Monte Carlo Affairs: The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal

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Surprise superseded the sinking feeling over the confirmation that Stacy’s only friend was moving away.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.”

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 nipples 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.

“We will have refreshments on the terrace.” He led them through the living room. Stacy trailed Candace past the dark wooden tables that interspersed the black leather sofas and chairs. Woven carpets in shades of ivory, black and red dotted the floor.

Red. Like blood on the white floor. She shuddered and skirted around the rugs.

Curved floor-to-ceiling French doors punctuated the exterior wall revealing an expansive patio that put the last home’s to shame. Franco opened one of the doors. His bare forearm brushed Stacy’s as she passed through. Accidental? Doubtful. Awareness trickled over her. She moved into the sunshine to bake the goose bumps away.

Candace crossed directly to the swimming pool located at the far end of the stone terrace and leaned over the railing. “Stacy, you have to see this. The pool pours over the side of the patio in a waterfall.”

“It empties into a whirlpool below,” Franco told her and then he moved closer to Stacy, dipped his head until his breath teased her ear. “Half of the spa is concealed beneath the house by the falling water. I would like to make love to you there.”

Stunned by his sneak attack, Stacy struggled to catch her breath and formulate a prickly reply, but her brain refused to cooperate. Her heart raced and her palms moistened. Her skin flushed hot and then cold when she realized that in the split second before reason intervened she’d wanted to make love with him too.

That kiss clearly addled your thinking.

“Make Candace sit and rest,” he murmured quietly along with a brief, but electrifying caress over the curve of her waist. “I will return with refreshments momentarily.” He went inside.

Shakily, Stacy crossed to the railing. Not because she wanted to see the whirlpool below and visualize the decadent scene Franco had planted in her head. No, definitely not that. She looked because the view of Monte Carlo and Larvotto Beach from Franco’s patio was more beautiful than any of the postcards she’d bought as souvenirs of her trip.

To her right a stone staircase wound down to the lower level of the terraced yard. Trees and flowers dappled the lush slope of green grass with shadows and brilliant splashes of color. And fight as she might, Stacy couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping to the exposed half of the spa.