Stacy shifted uneasily on the sofa. Surely she could manage a meal with him without getting in over her head? One dinner and then he’d promised to leave her alone. She’d eaten with a number of clients who’d implied they wanted her handling more than their books, and she’d resisted easily enough. Of course, she’d never been tempted like this. Franco was beyond her experience, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d made a deal she would regret.
The door to Madeline’s bedroom opened and the brunette shuffled into the sitting area. Her gaze roamed over the coffee carafe Stacy had ordered from room service and Stacy’s empty cup. “My God, how long have you been up?”
“A few hours. My body clock is confused.”
“So are you and Franco going to hook up?”
Stacy’s blouse and pants abraded her suddenly warm flesh. “We’re going to have dinner and then he’s all yours.”
Her skin prickled anew. Why did that bother her? Franco was too rich and powerful for her and far out of her league, but that didn’t mean the other woman couldn’t enjoy him.
“No thanks. I met someone after you came upstairs last night, and man oh man, is he hot.” Madeline poured herself a cup of coffee.
This was the girl talk Stacy didn’t do so well. Where were the boundaries? What was she supposed to ask? What topics should she avoid? She settled for a noncommittal, “Oh?”
“Oh yeah.” Madeline smiled as she sipped. “He’s going to act as my tour guide after we kill our diets this morning sampling the different wedding cakes the hotel chef has prepared.”
Amelia glided silently into the room. “Did I hear you say you’re going out today? Me too, if for no other reason than to avoid Toby Haynes.”
“Who?” Stacy asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
Amelia grimaced. “Toby Haynes, the race-car driver for the NASCAR team Reynard Hotels sponsors. It was a fire in his pit that burned Vincent.”
“Speaking of Vincent, I guess you’ve both met the groom since he was a patient at the hospital where you work?” Stacy hadn’t—just one more reason she felt like the outsider in the group. Story of her life.
“Yes and his cocky Casanova driver is here in Monaco and determined to be a pain in my backside,” Amelia grumbled.
“Perhaps you and I could do the tourist thing together,” Stacy suggested somewhat hesitantly. These women barely knew her and might prefer to spend their time with someone else.
“Sounds great. I’ll get dressed.” The suite doorbell chimed. Amelia, already on her feet, answered. When she turned around she held a beautiful bouquet of gardenias. “They’re for you, Stacy.”
Stacy’s heart stalled. No one had ever sent her flowers. She accepted the fragrant arrangement, extracted the card and read the slashing black script. Tonight. 20:00. Franco.
“Who are they from?” Amelia asked.
Stacy couldn’t find her voice. Were the gardenias a coincidence or had he actually noticed her perfume?
Madeline read the card over Stacy’s shoulder. “Her delicious chocolatier. Monaco operates on military time. He’s picking you up tonight at eight. Bon chance, mon amie.”
Stacy forced an unsteady smile. She’d need more than luck to resist the sexy Frenchman.
Madeline rose, stretched and yawned. “Amelia, make sure Stacy has something suitably sexy to wear. And Stace, tuck a few condoms in your purse. Be prepared.”
Prepared for Franco Constantine? Impossible.
Thanks to Candace and Amelia, Stacy was as prepared as she possibly could be for her evening with temptation in the form of Franco Constantine, minus the condoms which she most definitely would not need.
After sampling enough wedding cakes to send her blood sugar into orbit, she, Candace and Amelia had attempted to walk off the calories by touring La Condamine, the second-oldest section of Monaco, this morning, and then exploring the wonderful shops on the Rue Grimald in the early afternoon. Afterward the women had returned to the hotel and turned Stacy over to the spa staff for a facial, a manicure and a pedicure.
Stacy stood in front of the mirror and smoothed her hands over the gown they’d found in a European designer clothing outlet. Claiming it would be perfect for the rehearsal dinner, Candace had overridden Stacy’s polite refusal and insisted on buying it for her. The sapphire fabric skimmed Stacy’s figure without clinging, and the halter top gave her enough support that she didn’t need a bra. She felt worlds more sophisticated in this gown than in anything she’d ever owned.
The phone rang and Stacy nearly jumped out of her gold sandals. Her suitemates were out. She crossed her bedroom and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Bonsoir, Stacy,” Franco’s deep voice rumbled over her. “I am in the lobby. Shall I come up?”
Her pulse fluttered like the flag over the prince’s palace in a stiff breeze. Franco in her suite? Absolutely not.
“No. I’ll come down.” She hung up the phone and pressed a hand over her pounding heart. “One dinner. You can do this.”
She draped her lace wrap over her shoulders, grabbed her gold clamshell evening purse and headed out the door. Her stomach stayed behind as the elevator swiftly descended from the penthouse to the lobby level. The doors opened and there he was, a six-foot-something package of irresistible—correction, completely resistible—male. Franco leaned against a marble pillar looking as rich and sinful as the chocolate he’d fed her. Stacy inhaled slowly and then moved forward on less-than-steady legs.
Franco spotted her and straightened. A midnight-blue suit and a shirt in a paler shade emphasized his eyes as his appreciative gaze glided from her upswept hair to her newly polished toenails before returning to her face. Every cell in her body quivered in the wake of the leisurely visual caress. He took her hand and bent over it, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a touch so light she could have imagined it. The whisper of his breath on her skin made her shiver.
He straightened and his intensely blue eyes burned into hers. “Vous enlevez mon souffle, Stacy.”
There was no way she could translate even the simplest sentences when he looked at her or touched her that way. “I’m sorry?”
“You take my breath away.”
“Oh.” Oh? That’s it? That’s the best you can come up with? She tugged her hand and after a moment’s resistance he released her. “Thank you. And thank you for the flowers. They’re lovely. But you shouldn’t have.”
“I could not resist. Their fragrance reminded me of you.” He offered his elbow. Stacy couldn’t think of a courteous way to decline. Reluctantly, she threaded her hand through his bent arm and let him escort her from the cool interior of the hotel into the warm evening air. The lights of Monaco twinkled around them in the falling dusk. He paused outside the entrance. “The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Shall we walk? Or would you prefer a taxi?”
“You didn’t drive?” She’d pictured him as the powerful-sports-car type, the kind who careened around the hairpin turns at breakneck speed like a Grand Prix driver.
“I drove. My villa is in the hills overlooking Larvotto. Too far to walk. But there is no parking near the restaurant.”
She and Candace had taken the bus to Larvotto beach yesterday before she’d met Franco. In a country covering less than one square mile how likely was she to be able to avoid him until the wedding once this obligatory date ended? The odds weren’t in her favor. “Let’s walk.”
A breeze stirred her hair. He caught a stray strand and tucked it behind her ear. The stroke of his finger on the sensitive skin along her jaw made her hormones riot and her pulse leap. “I would like to show you the view of Larvotto from my terrace. C’est incroyable.”
No matter how incredible the view she had no intention of seeing it. Get this date on an impersonal footing. “How is it that you know Vincent exactly?”
A knowing smile curved his lips, as if he knew she wanted to tread safer ground. He turned and led her down the sidewalk. “We shared an apartment during graduate
school.”
She frowned up at him. “But didn’t Vincent go to MIT?”
“Oui.”
“You lived in the States? No wonder your English is so good.” They turned the corner and the smell of Greek food from a nearby sidewalk café permeated the air. Her mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the cake overdose this morning.
“Midas Chocolates distributes product on six continents. It pays to be fluent in several languages. Interpreters are not always available or reliable.” He turned down a narrow alley she would have missed and stopped in front of a salmon-pink building with a red tiled roof. The only signage was the address in brass script above an unremarkable wooden door. “Here we are.”
“This is a restaurant? It looks like a private residence.” She’d hoped for something less intimate, like one of the numerous cafés lining the streets. She still couldn’t get over how people brought their pets into restaurants. Stacy pulled her arm free on the pretext of adjusting her wrap and instantly missed his body heat even on this sultry night. Get over it.
“It is a secret kept by the locals. Good food. Good music. Exceptional company.”
She cursed the flush warming her skin. The man issued compliments too easily, and she didn’t intend to be swayed by his glib tongue. She’d been burned by insincere flattery once before. The humiliating aftermath wasn’t something she wanted to relive.
He opened the door with one hand. The other curved behind her waist, palm splayed. She could feel the imprint through the thin fabric of her dress as he guided her forward. She hurried inside only to stop suddenly in the tiled foyer.
This must have been someone’s home once, but now a maître d’s stand occupied the niche beneath a curving staircase. The dining rooms Stacy could see to the left and right were furnished with half a dozen widely spaced, candlelit tables draped in white linens. Crystal and silver glinted in the flickering light, and music played quietly in the background. Intimate, but not unbearably so. Some of Stacy’s tension eased. She could handle this.
But internal alarm bells rang as the hostess led them upstairs and finally stopped in a small private room with only one table. This very likely had once been a bedroom. Any plans Stacy might have had to keep this meal impersonal by watching the other patrons or trying to translate their conversations evaporated. The same music she’d heard downstairs drifted through exterior doors left open to a wrought-iron railed balcony. A gentle flower-scented breeze stirred the sheer curtains and made the candle flames dance.
Franco seated her. She startled when his fingertips brushed her upper arms, dragging her wrap back so that it bared her shoulders. He draped the lace over her chair, and then sat at a right angle to her, his knee touching hers beneath the table. She shifted away from the contact, but that didn’t stop the buzz of awareness vibrating through her.
An older man entered. He and Franco held a rapid-fire discussion Stacy couldn’t understand, and then he departed. “Was that French?”
“Non. Monégasque, the local dialect. It’s a combination of French and Italian.”
“Is that what you were speaking at your shop the day we met?”
“Oui, but French is the language spoken most often in Monaco. Do you speak French?”
“A little. I had the required two semesters in college and then I listened to some instructional CDs before coming here.”
He covered her hand with his on the table and stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse bolted like a startled rabbit. “You may practice on me, if you wish.”
The spark in his eyes said she needn’t limit her practice to the language. Stacy pulled her hand free and tangled her fingers in her lap. Looking away, she chewed the inside of her lip and tried to ignore the tension knotting low in her belly.
Their server returned with a tray of tiny stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms, poured the wine and departed even though they hadn’t ordered yet.
“There aren’t any menus?”
“Non. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.”
Trust. He couldn’t possibly know how difficult it was for her to trust anyone but herself. “What if I have food allergies?”
“Do you?”
“No,” she admitted, feeling slightly ashamed for being difficult. She sipped her wine, sampled a crab-stuffed tomato and struggled to find a topic that would dilute the romantic atmosphere. “I was surprised to discover that Monaco relies heavily on French laws, including the French wedding ceremony and that they’ve removed the promise of fidelity from their vows. Why is that? Can French men not be faithful?”
Franco sat back, the smile slipping from his face. “I was faithful to my wife.”
That doused the warmth in her belly. “You’re married?”
“Divorced.” And bitter by the sounds of that one bitten-off word. “You?”
“I’ve never been married.” She’d never even been in a long-term relationship. She’d had one clumsy encounter in high school and a brief intimate relationship with a guy from work. She shoved the bad memories back into their cave. “How long were you married?”
“Five years.”
“What happened?” None of her business really, but she’d never met a divorcé who didn’t want to talk about the unpleasant experience, and dull as it may be, hearing about someone else’s dirty laundry was better than having Franco focus his seductive charms on her.
He shrugged, but the movement seemed stiff instead of casual. “We wanted different things.”
“Do you have any children?”
“Non.”
Had she imagined his hesitation? “Do you keep in touch?”
“I have not seen Lisette since the divorce.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Absolument.”
Absolutely. She studied Franco, trying to gauge his sincerity. His direct gaze showed no doubts, no prevarications.
Her father hadn’t willingly let go. Had that been because he’d loved her mother so much or because he’d considered her a possession, as the therapists had said? Stacy shook off the questions to which she’d never have answers and focused on her date. “Have you always lived in Monaco?”
“Non. I grew up outside Avignon, France. My family home is still there. I relocated my residence and Midas Chocolates headquarters here eight years ago after my divorce.” His expression turned speculative. “You are trying very hard not to enjoy our evening, Stacy. Why is that?”
He read her too easily. “You’re mistaken.”
“Then prove me wrong by dancing with me.”
When he put it that way how could she refuse? “I’m not much of a dancer.”
He rose, pulled back her chair and offered his hand. “Pas un problème. I will guide you. Relax. I am not going to devour you before dessert.”
But after dessert, then what? She wanted to ask, but she was too overwhelmed by his proximity to form the words. He laced his fingers through hers and rested their joined hands over his heart. She could feel the steady thump against her knuckles. He looped his other arm around her waist, spreading his palm over the base of her spine and pressing his chin to her temple. He held her as close as a lover with his thighs brushing hers. Too close. She tried to retreat, but the muscles hidden beneath his expensive suit flexed and held fast.
Her breath quickened. His scent, a blend of tangy lime and something totally masculine filled her nostrils. Her mouth dried and her skin steamed. She could barely hear the music to which he swayed over her thudding heart. Regardless of how unwise it might be she could feel herself weakening and wanting to give in to the desire that welled inside her each time he was near.
Pressing her palm against his lapel, she angled her upper body away from his. The move had the unfortunate consequence of aligning their faces. His mouth was much too near. If she rose on her tiptoes she could—
No. She couldn’t.
“Where is the music coming from?”
His ind
ulgent half smile sent a spiral of need through her. “There is a string quartet on the terrace.”
He danced her through the open doors and then raised his arm for her to spin, but instead of letting her turn a full circle he caught her with her back to his chest and held her facing the flower-filled courtyard below the balcony.
Stacy gasped at the hot length of him spooning her back and then she lifted her gaze from the couples whirling around the flagstone dance floor and the air left her lungs in a long, appreciative, “Wow.”
The rocky terrain of Monaco spread out in front of her. One thing about having a country clinging to the side of the mountain was that no matter where you looked you had a postcard-worthy view. Lights twinkled on the landscape like constellations blanketing a clear night sky, and in the distance she could see a brightly lit cruise ship anchored in the harbor. “It’s beautiful.”
His breath stirred the hair at her temple a second before his lips touched her skin. “And so are you.”
He cupped her shoulders and turned her to face him. His palms glided down her arms and then he grasped the railing on either side of her, caging her between a twenty-foot drop and temptation. Either one could leave her broken. The warmth of the iron railing pressed her back, but the heat of his hips and thighs against hers set her afire. He feathered a kiss on one corner of her mouth and then the other. Teasing, fleeting, tantalizing kisses. Insubstantial and unsatisfying.
Her insides quivered and she wanted more. She wanted him to kiss her—to really kiss her—in a way she’d never wanted any man before, and that was dangerous territory. It had to be Madeline’s talk of a vacation affair making Stacy yearn for what she couldn’t have.
“Come home with me tonight, Stacy. Je veux faire l’amour avec toi.”
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