Monte Carlo Affairs

What happened to maintaining a clear head and control?

He murmured something in French, something she couldn’t translate, and then his fingers caught the hem of her camisole and whisked it over her head.

“Turn around,” he ordered in a deep, velvety voice.

She pivoted on trembling legs. The sharp rasp of his indrawn breath filled her ears. He lifted a hand to outline the top of her demi-bra with a fingertip. Her nipples tightened and need twisted inside her as he retraced his path, this time delving below the lace and over her sensitive skin. How could he make her want like this?

“Take it off.”

Stacy reached behind her, unhooked the bra and shrugged out of it. Franco’s approving gaze caressed her breasts and then dropped to the tiny teal thong.

“And the rest.”

She shoved the lingerie down her legs wondering why she had not once considered saying no. And then she straightened. Franco tipped his head to indicate the spa. Stacy descended the whirlpool steps. The hot water swirled around her ankles, her calves, and once she reached the center of the small pool, her thighs. Franco joined her, reclined on the bench seat and extended his hand.

“Turn around.”

She did and then he pulled her into his lap and flattened her back against his chest with his erection sandwiched in the crease of her buttocks. The water swirled between her legs and lapped at her breasts, but then Franco’s caressing hands replaced it, massaging, tweaking, sweeping her up in a whirlpool of desire.

She let him have his way. He’d bought her, bought the right to use her any way he wanted. And she had to remember that, but it was hard to keep up the mental barriers when he touched her like this. Sure, he’d promised her pleasure, but did she really deserve it?

His teeth grazed the tendons of her neck. She shivered and tilted her head to give him better access. He stroked her breasts, her abdomen, her legs, nearing but never quite reaching the place where she needed his touch the most. She squirmed in his lap and bit back a frustrated whimper. He stood abruptly, lifting her with him, sat her on the cool tile edge of the whirlpool and then knelt between her legs.

Next time I will taste you, he’d said.

“Wait—” The touch of his tongue cut off her shocked protest with an intense burst of sensation. No man had ever licked her there. Franco laved and suckled, taking her to the brink again and again, but each time she thought she’d shatter he’d stop to kiss her thigh, nibble her hip bone or tongue her navel. Frustration built until she unclenched her fingers from the rim of the tub and tangled them in his hair to hold him in place.

He grunted a satisfied sound against her and then found the heart of her again with his silken tongue. Seconds later climax undulated through her. Her cries echoed off the stone walls and her muscles contracted over and over, squeezing every last drop of energy from her until she sagged against Franco’s bent head and braced her arms on his broad shoulders.

He straightened, reached behind her for a condom packet she hadn’t even noticed and quickly readied himself. Cupping her bottom, he pulled her to the edge of the spa and plunged deep inside her, forcing another lusty cry from her lungs. She shoved her fist against her mouth.

Franco pulled her hand away. “I want to hear the sound of your passion. Better yet, I want to taste your cries on my tongue.”

He covered her mouth with his.

She ought to be ashamed of herself, Stacy thought as she clung to him and arched to meet his thrusts, but she couldn’t seem to rally the emotion with Franco pistoning into her core and bringing her to the brink of another climax. She yanked her mouth free and gasped for breath as her muscles tensed and she came again, this time calling out his name.

Franco plunged harder, deeper and faster until he roared in release, and then all was silent except for the rush of the water and their panting breaths.

He held her, or maybe she held him, as he sank back into the hot water, taking her boneless body with him. She drifted above him. The current swirled over her sensitized skin, teasing, tantalizing, slowing her return to sanity. Without Franco’s arms to anchor her, she’d float away like a cork on the tide. She trusted him to keep her head above water.

Trust. The thought jarred her into planting her knees on the bottom of the tub on either side of Franco’s hips and pushing him away so abruptly that she almost dunked him. How could she trust him? He was everything she’d sworn to avoid, but avoiding him was becoming the last thing she wanted to do.

To protect herself she’d have to learn everything she could about him. Did he have a temper? Any obsessions?

She’d learn—even if learning meant letting her guard down enough to spend the night.

“I’ll call a taxi for you.” Franco disentangled their bodies and stood. He stepped over the low wall separating the indoor and outdoor halves of the spa and ducked beneath the waterfall. The cooler water from the pool sheeted down on his head and splashed over Stacy’s skin. Seconds later he climbed from the whirlpool.

Stacy rose on legs so rubbery it was a miracle they supported her, and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Candace said there’s nothing on the agenda for tomorrow—today. I—I can stay.”

Muscles rippling beneath his wet skin, he disappeared into an adjoining room without responding and returned moments later with a black towel around his hips and another in his fist. When she didn’t take it from his outstretched arm he dropped it beside the spa. “I have other plans for the weekend.”

Plans? With another woman? Stacy didn’t care to identify the uncomfortable emotions stirring inside her. She had no claim on Franco’s time. In fact, she should be glad he wanted to spend it elsewhere. But strangely, she wasn’t.

“There is a change of clothing for you in the bathroom.” A tilt of his head indicated the room he’d just vacated. He flicked a series of switches. The wall slid closed, the whirlpool stilled and silence and darkness descended on the room. Then overhead lights flashed on leaving Stacy feeling naked and exposed under his thorough perusal. Her damp skin quickly chilled.

“You may shower, if you like, and then join me upstairs.” He gathered his discarded garments and left.

Dismissed. He’d had his way with her and now he was done. How could he be so conscientious of her satisfaction one moment and then such a cold bastard the next? Shame crept over her.

What are you doing? Falling for the first guy to give you an orgasm? So he’s a good lover. He bought you. Just because he’s doing favors for Vincent and he watched out for your friends at the club doesn’t make him a nice guy.

And he has plans. Plans that don’t include you.

Irritated with herself, Stacy climbed from the water, dried off and wound the towel around her nakedness. She grabbed her shoes and clothing from the weight bench and let curiosity lead her into a humongous tiled bathroom. A large glass shower stall took up one corner and a wooden sauna occupied the other. And was that a massage table? Did Franco have a personal masseuse?

A V-neck sundress in a muted floral print of blues and greens and a matching lightweight sweater hung in an open closet beside a white toweling robe. She ran her fingers over the dress’s flirty ruffled hem. Silk, whereas her dresses were cotton. Designer instead of department store. Other than the sexy but impractical sandals in a box on the floor of the closet, the outfit was exactly the style she would have chosen for herself if she had an unlimited budget. Which, of course, she’d never had.

The dress tempted her, but she didn’t want anything else from Franco, nor did she want to explain to her suitemates why he kept buying her presents.

Her reflection in the long mirror caught her eye. Ugh. Her makeup was ninety percent gone and her hair clumped in wet tangles over her shoulders. She dumped her clothes on the counter, washed her face in the sink and then finger-combed her hair as best as she could. She unhooked the diamond bracelet and left it on the long marble vanity and froze. Her heart stalled. Her watch. She hadn’t removed it. Panic dried her mouth. Where had she misplaced it?

She backtracked, but didn’t see it on the bottom of the spa or anywhere around the weight bench. It hadn’t been expensive, but its value couldn’t be measured in dollars. She remembered putting it on tonight. Wherever it was, she had to find it.

Maybe Franco could help. She returned to the bathroom and quickly yanked on her dancing outfit. The cool, sweat-dampened fabric made her grimace. After smoothing the wrinkles with her hands, she followed the direction Franco had taken earlier. The stairs led to a hallway, and while she would have preferred to explore this end of the house and perhaps learn more about Franco, she tracked his voice to the living room. With his back to her, he swore, dropped the phone on the cradle and shoved his hands through his damp dark hair.

“Is something wrong?”

He turned, his gaze narrowing over her choice of clothing. He’d changed into jeans and a black polo shirt. “The taxi is unavailable for an hour. I will drive you back to the hotel. Why are you not wearing the dress?”

“I told you. You don’t have to keep buying me gifts. I accepted this one because I didn’t have anything suitable to wear tonight, but otherwise …” She shrugged. “I don’t need anything.”

His lips compressed and a muscle in his jaw jumped. “And the bracelet?”

“I left it downstairs on the counter. It’s beautiful, but not practical for an accountant. If I wore it to work people would wonder if I’d been embezzling from their accounts, and I never go anywhere dressy enough to need something like that.”

Surprise flicked in his eyes. “You will continue to work when you return home?”

“Of course.” As soon as she found another job. “Once I pay taxes on the money and buy a house there won’t be enough left to live a life of idle luxury.”

“Taxes? And what job will you list as a source for your income?”

Good question. She twisted the thin gold strap of her evening bag. “I haven’t figured that out yet, but suddenly opening a bank account with more than a million dollars would red-flag the IRS. And I’m not stupid enough to keep that much cash lying around my apartment.”

“Why not use an offshore bank?”

“Too cloak-and-dagger. I’d feel like a money launderer. Besides, not reporting the income would be illegal.” Did he think she was crazy not to hide the money? She couldn’t tell from his neutral expression. “Franco, I lost my watch. I didn’t see it downstairs. Could you give me the number for the limo service, the taxi and Jimmy’z? I’ll call to see if anyone found it. It wasn’t expensive, but it was … my favorite. I need to find it.”

“I will make the calls.”

“Thank you.” She agreed because the language barrier might be an issue, but then shifted in her sandals, reluctant for some stupid reason to see the night end. “I enjoyed tonight.”

He folded his arms and leaned his hips against the back of the sofa. “You sound surprised.”

She rubbed her bare wrist and wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a clubbing kind of person.”

He studied her so intently her toes curled in her shoes, and then he reached behind him and lifted a small plastic shopping bag. “This is one gift I insist you accept. A cell phone. My numbers are already programmed into it.”

She’d be at his beck and call. But that’s what he’d bought. And the phone might come in handy when she needed to reach Candace or if one of the women needed to reach her. “Am I allowed to use it to call anyone else?”

“Not your lover in the States,” he replied swiftly.

She took the bag from him and peeked inside to see a top-of-the-line silvery-green picture phone. “I meant Candace, Madeline or Amelia. I don’t have a lover back home. If I did, I wouldn’t be involved with you.”

Again he looked as if he didn’t believe what she said—a circumstance she was beginning to get used to. He pushed off the sofa. “Come.”

She followed him outside and slid into the passenger seat of his car and waited until he climbed in beside her. “Why did you choose MIT?”

He didn’t answer until he’d buckled his seat belt and started the engine. “They have an excellent Global Leadership program.”

“Couldn’t you get that at a university closer to home?”

He pulled onto the road and drove perhaps a half mile before replying. “My mother was from Boston and I was curious about her city.”

Stacy jerked in surprise. “An American?”

Another long pause suggested he didn’t want to share personal info. “Second-generation. She met my father while visiting her cousin in Avignon.”

The lights of Monaco sparkled across the mountainside in the pre-dawn hour. Stacy didn’t think she’d ever tire of the view, but the insights into Franco fascinated her more. “Are you close to her? Your mom, I mean.”

“She died when I was three,” the brusque response seemed grudgingly offered.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a parent.” She still missed hers, and now that she knew why she and her mother had lived such a vagabond life, she could even accept, respect and forgive her mother’s choices.

A streetlight briefly illuminated his tense face. “Yours?”

A gruesome graphic image flashed through Stacy’s mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced it away. “She … died when I was nineteen.”

“And she left you enough money to attend college?”

“No. I co-oped.”

“What is that?”

“I worked part-time in my field with sponsoring companies and that meant I had to take a lighter load of classes. It took six years of going to school year-round, but I finished.”

“Vincent did not tell me that.”

“You asked Vincent about me? What did he say?”

“That he had not met you, but that you had … how did he put it? You saved Candace’s bacon in a tax audit.”

Stacy laughed and Franco’s gaze whipped in her direction. He acted as if he’d never heard her laugh. Come to think of it, he probably hadn’t. “Candace’s was my first audit, and I went a little overboard in her defense. I think the IRS agent was glad to get rid of us by the time I finished pointing out all the deductions Candace could have taken but hadn’t.”

Franco pulled the car into the hotel parking area, but not into the valet lane and stopped. He turned in his seat and studied her face in the dim light. “You enjoy your work.”

“I love—um, my job.” She’d barely caught herself before using past tense. Being laid off had been like moving to a new school and being rejected all over again. It had hurt—especially since she hadn’t done anything wrong. “Numbers make sense. People often don’t.”

He pinned her with another one of his intense inspections that made her want to squirm. “I will be out of town this weekend. A car will pick you up at quarter to six Monday evening and deliver you to my house. My housekeeper will let you in before she leaves. Wait for me. We will have dinner.”

And then sex? Her shameless pulse quickened. “I look forward to it.”

And the sad thing was, that wasn’t a lie, and Monday seemed a very long way away.

Seven

“I have found her,” Franco said upon entering the chateau’s study.

His father looked up sharply, set his book aside and rose from the sofa to embrace him. “Franco, I was not expecting you this weekend. If you had called I could have delayed lunch.”

He hadn’t known he was coming. This morning’s urge to put some distance between him and Stacy had been both sudden and imperative. She had clouded his thinking with incredible sex and contradictory behavior. He needed distance and objectivity to decipher her actions.

“No problem. I will raid the kitchen later. Where is Angeline?”

“Shopping in Marseille.”

Ah, yes. Exactly why he was here. To remind himself that a mercenary, self-indulgent heart beat at the core of every woman.

Take his mother, for example. Although his father had never spoken a negative word against her, Franco had been curious enough about the woman who had given birth to him to investigate her death. During one of his university vacations he had researched the police reports and the newspaper stories and discovered that his mother had enjoyed her status as a rich, older man’s wife. She had often attended weekend house parties without her husband, and there she’d indulged. In booze. In cocaine. And who knew what else? At one such party, a chemical overdose had killed her at age twenty-six.

His father passed him a glass of wine. “So tell me about this young lady.”

“She is an American accountant, a friend of Vincent’s fiancée, and she claims she counsels troubled teens in her spare time.”

“And?”

“I offered her a million euros to be my mistress for a month. She accepted.” But she would not accept all his gifts. That did not make sense. Her honesty had to be a ruse. Who would report a million euros windfall to the tax man and forfeit almost half in taxes?

“She is attractive? Desirable?”

An image of Stacy rising like Venus from the churning waters of the spa flashed in his mind. Droplets had streamed down her ivory skin, clung to her puckered nipples and glistened in the dark curls concealing her sex. Before he had removed the first condom he had been ready to reach for a second. He’d had to dunk beneath the cooling waterfall to regain control. “That was our agreement.”

“And yet you’re here and she’s … where?”

“Monaco. Vincent is pampering his bride-to-be and her attendants with an all-expenses-paid month at Hôtel Reynard while they plan the wedding. Stacy is a bridesmaid.”

“Ah, yes. Vincent is another one making his papa wait for grandbabies. Has he recovered from the accident?”

Vincent had come home with Franco several times during school vacations. Franco had also visited the Reynard home in Boca Raton, Florida. It had been Vincent who had suggested Franco relocate to Monaco for the tax advantages the principality could offer Midas Chocolates. “He is completely mobile now, and through surgeries and physical therapy, has regained 80 percent use of his right hand.”

“And his fiancée does not mind the scars or the handicap?”

“She was his nurse in the burn unit. She has seen him look worse.” And she had stood by him. Probably because Reynard Hotels was a multi-billion dollar corporation with ninety luxury hotels spread across the globe.

“I look forward to seeing him again and to meeting his bride. I also want to meet your …Stacy, you said? You’ll bring her here.”

The idea repulsed him. “I do not see the need.”

“I do. And is she the kind of woman you would be willing to marry if she refused the money?”

Franco cursed the wording of his agreement with his father, but it would not become an issue. “It will not happen. She has already accepted.”

“You seem very certain of that.”

“I am.”

“When is the money to be paid?”

“The day after Vincent’s wedding.”

His father turned away, but not before Franco caught a glimpse of a smile. “Just remember our agreement, son.”

“How could I forget?”

How indeed? When he returned to Monaco, he would show Stacy the benefits of being a rich man’s plaything. Before long she would greedily beg for his gifts instead of refusing them.

And then she would take the money and run.

Alone in Franco’s house.

Stacy stood in the foyer after the housekeeper left. Uncertain. Uncomfortable. Undecided. She could be a polite guest and wait in the living room as directed or she could search for signs of obsession. Being a snoop wasn’t honorable, but after what she’d learned about her father … She shuddered.

Knowledge was power and she needed all the knowledge she could get about Franco Constantine. Her safety depended on it.

She turned down the hall toward the master-bedroom wing. A twinge of guilt made her pause on the threshold, but she took a deep breath and marched in. The furniture surfaces were clear of clutter. No photographs or knickknacks gave a clue to the room’s owner other than big, bold wooden furniture and luxurious linens. The classic landscapes on the wall also revealed little. She would not stoop to pawing through his drawers.

The view of Larvotto through the open drapes lured her, but she ignored it and cautiously opened a door to reveal a closet as large as her apartment bedroom. It looked like a GQ man’s dream with clothing and shoes neatly aligned on the racks and shelves. There was no sign of a woman anywhere … except for the dress Stacy had left behind the other night hanging alone on an otherwise empty rod with the shoebox beneath it.

She closed the door, returned to the foyer and looked out the window, but there was no sign of Franco’s car. The opposite hallway beckoned. Just past the stairs to the basement she found an open door and looked inside. Franco’s study. A large dark-wooden desk dominated the space and tall bookshelves lined the walls on either side of the double French doors opening onto the back patio.

A pair of photographs on one shelf drew her across the room. She lifted one of Franco and another man about the same age standing in front of a picturesque castle. Vincent Reynard. Stacy recognized him from the picture Candace had shown her, but the photo had been taken before the accident that had marred half of Vincent’s face. Franco looked at least a decade younger than the man she knew, and his smile was genuine and devastatingly handsome instead of twisted and cynical. Fewer lines fanned from his eyes and none bracketed his chiseled lips. Had this been taken during their grad-school days? But the setting looked European instead of American.

Stacy returned the frame to the shelf. An older man stared out at her from the second photograph. His heavily lined face couldn’t conceal the same classic bone structure and cleft chin as Franco. He had Franco’s thick hair and straight brows, but his were snowy white instead of coffee-bean dark, and his eyes weren’t nearly as guarded as Franco’s. Was this Franco’s father? She’d never know. And she was okay with that. Really.

Turning slowly, she scanned the tables, sofa and bar cart, but she found no sign of Franco’s ex-wife. She returned to the entrance hall and eyed the staircase. Did she dare? What if Franco came home while she was upstairs? How would she explain her snooping without revealing that she’d visited her father’s house after her mother’s death and what she’d discovered had given her the willies? Franco didn’t need to know her tragic past or that her father most likely had been mentally unbalanced. No one needed to know. It was hard enough to make friends without people wondering if she carried her father’s defective genes.

Her futile search supported Franco’s claim that he was over his wife and his marriage and that he’d moved here after the divorce …unless there was something upstairs. Not that Stacy really cared about his wife, but she wanted to make sure Franco wasn’t the type to use his money and power in dangerous ways.

It’s not as if you’re the kind of woman a man can’t forget, especially a man like Franco who must have far more glamorous women than you at his beck and call all the time.

That again raised the question of why he had chosen her?

The sound of a car in the drive made her heart stutter. She hustled to the window, looked out as Franco’s black sedan rolled to a stop. Her mouth dried and something resembling anticipation shot through her.

How could she be eager to see him? He was using her.

And you’re using him, so don’t get sanctimonious.

He climbed from the vehicle. His gaze searched the front of the house and found her in the window. For a moment he paused with one arm braced on the top of the car and just stared at her. A lump rose in her throat and her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings. He bent and reached inside. When he emerged again and started toward the villa he carried a small white bag with pink ribbon handles that looked too feminine in his big hand.