life. After losing her mother, Stacy had sworn she’d stop running and put down roots.
Roots a million euros could buy.
She stared at the pool and the water pouring over the ledge. She’d said no to Franco’s proposition and she’d meant it. Deep in her heart she knew sleeping with him for the money was the wrong thing to do, but her practical side couldn’t completely dismiss the idea of a lifetime of financial security in return for a month of intimacy with a man she desired like no other.
The mental debate circled her thoughts like an annoying, persistent mosquito no matter how often she swatted it away. Was Franco’s offer too good to be true or was this an opportunity to put her past to bed and secure her future?
Trusting him when she barely knew him went against everything her mother had taught her about being wary of strangers. If only she had more time to discover whether power and money had corrupted Franco, but he’d given her only twenty-four hours to make a life-altering decision. Half of those hours had already passed.
The rattle of crockery drew her gaze to Franco crossing the terrace with a tray in his hands. His biceps bulged under the weight. He paused, his gaze landing on Candace. “She sleeps?”
Candace didn’t stir. Stacy shrugged. “I guess so.”
He nodded toward the house, turned and retraced his path. Stacy hesitated, but then rose and followed. Franco’s kitchen was a combination of old-world charm and modern convenience—a cook’s dream of dark cabinetry, glossy countertops and top-of-the-line appliances. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. He set the tray on the table. “You did not eat breakfast. You must be hungry.”
She studied the array of fruits, cheeses and chocolates. He also had a coffee carafe, a pitcher of orange juice and a couple of bottles of sparkling water. “Your housekeeper did this?”
“You think I am not capable of feeding my guests?”
“I don’t know you well enough to know what to think.” And therein lay the crux of her dilemma. Part of her wanted to explore the way he made her feel and part of her wanted to play it safe.
“My housekeeper comes twice a week. The rest of the time I fend for myself. Eat, please. Or would you prefer I feed you?” He lifted a candy. “These are the chocolate-covered cherries you enjoyed the day we met. I would like to taste it on your tongue.”
Her breath snagged. She staggered back a step, but that wasn’t nearly far enough. She needed a break from his overwhelming charisma because she was perilously close to caving. “I need the restroom.”
“Bien sûr. This way.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth and led her down a hall, through a set of arched double doors, and he then stepped aside and gestured to another door. “C’est là.”
Stacy stood frozen in what could only be Franco’s bedroom. A huge wooden bed covered in a red-and-gold nubby silk spread dominated the otherwise black-and-white space. “You, uh … don’t have a guest bathroom?”
“Of course, but I wanted to see you in my bedroom, and I wanted you, mon gardénia, to imagine yourself in my bed and in my bath with my hands and my mouth on your skin. As I have done.”
The tantalizing vision exploded in her mind in vivid Technicolor, and a fine tremor rippled over her. Her heart hammered and her mouth dried.
Franco didn’t attempt to touch her or coerce her by using the desire clearly visible in his blue eyes. He’d simply stated his wishes and left the rest to her.
One step and she’d have financial security for life and a lover who might possibly make sex enjoyable rather than endurable. And when she left there’d be an ocean between them.
She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
Play it safe? Or risk it all?
Four
“Okay. You win, Franco. I’ll be your mistress for a month. But I have conditions,” Stacy added before Franco could speak. She dodged when he reached for her. There was no way she could think with his hands on her.
Cynicism replaced the triumphant spark in his eyes. He leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms over his broad chest. Cocky. Arrogant. Male. “And they are?”
She had to be insane to agree to this, but if she hoped to survive it then she had to maintain some control and keep the affair on a business footing. What she needed were boundaries and rules. Safeguards. With her heart racing, she dampened her lips.
“I don’t want Candace, Amelia and Madeline to know about the money.” Or any chance of friendship would be destroyed. She wasn’t even sure she could respect herself once this was over. She hadn’t had to go hungry or bail on a landlord in the middle of the night since her mother’s death, but the memories of the hunger pains and furtive escapes of her childhood lingered. And then there was her current employment—unemployment—status to deal with once she returned home. She’d had excellent reviews at work, but still, the job market was tight and hers wasn’t the only company downsizing. Add in a dwindling saving account and …
Focus on the future. With careful investing you’ll never be poor or homeless again.
He inclined his head. “Anything else?”
“I won’t spend the night.” Call her crazy, but she didn’t want to let her guard down enough to literally sleep with him.
A single dark eyebrow lifted. “Non?”
“No. My duty is first and foremost to Candace. We begin most days going over the wedding planning stuff. My time with you can’t interfere with that.”
“I shall return you to the hotel before your morning meetings.”
Suddenly, she felt dirty. “When and how will I get paid?”
His nostrils flared and his generous lips thinned. “Your bridesmaid duties will end when Vincent and Candace depart on their honeymoon trip following the reception. You are scheduled to leave Monaco the next day, oui?”
“Oui. I mean, yes.”
“You will spend your last night in Monaco with me. The entire night, Stacy.” It was an order not a question. “In the morning I will give you a cashier’s check and drive you to the airport, but should you not fulfill any part of our agreement, then no money.”
Her breath hitched and her pulse thumped as loudly as the helicopter taxi they’d taken to Monaco from the Nice-Côte d’Azur airport. “And if you decide to end it early?”
A muscle in his jaw bunched and then his lips curled in a slow, devastatingly sexy smile. “I assure you I never finish anything prematurely.”
It took a second for his meaning to sink in and when it did her cheeks caught fire. “But if you do?”
“You will be paid.”
“Okay.” Now what? Did they shake hands over the deal or—
Franco captured her elbows and tugged her forward. His mouth slanted over hers in a hard kiss as if she’d angered him. Stacy stiffened as second, third and fourth thoughts descended like an avalanche. She was on the verge of pulling away and cancelling their arrangement when his lips softened and parted. The fingers grasping her arms loosened and swept up to sift through her hair and cradle her head in his hands.
His mouth lifted, realigned and returned, seducing a response from her with long, luxurious turn-her-muscles-to-mush kisses. She tasted a hint of dark chocolate on his tongue. Chocolate and Franco, a hot and heady combination. His hands painted warm stripes down her back, over her hips and then around to her waist, before rising until his thumbs rested just below her bra.
Her breasts ached in anticipation of his touch, and desire simmered inside her. She couldn’t believe her body could respond with such abandon when she knew Franco was using her. She’d been used before. But she wasn’t a lonely seventeen-year-old trying to fit in at her third high school anymore. She wouldn’t expect love or forever this time, so she wouldn’t be hurt.
“Hey guys, where’d you go?” Candace’s voice called out from somewhere in the house.
Franco slowly lifted his head, his lips clinging to Stacy’s for several heartbeats. His passion-darkened gaze speared hers. “Tonight we begin.”
She couldn’t find her voice, but she managed a stiff nod.
Dear God, what had she done?
She’d agreed to trade sex for security. She couldn’t help feeling she’d sold her soul to the devil, and she hoped she didn’t live to regret it.
Anticipation made Franco edgy. He hated it. He was, after all, a man of thirty-eight and not a boy of eighteen. His hormones did not seem to know the difference tonight.
Impatience urged him to take Stacy directly to his bedroom, to strip away her modest black dress and cover her ivory skin with his hands and mouth, but her pale, anxious expression cooled his ardor. Standing in his foyer, she looked torn between running back into the night and fulfilling her end of the bargain no matter how unpleasant.
Where was the passionate but reserved woman he’d left at the hotel mere hours ago? The one who’d kissed him with such fervor this morning that only her friend’s untimely interruption had prevented him from consummating their agreement against his bedroom door? He wanted that passionate woman back. And he would have her. Stacy would be warm and pliant in his arms and his bed before the night ended. And he would win. The woman. And the contest with his father.
He pitched his keys onto the credenza, halted behind her and curved his hands over her shoulders. She startled. “May I take your wrap?”
“Oh, um, yes, sure.” She darted a quick, nervous glance at him and tension tightened inside him as an unacceptable thought pierced his conscience.
“Stacy, are you a virgin?” He’d had lovers, dozens of them, but no virgins. Experienced women understood that all he wanted was the transitory pleasure of their bodies. An innocent might expect more.
Color rushed to her cheeks and she ducked her chin. “No. But I …this …is new to me. I don’t know where to begin.”
His clenched muscles loosened. Nerves he could handle. Regrets and crying, he could not. He had intended to satisfy his hunger for Stacy first tonight and then his less demanding appetite for dinner afterward, but perhaps he would alter his strategy. Dinner first. Pleasure later. Anticipation would only heighten the senses. “Leave that to me.”
Franco stroked the lace down her arms, caught her elbows and pulled her back against his front. Her bottom nudged his thighs. The urge to thrust his growing arousal against her gnawed at him, but he would coax Stacy until she was breathless and eager for his possession, as she had been earlier. He nuzzled through her silky hair and sipped from the warm, fragrant juncture of her neck and shoulder. She shivered.
Bien, the responsive woman still lurked beneath her pale and tense exterior. He encircled her with his arms and spread his palms over the slight curve of her abdomen. “I will ensure your pleasure tonight, mon gardénia.”
A little hic of breath lifted her breasts, and though he wanted to cup her soft flesh in his hands and stroke his thumbs over the tips pushing against the fabric of her dress, he could wait. But not long.
“We will dine on the terrace.” He released her and led her through the living room, draping her wrap over the back of a chair as they passed. On the patio he seated her, lit the candles he’d placed in the center of the table and then poured the cabernet franc. After removing the lid covering the crudités and setting it aside, he sat and lifted his glass. “À nous et aux plaisirs de la nuit.”
She made a choked sound. “I’m sorry?”
“To us and the pleasures of the night,” he translated.
“That’s what I thought you said,” she muttered into the bowl of her glass and took a healthy sip of wine.
He removed a small box from his suit pocket and placed it on the table in front of her. He had planned to give her this after savoring her delicious body, but why wait? Stacy needed coaxing, and in his experience jewelry always made women more amenable. “For you.”
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.