Monte Carlo Affairs
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“Stacy, did he hurt you?”
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. We should go up. It’s late.”
“It’s barely midnight, and we’re not going upstairs until you tell me what has you fluctuating between blood-red and hospital-sheet white.” Madeline hooked her arm through Stacy’s and half led, half dragged her toward the bar.
Within minutes Madeline had snagged them a secluded table, an attentive waiter and a couple of fruity cocktails. “Drink and spill.”
Stacy didn’t know where to begin or how much to share with this woman whom she’d only met a week ago.
“Okay, let me start. You slept with him and …” Madeline prodded.
Stacy choked on her drink. “How did you know?”
Madeline shrugged. “Was it good? Because I’m going to be seriously disappointed if a guy as sexy as Franco Constantine was a lousy lay.”
Lousy lay. The words echoed in Stacy’s head, an unpleasant blast from the past, compliments of the high-school jock who’d wooed her until she’d surrendered her virginity. She’d thought being a popular guy’s girlfriend would win her acceptance in a new school, but afterward he’d dumped her and told all his friends she was a lousy lay. That was the first time Stacy had welcomed her mother’s decision to relocate.
Madeline gripped her hand. “You’ve gone pale again. Start talking, Stace, or I’m calling the cops, because I’m starting to think he forced you do something you didn’t want to do.”
“No, don’t. There’s no need for that. Yes, we slept together and no, it wasn’t lousy. He didn’t hurt me or force me. I promise.” Uncomfortable with the confession, she shifted in her seat.
“Did he dump you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She hesitated and then confessed in a whisper, “I barely know him and I had sex with him.”
“So?”
So she felt like a tramp. Worse, she’d made a bargain with a man who had the power to make her repeat her mother’s mistakes. Not one of her finest decisions.
“You weren’t a virgin, were you?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not seeing a problem. It was good, right?”
Stacy could feel a blush climbing her neck as she nodded.
“And what’s wrong with being with a guy who makes you feel good as long as he’s not diseased, married or committed to someone else?”
Stacy fidgeted with her napkin. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Stace, there are plenty of guys out there who’ll make you feel like crap. You have to grab the good ones when you can. And if it lasts, great. If it doesn’t …well, you tried. As long as you’re careful. STDs are ugly. Take my word on that. I see plenty of them in the E.R.”
Madeline took a sip of her drink and then continued, “It’s a double standard, you know? Guys are expected to be experienced and good in bed, but women are supposed to virtuously wait for Mr. Right. How will we recognize him if we don’t look around? And what happens when our Mr. Right turns out to be a total jerk?”
Stacy vaguely remembered Candace mentioning a nasty breakup in Madeline’s past. She tentatively covered Madeline’s hand offering support, but at the same time Madeline’s words lifted a load from Stacy’s shoulders.
An affair with Franco wouldn’t hurt anyone as long as she remembered his passion-profit-and-no-promises offer was temporary and kept her heart safely sealed off. For the first time all night she smiled. “Thanks, Madeline. I needed to hear that.”
“Hey, that’s what friends are for.”
Friends. Stacy savored the word and nodded.
When she left Monaco behind she’d have friends, good memories of sex instead of only bad ones, and for the first time in her life, she’d have a nest egg and soon, a home of her own.
And she’d be an ocean away from the man who threatened her equilibrium.
“Everybody needs to take a nap today,” Candace said as she entered the sitting room for breakfast and their usual planning session Friday morning. She placed her cell phone on the coffee table. Candace was the only one of the women who had one that worked in Monaco. Their U.S. cell phones were useless here.
“Why?” Stacy asked.
“Because Franco’s taking us to Jimmy’z tonight. He says the place doesn’t start rocking until after midnight.”
Franco. Stacy’s heart skipped a beat. She’d wondered when she’d see him again. Wednesday night he’d left her with a vague, “I will be in touch.”
Because she refused to waste a day in paradise sitting in her room and waiting for him to call, she’d spent yesterday exploring Monaco-Ville, the oldest section of Monaco, alone. Her suitemates had other commitments. She’d looked over her shoulder countless times as she watched the changing of the palace guard, wondering if she’d run into Franco, but he’d have no reason to visit tourist spots like the Prince’s Palace or the wax museum. He’d probably seen it all before. Besides, he was probably at his office … wherever that was.
Filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread, she’d returned to the hotel late in the afternoon. But there’d been no message from Franco. Stacy had shared a quiet meal at a sidewalk café with Candace and then gone to bed early, only to toss and turn all night.
How could she miss a man she didn’t even know? She blamed her uneasiness on not wanting to violate the terms of their agreement by being unavailable. It definitely wasn’t a desire to see him again. The warmth between her thighs called her a liar.
“Typical of a guy,” Candace continued, “he was stumped when I asked him what we should wear.”
Stacy reached for one of her three guide books, looked up the club and read aloud, “‘Jimmy’z—An exclusive dance club where the jet set hangs out. Dress code—casual to formal, but wear your designer labels.’”
Stacy didn’t own any designer labels.
“You three can go shopping after we tour the Oceanographic Museum and the cathedral this morning,” Candace said. “But I have an appointment with the stylist for a practice session on my wedding-day hairdo.”
Madeline shook her head. “Not me. I have plans for later.”
“Same here,” Amelia offered.
Stacy couldn’t afford anything new, and she refused to let Candace keep buying things for her. “I’ll find something in my closet.”
And just like that Franco undermined Stacy’s concentration for a second day. Every tall, dark-haired man she spotted in the distance Friday morning made her pulse spike, and no matter how impressive the sights, she kept thinking about Franco and the night ahead. Had it not been for her lack of sleep for the past three nights she wouldn’t have been dead to the world when the suite doorbell rang later that afternoon. Shoving her hair out of her eyes she stumbled groggily into the sitting room, opened the door to a hotel staff member.
“A package for Ms. Reeves,” he said.
“I’m Stacy Reeves.” She accepted the large rectangular pewter-colored box and the man turned away. “Wait. I’ll get a tip.”
“It’s been taken care of, mademoiselle. Bonsoir.”
He turned away. Stacy closed the door and leaned against it, her exhaustion totally eradicated. Only Franco would send her something. She pushed off the door and carried the package into her room. With trembling hands she plucked at the lavender ribbon and opened the box.
A folded piece of ivory stationery lay on top of the lavender tissue paper. She lifted it and read, For tonight.
No name. No signature. But the handwriting was the same as that on the card included with Franco’s flowers. Franco. She inhaled a shaky breath and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal a pile of teal garments, the same shade as the Mediterranean Sea outside the hotel windows.
She pulled out the first piece, a soft, silk camisole, and laid it on the bed. The second, a sheer, beaded wrap top, matched perfectly, as did the third, a handkerchief-hem skirt with the same beading on the edges as the wrap. She held the skirt against her body. It would be fitted from her waist through her hips, but the lower half would swish and swirl about her thighs as she moved. The perfect dancing outfit, and judging by the designer label, it probably cost more than her monthly rent and car payment combined.
And then her gaze caught on two more wrapped items in the bottom of the box. She unwound the tissue from the largest first and found strappy sandals to match the clothing. She slipped one on her bare foot. Perfect fit. In fact, everything looked as if it would fit. How had Franco known her sizes? Even she didn’t know the European conversions. Had Candace told him? Or was he so experienced with women he could accurately guess their sizes just by looking at them. Probably the latter.
She opened the last package, gasped and dropped the matching bra and thong in the exact same shade of teal on the bed. Heat rushed through her.
Franco was dressing her from the skin out. He’d bought the privilege to do so, just as he’d bought the right to undress her later if he chose.
Anticipation—or was it dread?—made her pulse race.
Six
A wiser man would choose another woman, Franco told himself as he entered Hôtel Reynard a few minutes before midnight. Stacy had made him feel more than sexual relief—a luxury he no longer afforded himself. It would not happen again.
He had ignored her yesterday just to prove he could, but he had failed miserably. She had invaded his thoughts like a fever. If the family estate and the company he had sweated blood over were not at stake, he would bid her farewell. But it had taken him two months after making the agreement with his father to find a woman who met both his and his father’s criteria. Stacy came with the added benefit of leaving the country after the month was up. He would not have to deal with a clingy woman who refused to accept goodbye.
Nodding to the concierge, Franco stepped into the penthouse elevator and swiftly ascended. Tonight there would be no intimate conversations. He would dance with Stacy in the crowded, noisy club. Afterward he would send her suitemates back to the hotel in the limo and take Stacy to his villa where they would have sex. And then he would put her in a cab and send her back to the hotel. Alone.
He did not want to know her better—except intimately, of course. Nor did he want to discover what had made an attractive and intelligent woman completely unaware of her appeal, for she seemed to have absolutely no vanity.
The suite’s doorbell chimed when he touched the button, and seconds later the wooden panel swung open. Stacy. She took his breath away. His gaze absorbed her, from her loose shining hair to the outfit he had chosen, down her lovely legs to her pink-painted toenails in the sexy heels.
“Tu es ravissante, mon gardénia,” he murmured in a barely audible—thanks to the annoying thickening of this throat—voice.
Her cheeks pinked and she dipped her chin. “Thank you. And if I look ravishing it’s because of the lovely outfit. Thank you for that too. But you don’t have to buy—”
“The color matches your eyes when you climax,” he interrupted. Ignoring her shocked gasp, he reached for her right hand and bent to kiss her knuckles. At the same time he retrieved the diamond bracelet she had left behind from his pocket and fastened it on her wrist.
He straightened. “Are your suitemates ready? I have a limo downstairs.”
“Is that Franco?” Candace called from within the suite.
Fingering the bracelet, Stacy stepped back, opening the door and revealing the trio of women. “Yes. He has a limo waiting.”
“Then let’s go,” Madeline replied. “And Stace, if that’s the kind of stuff you have stashed in your closet I’m glad we’re the same size.”
Stacy shot him a quick glance as if warning him not to correct Madeline. “I need to get my purse.”
His gaze followed her as she walked away, the uneven hem of her skirt swinging flirtatiously above her knees. Knowing her buttocks were bare save the clinging fabric of her skirt and the thin ribbon of her thong made his blood pool behind his zipper. Nor could he take his eyes from her once she rejoined them. This fascination was not good. But it was temporary. He would get over it.
In the limo he settled beside her with the other women on the seat across from them. Stacy’s scent filled his nostrils and her legs drew his gaze. His fisted his hand against the compulsion to smooth his palm up her thigh.
He belatedly remembered the role Vincent had asked of him. “I have a table reserved beside the dance floor. The rules are different here than in the States. Unattached men and women dance freely without partners. If you see someone you wish to dance with you make eye contact, and if the interest is returned you move toward each other on the floor.”
“You mean the guys don’t ask you to dance?” Amelia queried.
“Not verbally, no. The club is safe, but if you have problems come to me. Stacy and I will be nearby.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. She seemed to sink deeper into the seat as her companions’ speculative gazes landed on her. She had not wanted her friends to know about the money, but hiding the affair would be impossible.
Franco nodded to Candace. “Vincent says you are only to dance with women or ugly men.”
His comment brought a laugh and eased the tension. “The limo is on standby. If you wish to leave, use it. Don’t get into cars with strangers.”
A collective groan arose from the opposite bench and Madeline mumbled, “Not my father’s favorite speech.”
Franco shrugged. “Vincent charged me with your safety.”
The limo pulled to a stop outside Jimmy’z. The women climbed out, Stacy last. Franco followed, his gaze on her shapely bottom. The men gathered near the entrance eyed the women, Stacy in particular. Franco rested a possessive hand on her waist and bent closer. “You will dance with no one but me.”
She briefly closed her eyes and then nodded.
Inside, the hostess led them to their table. The club was dark and the music loud with a driving beat. Franco wondered what Stacy thought of the retro decor, but decided it did not matter. Knowing her tastes was not part of their deal.
He arranged for their drinks and waited with impatience he had no business feeling for Stacy to consume hers while the women chatted, pointed out celebrities and acclimatized themselves to the club. An hour later even the shy Amelia had deserted them for the dance floor. Franco extended his hand. Stacy bit her lip, hesitating before she laid her palm over his and rose.
Thankful that slow songs were few and far between at Jimmy’z, he led her onto the floor. The night would be long enough without the arousing slide of her body against his. Needing the physical exertion to expend some of his caged energy, he released her hand and found the rhythm of the beat. Stacy moved self-consciously at first, but soon either the gyrating crowd surrounding them or the alcohol relaxed her. The results devastated him. A slight sheen of sweat dampened her flushed skin, reminding him of her face just before le petit mort. He would have been better off if Stacy had remained stiff.
His gaze slid over her. When he had chosen her clothing he’d had no idea the effect she would have on his control and his carefully planned evening. Each pirouette flared her skirt almost to her bottom. He wasn’t the only man to notice. A primitive urge to mark her as his surged through him.
He cupped a hand around her nape, pulled her close and pressed a quick, hard kiss on her lips. He said into her ear, “You dance like you make love. Très sexy.”
Shock made Stacy stumble. Could the man read minds? Franco caught her quickly, pulling her flush against the hot length of his hard body. The contact was too intense, too arousing. She jerked back, her gaze slamming into his. Suddenly the air seemed loaded with sexual tension.
For the past two hours she’d been thinking he moved like an invitation to sin—an invitation she wanted to accept more and more with each passing second. She’d believed that after a night in his bed she couldn’t—wouldn’t—desire him again. Wrong. Her body, already warm from dancing, flushed with heat and pulsed with a sexual awareness with which she’d been unfamiliar until Franco.
Franco moved closer, his hand curving around her waist and his hips punctuating the beat in a purely sensual dance that made her feminine muscles clench in anticipation. A mating dance. Not graphic or crude. Just devastatingly, pulse-acceleratingly sensuous. And she wasn’t the only woman to notice. Since they’d arrived, each time Stacy had glanced past the cobalt silk stretched across his broad shoulders she’d caught women glaring at her or ogling Franco’s behind, and who could blame them?
More than one bold woman had sashayed up to them on the dance floor and shimmied directly beside him as if trying to draw his attention. But Franco’s gaze never strayed. His eyes had remained locked on hers or on the movement of her body with an intensity burning in the blue depths that made her feel incredibly attractive and yes, very desirable. Realizing she was proud to be the woman he’d chosen was a scary thought since the man should be her worst nightmare.
Her throat dried and her belly tightened. She blamed the discomforts on thirst and hunger. Nerves over this evening had ruined her appetite and she’d barely touched the dinner she and her suitemates had shared earlier. Hoping for a distraction, she dampened her lips and glanced toward their table, but her friends weren’t there to rescue her.
Franco intercepted her look, caught her hand and led her off the dance floor without a word. He paused beside her chair, brushed stray tendrils of hair from her damp forehead and tucked them behind her ears. His fingertips lingered over her pulse points, no doubt noting the rapid tattoo not solely caused by the dancing, and then one hand traced her collar bone and dipped into the V of her top. Desire rippled over her, tightening her nipples and making her shiver.
“Another drink, mon gardénia?”
Maybe the alcohol was to blame for loosening her inhibitions and erasing her common sense. Whatever, she wanted him to kiss her instead of staring at her lips as if he would consume her were they not surrounded by people, and her response was both unacceptable and unwise, given what she knew of men in his position.
She cleared her throat and sat. “Water this time.”
He signaled the waiter, ordered another round of drinks for their table and seated himself beside her.
Stacy gasped when his hand smoothed up from her knee and then her breath wheezed out again when his fingertips stroked along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
“You wish to go?”
She did. Oh boy, she did. What did it say about her that she couldn’t wait to get back to his house, back to his bed? She waited until after the waiter deposited the drinks and left to reply. “We shouldn’t leave before the others.”
“Amelia has found someone. Madeline and Candace are coming this way.”
Surprised that he’d kept track of her suitemates, she turned in her seat and searched the crowd until she located Amelia dancing with a tall, sandy-haired man. “Should we leave her with him?”
“Toby will take care of her.”
“Toby? Toby Haynes? The race-car driver?”
“Oui, and Vincent’s best man. He is also charged with your safety while you are in Monaco.” He removed his hand as the women neared the table and Stacy immediately missed his touch.
Something is definitely wrong with you.
Madeline and Candace slid into their seats.
“Merci, Franco,” Candace said. She and Madeline toasted him with their fresh drinks. “This has been a blast, but I wish Vincent were here.”
Madeline scanned the crowd. “And Damon. I had hoped he’d join us tonight.”
“Damon is your tour guide?” Stacy asked.
“Yes. But I guess he had to work tonight.”
“Shall I call for the limo for you?” Franco asked.
“Yes,” Madeline and Candace answered simultaneously.
“Excuse me.” Franco left the table, headed onto the dance floor and spoke to Toby and then disappeared toward the club entrance.
Candace grinned mischievously. “I’ll tell ya, Stacy, Franco is definitely a keeper. He has some seriously sexy moves, and if he’s half as good in bed as he is on the dance floor, a girl could have a real good time.”
Stacy’s cheeks burned. She ducked her head and fiddled with her cocktail napkin. So this was girl talk. “He’s a good, um … dancer.”
“You’re going home with him?” Madeline asked.
Stacy fought the urge to squirm in her seat. “Yes, but I’ll be back for our morning meeting.”
“The only thing on the agenda tomorrow is me tinkering with the rehearsal dinner and reception seating. No work for you, so stay as long as you like,” Candace replied with a wink and a smug smile. “It’s almost 3:00 a.m. I have a feeling we’ll all be sleeping in.”
Stacy had permission to spend the entire night with Franco. Did she want to? The swiftness of her answer surprised and alarmed her. She’d slid far too easily into the role of a rich man’s mistress.
“Remove your clothing,” Franco ordered in the darkness thirty minutes later.
Stacy’s breath caught. She couldn’t see anything, not even her hand in front of her face, and she didn’t know where she was. Franco had led her into his home, and without turning on any lights, he’d guided her down a hall and a flight of stairs.
The click of her heels had echoed off the walls until they’d stopped moving and now the eerie silence deafened her. Or maybe her thunderous heartbeat drowned out all sound.
Did she dare trust him? She found herself wanting to. Scary.
A mechanical whirl startled her, making her look to her right. The wall slid open like a curtain to reveal moon-washed gardens, the roar of a waterfall and a spa large enough to lie down in without touching the sides.
Half of the spa is concealed beneath the house by the falling water. I would like to make love to you there, Franco had said. Was it only a day and a half ago?
A thrill of anticipation raced through her. Anticipation. Something she’d never experienced in a relationship with a man before Franco.
Moonlight seeped around the cascading water to dimly illuminate her surroundings, and a gentle breeze wafted in, carrying the scent of flowers. The people of Monaco loved their flowers. Gardens and flower boxes abounded.
Stacy scanned the room filled with more exercise equipment than the gym in her apartment complex until she spotted Franco in the shadows. He flipped a switch and the whirlpool splashed to life, its water gleaming like bubbly champagne from the golden glow of lights beneath the surface.
With his gaze fixed on her he leaned against the wall, toed off his shoes and removed his socks. Mesmerized, she watched as he straightened and reached for the buttons on his shirt. It fluttered to the floor followed quickly by his pants and briefs. He stood before her like a finely chiseled statue. An incredibly aroused and well-endowed statue. His chin lifted. “Your turn.”
She gulped and reached for the knot of her sheer wrap, but she was nervous, her fingers uncooperative. She’d never stripped for a man before. Nor had she ever had one look at her the way Franco did with his gaze burning over her, his nostrils flaring, his fists clenched by his side. Finally, the knot gave way. She shrugged off the wrap and dropped it on a nearby weight bench.
Taking a fortifying breath, she reached for the back hook and zipper of her skirt. It swished down her legs. She stepped out of it and her shoes and turned to deposit both on the bench.
A warm hand covered her bottom, making her jump and gasp. Franco. She hadn’t heard him cross the room. His other hand joined the first, stroking her buttocks, thighs and her belly, and molding her against him. The thong was no barrier to the heat of his lean flanks against her cheeks and the hard length of his erection against her spine. Desire made her dizzy.