He shrugged his wide polo-covered shoulders. “None taken.”
Stacy wanted to lock herself in her room. Part of being able to resist his indecent proposition depended on not having temptation shoved in her face at every turn.
“Please, Stacy,” Candace wheedled.
Stacy stifled a grimace. How could she refuse when Candace and Vincent were treating her to a month in paradise? Even if she had a sneaking suspicion the request for those consecutive weeks off might have contributed to her getting laid off. “All right.”
Franco’s broad palm gestured to the tray of pastries on the table. “We will wait for you to eat.”
If she put food in her agitated—compliments of Franco—stomach she’d be sick. Stacy poured a glass of orange juice, guzzled it with inelegant haste and then returned her glass to the tray. “I’m ready.”
Franco’s knowing look made her twitchy. Stacy kept her gaze averted from him as he escorted them downstairs and outside. She could feel his steady regard as they waited for the valet to bring his car around, and when Candace became distracted by something in the hotel gift shop’s window and wandered a few yards away he took advantage by moving closer. Stacy’s senses went on red alert.
“You slept well?” he asked quietly.
“Of course,” she lied without lifting her gaze above the whorl of dark hair exposed by the open neck of his shirt.
“I did not. Desire for you kept me awake. Each breeze through my open window felt like your lips upon my skin.”
Her breath caught and her pulse stuttered. She glared at him. “You said I wouldn’t have to see you again if I had dinner with you.”
“Non. I said you wouldn’t have to see me alone, mon gardénia.”
“Stop that. I am not your anything.”
“But you will be.” The certainty in his voice rattled her already fragile composure. “I cannot wait to have you in my bed, Stacy.”
Were Frenchmen born knowing how to talk a woman out of her clothes? “Don’t hold your breath.”
An expensive-looking black sedan—Maserati made sedans?—rolled to a stop in front of them. The valet hopped out and circled the car to open the doors for the women while Franco moved to the driver’s side. Stacy stepped toward the back, but Candace cut in front of her. “You sit up front. The hairpin turns make me nervous, and my stomach would appreciate the back seat. It’s a little dicey this morning,” she whispered the last phrase.
No fair playing the morning-sickness card. “Fine.”
Stacy slid into the leather passenger seat beside Franco. Even with the console between them in the spacious interior, his presence overpowered her. His hand seemed larger on the gearshift just inches from her knee and his shoulders immense in the enclosed space. She inhaled his cologne with every breath.
He turned his head and their eyes met for heart-stopping seconds. “Fasten your seat belt, Stacy.”
She complied with unsteady hands, and then Franco drove away from the coast and wound his way up the rocky mountainside. Although the steep drop-offs had Stacy clutching the sides of her seat, she had to admit the view was breathtaking.
“Do you see Larvotto?” he asked a few moments later. The blue-green Mediterranean glimmered beyond the three crescents of beach.
“Yes,” Stacy answered when Candace didn’t, and then she twisted in her seat to see her friend’s pale face. “Franco, could you open the windows a bit?”
“Bien sûr.” He quickly checked the rearview mirror and then the windows silently lowered. Slowing the vehicle, he turned down a tree-lined street which appeared to have been chiseled from the mountainside. “Candace, tu va bien?”
“Ah…oui. I’m fine.” She clearly wasn’t. “Are we close?”
He stopped the car in the quiet roadway. “We are here, but my house is two doors over if you need to lie down.”
“No. I’ll be better once I get out of the car. I keep remembering Princess Grace drove off one of these roads and died.”
“Not this one.” He turned into a driveway leading to a cream-colored stucco house with a red tiled roof that looked like something from a Mediterranean vacation guide. Stacy climbed from the car and immediately turned to check on Candace.
“Who would have believed pregnancy would give me vertigo?” Candace whispered. She linked arms with Stacy and followed Franco down the stone path to the front entrance. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
Stacy balked. “There’s no real estate agent?”
“Non. My neighbor has only recently decided to sell. He is abroad, but left me a key.”
He gestured for them to precede him. Stacy let Candace go first. Franco caught Stacy’s hand and held her back. Her heart stuttered. Was he going to badger her about his offer? Or kiss her again?
“Is this part of the pregnancy?” he asked.
She blinked. “You know?”
“Oui. Vincent asked me to keep an eye on her, so you will be seeing a lot of me, Stacy.”
Not good news when her plan to resist him was already on shaky ground. She tugged her hand free before the heat of his palm against hers melted her resistance. “She claims the pregnancy is giving her vertigo.”
He looked adorably confused. “C’est possible?”
“I have no idea. I know nothing about being pregnant.”
He nodded and then escorted her inside. To Stacy, who’d lived in low-budget accommodations all her life, the home looked like something from the Architectural Digest magazines her accounting firm—former firm—kept in the waiting area. Talk about lifestyles of the rich and famous…. She couldn’t even begin to guess how many millions of euros this place cost.
She trailed after Candace who’d apparently recovered enough to examine one gorgeous room after another in the spacious home. When the women returned to the living room where Franco waited, he pushed open the door to the terrace behind the house. Candace wandered off to explore every nook and cranny of the gardens.
Stacy stayed on the flagstone patio, letting her eyes devour the flower-filled landscape. She had only vague memories of the landscaped yard of the house she’d lived in until she was eight. The places she and her mother had lived afterward had been barren and devoid of color. One day, Stacy vowed, she’d own a home a fraction as beautiful as this. One terrace of the two-level lot held a large pool, and another, a maze of roses. Living here would be a fantasy come true. And the view—
“C’est incroyable, non?” Franco said directly behind her seconds before his muscular frame spooned her back. His arms surrounded her and his fingers laced through hers on the iron railing, holding her captive when she would have ducked away.
He had to stop doing that. Every feminine particle in her urged her to lean into him and relish in the novel sensations he sent bubbling through her, but her survival instincts screamed Run, danger ahead. The emotional push-pull left her breathless and disoriented.
“But my view is better. You will see,” he added in a deep voice that stroked her skin like a caress, peaked her n**ples and made her quiver. “Come, we must go. Candace looks in need of a chaise and a cool drink.”
He stepped away, taking his body heat with him and leaving Stacy surprisingly chilled in the warm late-morning air. How could she be so affected by a man she barely knew?
Candace had indeed paled as she slowly climbed the stairs to the main patio. Stacy crossed to her side, but her friend waved away her concern as they returned to the car.
Stacy struggled to fortify her resistance to Franco as they pulled onto the road, but her internal alarms shrieked when he slowed the vehicle and turned into a driveway two doors down. “Is this your house? Why are we coming here?”
“Did I forget to tell you Franco invited us for coffee?” Candace asked from the back seat.
Stacy turned to scowl at her. “Yes. You did.”
“Oops.” There was no oops about it. The bride was matchmaking and not at all subtly.
“How kind of him.” Not kind. Manipulative.
The satisfied smile playing about Franco’s delectable lips made Stacy seethe. He’d wanted her in his home and he’d manipulated circumstances to make it happen. The man was set on seduction, and she had a sinking feeling he wasn’t thwarted often or easily. And then she spotted his house and gasped.
The large two-story rectangular villa had been painted a buttery yellow. The trim on the second-floor balcony and around the arched windows gleamed white in the morning light. “Palladian style, right? How old?”
“Correct. The original structure was built in 1868. It has been renovated many times. Most recently by me. You have studied architecture, Stacy?”
“No. I just like to read.”
Candace scooted forward. “Stacy’s a bit of a history buff. She devoured any research material on Monaco and the Mediterranean she could get her hands on before our trip.”
A blush warmed Stacy’s cheeks. “Your home’s beautiful, Franco.”
“Merci. Wait until you see the inside. And the gardens, of course. They are lovely by moonlight.” His gaze held hers and last night’s invitation lingered in his eyes. She would have seen his gardens by moonlight if she’d come home with him after dinner. She still could if she became his mistress.
Her heart accelerated and her mouth dried. “Too bad we’ll miss that.”
The twitch of his lips as he climbed from the car said he hadn’t missed her sarcasm, and then Candace poked Stacy’s shoulder. “Cut it out.”
Stacy twisted in her seat. “Quit matchmaking.”
The car doors opened. Franco stood in the driveway. “Mesdemoiselles?”
He helped them from the car and then turned toward the house. Stacy caught herself admiring the fit of his trousers over the tight globes of his derriere as she followed him up the stone walk toward the covered front entrance. European men wore pants that fit—none of that super-baggy stuff American guys currently favored. The fitted style certainly suited Franco.
After unlocking the tall arched door he motioned for them to enter with the sweep of his arm. Candace led the way. Stacy reluctantly followed with Franco on her heels. She couldn’t help feeling that by entering his domain she was crossing a point of no return.
Her first impression was one of high ceilings and sun-drenched spaces rolling on and on in acres of cool, glossy white marble floors. Wide arches divided the individual rooms, but the glass-paned doors to each stood open. To her left a suspended staircase circled upward, and in front of her a pair of round marble columns separated a foyer bigger than her den back home from a living room larger than her entire apartment.
She glanced at Franco and found him watching her intently. “Welcome to my home.”
“It’s um…” Gorgeous. Huge. Intimidating. “Very nice.”
The million euros he’d offered her should have been a clue to Franco’s wealth, but she’d had no idea he was filthy rich. Most women would find his affluence a turn-on. But for Stacy it had the opposite effect.