Warm oil trickled over her shoulders and back, quickly followed by Franco’s firm hands. The scent of coconuts filled her nostrils as he massaged her with long, slow strokes across her shoulders and down her spine. His fingertips teased the sides of her br**sts, her waist. The occasional drag of his sex against her buttocks made her breath catch. He paused, shifted and then oil dribbled onto the small of her back and over her bottom. It seeped into the crevice and between her legs to her most sensitive spot. She squirmed on the chaise.
Franco’s hands stilled her hips. “Non.”
He alternated feather-light brushes with muscle-deep massages over her back, her bottom, down her legs and across the soles of her feet. Throughout the process the wiry hairs on his legs teased her hyper-sensitive skin. And then he stroked his erection between her slickened cheeks. Stacy yearned to rise to her knees and let him take her from behind as he had once before, but he moved away. The memory of that night in front of his bedroom mirror, the way he’d cupped her br**sts and nibbled her neck, the undiluted hunger on his face as he’d plunged into her again and again made her shiver.
“Attente elle,” he ordered in a gravelly voice.
Wait for it. One of his favorite phrases. But Stacy didn’t want to wait. She wiggled impatiently, but Franco didn’t quicken his torturous caresses. Arousal pulsed through her. She no longer cared about prying eyes, but focused instead on the man who seemed bent on driving her out of her mind with desire. He rose from the chaise and she tensed in anticipation.
“Turn over.”
Stacy hastily complied. Franco’s shaft glistened with suntan oil. She reached for him, but he shook his head and pulled the brim of her hat over her face. “No peeking.”
She settled back into the cushion. Oil trickled over her br**sts and slowly ran down her sides like tiny, warm fingers. He poured another pool in her navel and then drizzled more over her curls. His palms covered her br**sts and she gasped. He teased and tweaked, rolling the slick tips between his fingers and buffing with the flats of his palms. She shifted her legs, but that only intensified the ache. His massage continued down her torso and her legs, skipping her neediest parts.
Stacy was ready to beg when Franco bent her knees, knelt between them and stroked his shaft along her soft, slick folds and against her center. A moan slipped from her lips as she rose swiftly toward the peak. She heard a snick of sound, and then icy-cold water splashed her nipple. She squealed and tried to rise, but Franco planted a palm on her breastbone and treated the opposite side to the same cold, fizzy bath. The carbonated water teased in an unbelievably sensual way, and then his hot lips covered a cooled tip. He alternated between icy baths and hot suckling until Stacy batted her hat away.
“That was sneaky.”
He sat back on his haunches, his grin unrepentant. Two could play that game. She sat up, snatched the water from his hand and drenched his erection. His howl turned into a groan when she took him into her mouth.
Franco fisted his hands in her hair, but he didn’t thrust or try to gag her the way her high-school lover had. Franco let her take the lead and as much of him as she could handle. Pleased and surprisingly turned on, she released him and showered him with another splash of water and then another deep kiss. His back arched. He hissed with each splash and muttered what sounded like encouragement in French each time her lips encircled him. She smiled and repeated the process until the bottle was empty.
She had never expected to like doing this, but the tendons straining Franco’s neck and his knotted muscles attested to his enjoyment. And she liked pleasing him.
“Tu es une sirène.” He tugged gently on her hair, but firmly enough to make her release him.
A siren? Her? She smiled.
He reached for the condom he’d tossed on the table earlier, tore the wrapper with his teeth and then sheathed himself. Stacy reclined and opened her arms. Franco guided himself to her center and plunged deep. The sun-warmed latex over his hot shaft added yet another new dimension to his erotic play. She savored the sense of fullness, rightness, and then tangled her legs around his waist the way he’d taught her and held on tight. He took her on a roller-coaster-fast ride to the top and then she plunged over to the sound of him calling her name as he cli**xed.
Their gasps filled a silence broken only by the hum of the pool filter and an occasional bird call. Stacy stroked a hand down his sweat-dampened back. “Wow.”
He levered himself up on his elbows. “You have hidden talents, mon gardénia.”
A blush warmed her cheeks. How could she still blush around this man? “I’ve had an excellent teacher.”
“And there is yet much to learn,” he said gently as he pulled away. And then he stilled and stiffened. “Le condom, c’est cassé.”
Stacy’s heart missed a beat. Her muscles turned rigid. She prayed she’d mistranslated. “What?”
Franco’s serious gaze locked onto hers. “The condom broke.”
A wave of panic seized her. Her gaze dropped to the damning evidence, and her heart nearly beat its way out of her chest.
Dear God, was she going to repeat her mother’s mistake?
Calendars, dates and biology scrambled in her head, and then sanity slowly invaded, making sense of it all, but leaving her cold, drained and eerily calm. She exhaled shakily. “My…um, period is due in a few days. We should be safe. I’m…um…unlikely to conceive now.”
“How regular are you?” he asked without blinking.
She flinched, and feeling exposed, dragged a towel over her nak*dness. Would she ever get used to these intimate conversations? “Like clockwork.”
“Bien. But to be certain you will visit my doctor before you return to the States. I will make the appointment.” As if that settled everything, he straightened, crossed to the pool and dove in.
But Stacy was far from settled. She pressed a hand to her chest. Close call. Too close. She wasn’t prepared to have a baby or let a man into her life.
Or was she?
Ten
A baby.And not just any baby. Franco’s baby.
The words reverberated in Stacy’s head as the taxi carried her back to the hotel. Guilt nagged her for sneaking out while Franco was in the shower, but she couldn’t calmly sit across the dinner table from him or go back to bed with him until she figured out the chaotic emotions churning inside her.
Her chances of getting pregnant today were slim. And that was good news. Wasn’t it?
Absolutely.
This was the wrong time, the wrong place and the wrong man.
But there was a tiny spark of something that felt suspiciously like hope glowing deep inside her. Illogical, foolish hope. The idea of having a baby appealed, even though she hadn’t once thought about having children since learning the truth about her mother’s murder.
Had being around Candace activated some twisted kind of approaching-thirty biological clock?
She pressed a hand to her agitated stomach. Franco had the means to buy and sell her a hundred times over, and after his painful experience with Lisette there was no telling how he’d react if Stacy turned up pregnant.
Would he want the child or tell her to get rid of it?
“Mademoiselle, we have arrived,” the taxi driver’s words jerked Stacy back to the present before she could pursue that disturbing line of thought. She blinked and saw the hotel entrance outside the car window. The ride had passed in a blur.
A uniformed hotel employee opened her door. She dug the appropriate money from her wallet, paid and tipped the driver and climbed from the cab.
Standing on the pavement, she debated going up to the suite. But Madeline was far too perceptive. She’d zero in on Stacy’s disquiet in seconds, and as much as Stacy longed for a dose of the savvier woman’s no-nonsense advice or the support she knew her trio of suitemates would offer, she needed to get her thoughts in order first.
Stacy stepped onto the sidewalk and headed toward Monaco-Ville with no particular destination in mind. She loved the old-world charm, the sense of history and permanence in the oldest part of the principality. That it happened to be in the opposite direction to Larvotto Beach and Franco’s view was an added bonus.
For the past ten years she’d focused on her safety and her financial security, but she’d completely neglected the emotional component of her life. She’d been afraid to let anyone get close and had paid for it with loneliness. Not even the teens she counseled were allowed past her emotional barriers. She cared about them, but knowing they might pack up and move without notice led her to maintain a protective distance.
But she didn’t want to be alone or afraid anymore. She liked having friends, liked feeling connected and wouldn’t mind having a family.
If she were pregnant, she wouldn’t get rid of the baby no matter what Franco said. With his million euros she could afford to keep it, and even without his money she could manage once she found another job.
But could she deny a father his child or a child its father, live life on the run, always looking over her shoulder and never set down roots or make a home? No. She wouldn’t wish her childhood on anyone. Not unless she truly feared for her own or her child’s safety.
She didn’t see Franco as being that kind of threat.
Didn’t your mother’s diary and your father’s actions teach you anything? Rich men can’t be trusted.
But she’d seen no sign of Franco being power-crazed or bending the laws to suit his needs. Other than buying her, that is. But as he’d pointed out, mistresses were not unusual here, and he’d shown her nothing but respect. He’d made sure that each sexual encounter left her satisfied when he didn’t have to. He’d watched over the bridal party for Vincent, and he took the time to play with a fatherless boy—almost every weekend, according to Monsieur Constantine.
From everything she’d seen, Franco was a good man, and she suspected he’d be a good father.
Oh my God. Are you falling for him?
The leaden feeling in the pit of her stomach said yes.
Her steps slowed and her internal warning sirens screamed.
Had she learned enough about her own strength and resilience over the past decade to lower her walls and let a man in? Maybe. The training she’d had before and since she’d begun volunteering with the teens had taught her what constituted a healthy relationship. Surely she could practice what she preached?
A child’s laughter startled her. Stacy looked around, stunned at where her subconscious had led her. The Saint Martin Garden was one of several playgrounds Monaco had set aside for children. She’d walked past it the day she’d toured the Prince’s Palace. Sinking down on a bench in the shade, she studied the happy faces of the mothers and children.
Monaco would be a wonderful place to raise a family. According to her stack of guide books, the schools were good and the police force was second to none. Education and safety had been her guideposts in recent years.
Whether or not today’s encounter resulted in a baby, would Franco want more than the agreed-upon month? Would he be interested in her staying in Monaco to see if their relationship had a future after the other bridesmaids flew home? She and he were both wounded souls who feared trusting and being hurt. Could she heal him and in the process learn to trust again?