Ever so slowly Franco straightened, but the banked fires in his eyes promised “later.” He released his hold on the railing beside her, stepped back and gestured for her to precede him into the room. Her legs were almost too weak to carry her.
Close call. Good thing this was their one and only date because she doubted she could continue saying no.
And saying yes would be far too dangerous.
“What is it you want, Stacy?”
Stacy’s yearning expression as she gazed at the moonless midnight sky hit Franco with the impact of a sailboat boom. Whatever it was she wanted, he wanted to give it to her. Within reason, of course. And he would reap the rewards for his generosity.
She stopped in the corner of Hôtel Reynard’s garden. “What do you mean?”
Why her? Why did this woman arouse him so easily? He didn’t have the answer to the question he’d been asking himself since seeing her outside Midas yesterday, but he would find it. Sipping from her soft, fragrant skin at the restaurant tonight had only whetted his appetite. “What is it you wish for when you look upon the stars?”
“What makes you think I’m wishing for anything?”
“Your eyes give you away.”
She bit her lip and hesitated. “Financial security.”
“Money?” He almost spat the word. It always came down to money, but he had expected Stacy to at least make an attempt to hide her greed. Disappointment dampened his satisfaction over being right about her. Had he believed Stacy was different from any of his father’s ex-wives or from his own? Non. Life had taught him a hard lesson. All women were the same. Yes, they came in different sizes, shapes and colors, but the craving for money is what made their mercenary hearts beat. And Stacy’s greed played directly into his hands.
“My mother struggled to make ends meet when I was a child. Sometimes she had to choose between rent and food. Until I landed the job with the accounting firm I wasn’t in much better shape, and now I—” She turned her back abruptly and dipped her fingers into the fountain. “I don’t ever want to be in that position again.”
“Your father?”
Her spine stiffened and her hands fisted. “Not part of the picture.”
The personal insights—of which she’d shared few during dinner—softened him and he couldn’t afford sentimentality. Time to close the deal. “And if I could offer you that financial security?”
“What do you mean?” She frowned at him over her shoulder. “Are you offering me a job?”
He joined her beside the fountain. “I am offering you a million euros to be my mistress for the remainder of your time in Monaco. One month, is it not?”
Shock parted her lips and widened her eyes. “You’re joking.”
“Non. I realize you have obligations to Candace and Vincent, but the remainder of your time would be mine. There will be no declarations of love. No false promises. Just passion and for you, profit. Tu comprends?”
She shook her head as if confused. “No, I don’t understand. Are you offering to pay me to sleep with you? Like a prostitute?”
“In France, being a man’s mistress is a respected position.”
“I’m not French. And sex for money is still sex for money. I’m not for sale, Monsieur Constantine. Not by the hour. Or the week. Or the month.” She hugged her wrap closer and backed away without taking her gaze from his.
He pursued for each step she retreated. Nothing worth having ever came easily. And contrarily, while he respected her for not accepting his first offer, her avarice angered him. She wanted him and she wanted the money. The flutter of her pulse, the rapidity of her breathing and those very expressive eyes gave her away. Why deny it? Why deny them both?
“Why not profit from the chemistry between us, Stacy? You would be doubly rewarded. With the pleasure I can give you and with the financial security you crave.”
She reached the end of the path both figuratively and literally. A low stone wall blocked her escape. Franco had restrained himself all evening, but he no longer could. He lifted a hand and stroked his knuckles along her cheekbone. “I promise you pleasure, Stacy.”
She inhaled a ragged breath, but she didn’t jerk away. He slid his fingers into her silky hair and held her captive as he lowered his head to sample the mouth he’d craved for hours. Her lips were as sweet and soft as he’d imagined—more so. But she stood stiffly in his embrace with her mouth closed and her arms crossed in front of her, clutching the wrap.
Franco wasn’t willing to accept defeat. He dragged his fingertips over the clasp of her dress at her nape and down the ridge of her spine. She shivered and her lips parted on a gasp. He swept inside. She tasted delicious, and he couldn’t help delving deeper. Pulling her closer, he eased his hand beneath her wrap and caressed the satiny skin of her back.
The tension drained from her rigid muscles on a sigh and she curved into him, nudging her soft br**sts into his chest and touching her tongue to his. Her palms flattened against his ribs and then slid to his waist. Victory surged through him, mixing with the desire already pumping through his veins. He stroked downward, curving his hand over her rounded bottom and pulling her flush against his erection.
She stiffened and jerked out of his arms. Her delicious br**sts rose and fell rapidly, the tight n**ples like tiny pebbles beneath her bodice. “No. I—You—No. I can’t. I won’t.”
But he could see the indecision in her eyes. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, his proposition tempted her. “I will give you twenty-four hours to reconsider. Au revoir. Sleep well, mon gardénia.”
He would not.
Three
A knock on the bedroom door jarred Stacy from her dream of a deep, velvety voice whispering illicit suggestions to her in French. Groggily, she sat up, finger-combed the hair from her eyes and tried to banish Franco Constantine from her mind. “Oui? I mean, come in.”The door opened and Candace breezed in. “Bonjour. You’re a sleepyhead this morning.”
Stacy glanced at the clock. Ten. She’d overslept, but thanks to the thoughts tumbling through her head after Franco’s insulting offer, she hadn’t fallen asleep until after four. She couldn’t believe she’d actually lain awake debating the pros and cons of accepting and mentally converting euros to dollars. Worse, each time she’d dozed off she’d relived his reason-robbing kiss. “Sorry.”
“No problem. But I need you to rise and shine. Vincent called. He heard about a villa that’s about to come on the market, and he wants me to check it out. I need a second opinion and I know I can count on you to be practical.” She perched on the edge of Stacy’s bed. “Property sells fast here because there’s such a high demand and a limited selection. Vincent’s stuck at the new hotel site in Aruba until they work out this labor problem, and he’s afraid we’ll miss out on a good thing if we don’t act fast.”
Stacy shoved back the covers. “Then the move to Monaco is definite?”
Candace sighed. “It appears so. Vincent lives here for part of the year when he’s not traveling for the hotel, but he says his condo overlooking the port in Fontvieille isn’t big enough for three.”
Surprise superseded the sinking feeling over the confirmation that Stacy’s only friend was moving away. “Three?”
Candace winced. “Oops. I didn’t mean to let that slip.”
“You’re pregnant?”
“Yes. Almost eight weeks. So it’s a good thing we’re getting married soon, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.” Stacy rose, but hesitated. “Should I offer my congratulations?”
“Absolutely,” Candace said with a grin. She snatched Stacy into a bouncing hug and then released her. “I’m so excited I’m about to burst, but could you not tell anyone? We’re not ready for Vincent’s family to find out yet. I really shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve been lucky so far because my morning sickness isn’t so bad that I can’t hide it or claim it’s pre-wedding stress, and I can blame the need for naps on our late nights.”
“You can trust me to keep your secret.”
Trust. There it was again. That word. The one Stacy struggled with. “Give me thirty minutes to shower and dress.”
She headed for the bathroom, shed her gown and stepped into the glass shower stall and then dunked her face under the hot spray to wash the grogginess away. The shower pelted her overly sensitized skin, dredging up remnants of dreams best forgotten.
Maybe a short-term affair was the best she could hope for given her trust issues. Should she reconsider Franco’s offer? It wasn’t as if he’d follow her across the Atlantic to try to force her to come back to him when he wasn’t in love with her. And he’d stated up front that all he wanted was a month of her time.
But sex for money is still sex for money.
She lathered, rinsed and then shoved open the etched-glass shower door to glare at the wet woman in the steamy mirror. “I can’t believe you are still debating this.”
Would you have slept with him if he hadn’t sprung this on you? Maybe. Probably. Because when he’d kissed her, saying no had been the last thing on her mind.
She snagged a towel and scrubbed briskly. “Let it go. You’re grossly underqualified to be anyone’s mistress.”
But a million well-invested euros could set you up for life. No more worries about poverty. No more living paycheck to paycheck. And you won’t have to panic if you can’t find another job right away.
“No. Too risky. I don’t have to see him again until the wedding. Forget his obscene offer. Forget him.” With that settled she nodded at her reflection and reached for her makeup bag.
Twenty minutes later she zipped on another one of the sundresses she’d bought before getting laid off, this one a knee-length mint green number, stepped into her walking sandals and then yanked open the door to the sitting room and spotted the one man she’d hoped to avoid. Her stomach plunged. “What are you doing here?” Franco set down his coffee cup and rose from the sofa. His gaze raked her from head to toe in a long, slow sweep, and Stacy couldn’t stop hers from doing the same to him. She hadn’t seen him in casual clothing before. His white short-sleeved shirt exposed the thick biceps his suits had only hinted at and his belted khakis revealed a flat stomach and narrow hips. A swimmer’s body.
“Bonjour, Stacy. I am your chauffeur today.”
She caught herself watching his lips move as he spoke and remembering how they’d felt against hers, and then his words sank in. Alarm clamored through her. She looked from Franco to Candace sitting in a chair. “What?”
Her friend smiled smugly. “Didn’t I mention that Franco is the one who told Vincent about his neighbor’s decision to sell?”
“No. You didn’t. So you have your second opinion. You don’t need me.”
“Are you kidding? No offense, Franco, but you’re a man. I need a woman’s opinion.”