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About the Author

EMILIE ROSE lives in North Carolina with her college sweetheart husband and four sons. Writing is Emilie’s third (and hopefully her last) career. She managed a medical office and ran a home day care, neither of which offers half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include quilting, gardening and cooking (especially cheesecake). Her favourite TV shows include ER, CSI and Discovery Channel’s medical programs. Emilie’s a country music fan because she can find an entire book in almost any song.

Letters can be mailed to:

Emilie Rose

PO Box 20145

Raleigh, NC 27619

E-mail: EmilieRoseC@aol.com

Monte Carlo
Affairs

The Millionaire’s Indecent Proposal

The Prince’s Ultimate Deception

The Playboy’s Passionate Pursuit

Emilie Rose

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Millionaire’s
Indecent Proposal

Emilie Rose

Dear Reader,

What could possibly be more delicious than a sexy French chocolatier? I had more fun writing Franco Constantine than I have had with any hero in a very long time. Franco is a true sensualist—a man who believes he knows what he wants and how to get it. I am so glad Stacy Reeves came along to show him the error of his thinking. :)

Throw in a vicarious holiday in magical Monaco and writing this story was an absolute pleasure. I’ve been fascinated with Monaco since my school days when I begged my parents to allow me to go to Amherst College in Massachusetts, the alma mater of Prince Albert of Monaco. I was convinced I could make him my prince if only I could meet him. Fate had other plans. I attended college near home, but I did indeed meet my prince.

Happy reading!

Emilie Rose

Bron, Juliet, Sally and Wanda,

you know this book would not have happened without

you. Thanks, ladies, for keeping me on the road.

MJ, thanks for the spark that gave me Franco.

Prologue

“Must you marry every woman you sleep with?” Franco Constantine demanded of his father. Furious, he paced the salon of the family chateau outside Avignon, France. “This one is younger than me.”

His father shrugged and smiled—the smile of a besotted old fool. “I’m in love.”

“No, Papa, you’re in lust. Again. We cannot afford another one of your expensive divorce settlements. Our cash reserves are tied up in expanding Midas Chocolates. For God’s sake, if you refuse to have a prenuptial agreement, then at least sign everything over to me before you marry her and jeopardize our business and the family properties with mistake number five.”

Armand shook his head. “Angeline is not a mistake. She is a blessing.”

Franco had met the misnamed harpy at lunch. She was no angel. But he knew from past experience his father would not listen when a woman had him transfixed. “I disagree.”

Armand rested a hand on Franco’s shoulder. “I hate to see you so bitter, Franco. Granted, your ex-wife was a selfish bitch, but not all women are.”

“You’re wrong. Women are duplicitous and mercenary creatures. There is nothing I want from one that I cannot buy.”

“If you’d stop dating spoiled rich women and find someone with traditional values like Angeline, you’d find a woman who would love you for yourself and not your money.”

“Wrong. And if your paramour loves you and not your wealth, she’ll stick by you once you’ve divested yourself, and I won’t have to borrow against our estate again, close stores or lay off workers when your ardor cools and her lawyers start circling.”

“If you want to control the Constantine holdings so badly, then marry.”

“I won’t endanger the family assets by marrying again.”

“And what of an heir? Someone to inherit all this when you and I are gone?” Armand’s sweeping gesture encompassed the chateau which had been in the family for hundreds of years.

Something in his father’s tone raised the hackles on the back of Franco’s neck. “Is Angeline pregnant?”

“No. But son, you are thirty-eight. I should be bouncing grandbabies on my knee by now. Since you’re not willing to provide heirs to our estate then I think perhaps I should. Angeline is only thirty. I could have several more sons and daughters by her before I die.”

“You can’t be serious. You’re seventy-five.”

His father speared him with a hard glance. “If you marry before my September wedding, I’ll sign everything over to you. If you do not …” He extended his arms and shrugged. “I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Franco could easily find a woman to marry. Any number of his acquaintances would agree, but the stench of his ex-wife’s betrayal still clung to him. He’d been a young love-struck fool, blind to Lisette’s faults and her treachery. He would never let a woman dupe him like that again. Marriage was out of the question.

He stood toe to toe with his father. “If I find one of these mythical paragons and prove she’s just as greedy as the rest of her sex, then you will sign the Constantine properties over to me without a parody of a marriage on my part.”

“Prove it how exactly?”

How indeed? “I’ll offer her a million euros for the use of her body for one month without the pretense of love or the possibility of marriage. That amount is but a fraction of what each of your divorces has cost us.”

“I accept your terms, but don’t try to weasel out of this by finding an impossible woman. She must be one who you find attractive and beddable, and who you would be willing to marry if she cannot be bought.”

A woman who could not be bought. No such animal existed.

Confident he would win, Franco extended his hand to shake on the deal. Victory would not only be sweet, it would be easy, and his father’s most recent parasite would not get the chance to sink her fangs in the family coffers and suck them dry.

One

“Le chocolat qui vaut son poids en or,” Stacy Reeves read the gilt script on the shop window aloud. “What does that mean?” she asked her friend Candace without looking away from the mouthwatering display of chocolates on gold-rimmed plates.

“Chocolate worth its weight in gold,” a slightly accented and thoroughly masculine voice replied. Definitely not Candace.

Surprised, Stacy pivoted on her sandaled foot. Wow. Forget chocolate. The dark-haired blue-eyed hunk in front of her looked good enough to eat.

“Would you care for a piece, mademoiselle? My treat.” Monsieur Gorgeous indicated the shop door with his hand. A silver-toned, wafer-thin watch winked beneath his suit sleeve. Platinum, she’d bet, from the affluent look of what had to be a custom-tailored suit. Nothing from a department store would fit those broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs so perfectly.

Never mind that she’d probably dream of licking chocolate from the deep cleft in his chin tonight, Stacy had learned the hard way that when something looked too good to be true it was. Always. A seductively sexy stranger offering free gourmet chocolate had to be a setup because sophisticated guys like him didn’t go for practical accountants like her. And her simple lilac sundress and sensible walking sandals weren’t the stuff of which male fantasies were made.

She glanced up and down the Boulevard des Moulins, one of the principality of Monaco’s shopping streets, searching for her friend. Candace was nowhere in sight, but she had to be behind Mr. Delectable’s appearance and offer. Her friend had joked about finding husbands for each of her bridesmaids before her wedding in four weeks time. At least Stacy had thought she was joking. Until now.

Stacy tilted her head, considered the man in question and gave him a saccharine smile. “Does that line usually work for you with American tourists?”

The corners of his oh-so-tempting lips twitched and his eyes glinted with humor beneath thick, straight eyebrows. He pressed a ringless left hand to his chest. “You wound me, mademoiselle.”

With his fantasy good looks he had to have an epic ego to match. “I sincerely doubt it.”

She scanned the sidewalks again looking for her MIA friend. Anything would be better than embarrassing herself by drooling over something she couldn’t have. Namely him or the five-dollar—make that euro—per-piece candy.

“You are looking for someone? A lover, perhaps?”

Lover. Just hearing him say the word, rolling that R, gave her goose bumps.

“A friend.” One who’d been right behind her seconds ago. Candace must have ducked into one of the quaint shops nearby, either to purchase something wedding-related or to spy if she was the one responsible for this encounter. After all, stopping by the chocolate shop had been Candace’s idea.

“May I assist you in locating your friend?”

He had the most amazing voice. Deep and velvety. Was the accent French or native Monégasque? Stacy could listen to him talk for hours.

No. She couldn’t. She was here with Candace, the bride-to-be, and two other bridesmaids to help prepare for Candace’s wedding the first weekend in July, not to have a vacation romance.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Before Stacy could walk away, Candace popped out of the shop next door waving a scrap of lace.

“Stacy, I found the most exquisitely embroidered …” She trailed off as she spotted the Adonis beside Stacy. Surprise arched her pale eyebrows. “…handkerchief.”

Maybe this wasn’t a set-up. Stacy rocked back on her heels, folded her arms and waited for the inevitable. Candace had naturally white-blond hair and big baby-blue eyes. Her innocent Alice-in-Wonderland looks tended to bowl men over. No doubt this guy would fall at Candace’s dainty feet. Stacy had never had that problem and that suited her fine. Forever wasn’t in the cards for her. She’d never trust a man that much.

“Mademoiselle.” Tall, Dark and Tempting bowed slightly. “I am trying to convince vôtre amie to allow me to gift to her un chocolat, but she questions my intentions. Perhaps if I buy you both lunch she will see that I’m quite harmless.”

Harmless? Ha! He radiated smooth charm in the way that only a European man could.

A cunning smile curved Candace’s lips and her eyes narrowed on Stacy. Uh-oh. Stacy stiffened. Whenever she saw that expression, someone was getting ready to try and pull a fast one on the IRS, and that meant trouble for Stacy, their accountant. “I’m sorry, Monsieur …? I didn’t catch your name.”

He offered his hand. “Constantine. Franco Constantine.”

Recognition sparked in Candace’s eyes, but the name meant nothing to Stacy. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Monsieur Constantine. My fiancé, Vincent Reynard, has spoken of you often. I’m Candace Meyers, and this is my one of my bridesmaids, Stacy Reeves.”

Mr. Wonderful’s considerable charms shone back on Stacy with the heat of the noonday sun. He offered his hand. Darn protocol. She’d been warned during the hours-long etiquette session delivered by Candace’s soon-to-be sister-in-law that the inhabitants of this tiny country were quite formal and polite. Refusing to shake his hand would be an insult.

Franco’s fingers closed around Stacy’s. Warm. Firm. Lingering. His charisma spread over Stacy like butter on hot bread. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

She snatched her hand free and blamed the spark skipping up her arm on static electricity caused by the warm, dry climate. A predatory gleam flashed in his eyes, and warning prickles marched down Stacy’s spine. Dangerous.

He turned back to Candace. “May I offer my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials, Mademoiselle Meyers? Vincent is a lucky man.”

“Thank you, monsieur, and I would love to accept your luncheon invitation, but I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. I have a meeting with the caterer in an hour. Stacy, however, is free for the rest of the afternoon.”

Stacy’s jaw dropped. She snapped it closed and glared at her friend. Embarrassment burned her cheeks. “I am not. I’m here to help you plan your wedding. Remember?”

“Madeline, Amelia and I have everything under control. You have a nice lunch. We’ll catch up with you tonight before we go to the casino. Oh, and monsieur, the hotel has already received your RSVP to the wedding and the rehearsal dinner. Merci. Au revoir.” Candace waggled her fingers and departed.

Stacy considered murder. But she’d read that Monaco had a truly impressive police force. There was no way she could get away with strangling the petite blonde in broad daylight on a crowded street, and rotting away in a European prison wasn’t exactly the financially secure future she had planned for herself.

A plan now in jeopardy.

Worry immediately weighted her shoulders, but she slammed the barriers in place. Stop it. This is Candace’s month. Don’t ruin it for her.

But Stacy wasn’t the type to hide her head in the sand. She knew she had some difficult days ahead. Not now. You have a more urgent problem standing in front of you. She blinked away her distressing thoughts and examined the man problem. She hadn’t missed Candace’s not-so-subtle hint that Franco Constantine was close enough to the Reynards to have been invited to the intimate rehearsal dinner for only a dozen or so guests.

In other words, play nice.

Franco grasped Stacy’s bare elbow as if he knew making a fast escape topped her to-do list. She felt those long fingers clear down to her toes, and it rattled her that an impersonal touch from a stranger could wreak havoc on her metabolism.

“If you will give me but a moment, Mademoiselle Reeves, I must speak to the shopkeeper, and then I am at your disposal.”

He escorted Stacy inside the chocolate shop. The heavenly aroma was enough to give her a willpower-melting sugar rush. After greeting the clerk, Franco commenced a conversation in rapid-fire French …or something that sounded like French.

Stacy shamelessly eavesdropped while perusing the offerings in the glass cases, but she only managed to translate every tenth word or so. Despite the money-back guarantee on the box of Speak French in 30 Days CDs she had listened to during the month prior to leaving Charlotte, North Carolina, she wasn’t prepared for natives speaking the language at Grand Prix speed.

She caught a hint of crisp, citrus cologne and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Without looking over her shoulder she knew Franco stood immediately behind her. After bracing herself against his potent virility, she turned.

“Mademoiselle?” He held a sinful morsel aloft. What else could she do but take a bite? Her teeth sank into dark chocolate and a tart cherry. Her eyes closed and she fought a moan as she chewed. Ohmigod. Yum. Yum. Yum.

Cherry juice dribbled on her chin, but before she could wipe it away Franco’s thumb caught it and pressed it between her lips. Knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to think of a way to avoid it, Stacy swallowed and then darted out her tongue. The taste of blatantly sexy male combined with the most decadently rich chocolate she’d ever sampled slammed her with sexual arousal like nothing she’d ever experienced.

She dragged a sobering breath through her nose and struggled to fortify her quaking ramparts. Before she could make her excuses and bolt, Franco lifted the second half of the candy to her mouth. She tried to evade his touch, but his thumb grazed her bottom lip, and then, holding her gaze, he lifted the digit to his mouth and licked the remaining confection from his skin with one slow swipe.

Her pulse stuttered. Gulp. Seduction in a suit. The chocolate hit her stomach like a wrecking ball, and the desire in Franco’s eyes rolled over her like a heat wave, intensifying the disturbing reactions clamoring inside her.

“Shall we dine, mademoiselle?” He offered his arm in a courtly gesture.

There was no way she could go to lunch with him. Franco Constantine was too … too … too everything. Too attractive. Too confident. And judging by his apparel, too rich for her. She couldn’t afford to become involved with such a powerful man. If she did, she could very well repeat her mother’s mistakes and spend the rest of her life paying for it.

She backed toward the exit. “I’m sorry. I just remembered I have a … a dress fitting.”

She yanked open the shop’s glass door and fled.

Stacy slammed into the luxurious four-bedroom penthouse suite she shared with Candace, Amelia and Madeline at the five-star Hôtel Reynard. There were perks in having a friend marrying the hotel chain owner’s son.

All three women looked up from the sitting area.

“Why are you back so soon?” Candace asked.

“Why did you throw me at that man?” Stacy fumed.

Candace tsked. “Stacy, what am I going to do with you? Franco is perfect for you, and the sparks between the two of you nearly set the shop’s awning on fire. You should have had lunch with him. Do you know who he is? His family owns Midas Chocolates.”

“The shop?”

“The globally famous company. Godiva’s number-one competitor. We have a store in Charlotte. Franco’s the CEO of the whole shebang and one of Vincent’s best friends. He happens to be absolutely yummy.”

No argument there. “I’m not looking for a vacation fling.”

Madeline, a nurse in her early thirties, swept her long, dark curls off her face. “Then let me have him. From Candace’s description before you arrived Franco sounds beyond sexy. A short, intense affair with no messy endings sounds perfect, and I won’t have to worry about getting dumped because we’ll be leaving after the wedding anyway.”

A vacation affair. Stacy couldn’t imagine ever being so nonchalant about intimacy. Intimacy made her feel vulnerable which is probably why she avoided it 99 percent of the time. In her nomadic life she’d never had a friendship that lasted more than a few months until she and Candace had bonded over an IRS audit three years ago when the large accounting firm Stacy worked for had assigned her to Candace’s case. Having a friend was a new experience—one Stacy liked—even if she did sometimes feel like an outsider with this trio of hospital workers. Madeline and Amelia were Candace’s friends, but Stacy hoped they’d be hers too by the time they left Monaco. Otherwise, if Candace moved away after the wedding Stacy would have no one. Again.

But the idea of Madeline with Franco made Stacy uneasy, which was absolutely ridiculous considering she’d spent less than ten minutes in the man’s company, and she had no claim on him. Nor did she want one. Could she have a vacation romance? No. Absolutely not. It just wasn’t in her cautious makeup.

“So, is he sexy?” asked Amelia, the starry-eyed romantic of the group.

The women’s expressions told Stacy they expected some kind of response. But what? She knew nothing about girl talk. “Yes. B-but in a dangerous way.”

“Dangerous?” the three parroted in unison, and then Candace asked, “How so? Franco seemed perfectly civilized to me and very polite.”

None of these women knew about Stacy’s childhood. And she didn’t want to share the shameful details. Not now. Not ever. From the time Stacy was eight years old she’d known she and her mother were running from something every time they packed up—or not—and moved to a new city. Stacy hadn’t figured out from what or whom until it was too late.

She swallowed the nausea rising in her throat. “Franco Constantine exudes power and money. If things went wrong between you, he could afford to track you down no matter how far you ran.”

The women looked as if her answer made no sense to them. But it made perfect sense to Stacy. Her father had been a wealthy man. When he’d abused his wife the authorities had looked the other way, and when she’d run he’d used his resources to track her down. It had taken him eleven years to get even.

Wealthy, powerful men bent the rules to suit their needs, and they considered themselves above the law. Therefore, Stacy did her best to avoid them.

Franco Constantine definitely fell into the Avoid column.

***

Franco studied Stacy Reeves from across the casino. She was perfect for his purpose, exactly the type of female his father had described. And he would have her. No matter the cost. With women there was always a cost. The question was, would she be worth it?

Without a doubt.

In all his thirty-eight years he’d never had such an instant visceral reaction to a woman before. Not even to his ex-wife. From the moment he’d caught the reflection of Stacy’s expressive eyes in the shop window this morning he had wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the chocolate. Ravenously.

The contrast between her demure dress, the reserve she wore like a cloak and those hungry eyes had intrigued him. The touch of her tongue on his finger had electrified him. If she could arouse him with such a small gesture, then he couldn’t wait to experience the results of a more intimate encounter.

A quick call to Vincent had garnered him a few pertinent details about Mademoiselle Reeves and had confirmed that she was suitable for his needs. Yes, playing his father’s game would indeed be pleasurable.

Franco ordered two glasses of champagne and made his way toward her. She stood back from the roulette table in the Café de Paris, observing the trio of women she’d come in with, but not participating in the gambling. In fact, she hadn’t made a single wager since she’d arrived half an hour ago.

Tonight she’d twisted her shoulder-length chestnut hair up on the back of her head, revealing a pale nape, a slender neck and delicate ears he could not wait to nibble. Her floor-length gown—a sleeveless affair the color of aged ivory—gently outlined her curves but unfortunately covered her remarkable legs. She’d draped a lacy wrap over her shoulders and strapped on high-heeled gold sandals.

Elegant. Subtle. Desirable.

Mais oui. They would be magnificent together. Anticipation quickened his blood as he reached her side. He paused long enough to savor her scent. Gardenias. Sultry, yet sweet. “Vous êtes très belle ce soir, mademoiselle.”

She startled and turned. “Monsieur Constantine.”

“Franco.” He offered a flute and ignored her stiff, unwelcoming posture. Her blue-green eyes, as changeable as the Mediterranean, were more azure than they’d been earlier in the day. What color would they be when they made love? He had every intention of finding out.

After a moment’s hesitation she accepted the drink. “Merci, Mon—”

He covered her fingers with his on the fragile crystal, stilling her words. He wanted to hear his name on her lips. “Franco,” he repeated.

Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue glided over her plump cherry-red flesh. He nearly gave in to the need to taste her, but he restrained himself with no small effort. She was skittish. He had to move slowly if he wanted to successfully close this deal.

“Franco.” She gave his name the French pronunciation not the nasally American one he’d grown to hate during his graduate studies in the U.S.

He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “À nous.”

She blinked and frowned. “I’m sorry?”

“To us, Stacy.” She hadn’t given him leave to use her name, and he was taking liberties—the first of many he intended to take with the alluring American.

Her eyes darkened and rejection stamped her fine features, but her cheeks pinked. “I don’t think—”

“Monsieur Constantine,” a feminine voice interrupted.

He reluctantly released Stacy’s hand, and forcing his lips into a polite smile, turned to the trio of women. “Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles.”

Vincent’s fiancée introduced her friends, and while etiquette decreed Franco greet each lady, every fragment of his being remained focused on the woman who would soon be his lover. He noticed each nervous shift of Stacy’s body, heard the sounds of her silk dress sliding over her skin the way his hands soon would, and he relished the catch of her breath as he deliberately brushed against her when he motioned for a waiter. He ordered beverages for each of the women and then held Stacy’s gaze as she lifted her flute to her mouth. He mimicked her actions, wishing it were her warm lips against his instead of the cool glass.

The brunette Madeline sidled closer, making her interest known with her direct stare and come-hither stance while the auburn-haired Amelia blushed and looked away from the other woman’s bold behavior. Both women were attractive, but he only had eyes for Stacy. Eventually, the trio turned back to the roulette wheel, affording him the privacy with his quarry he craved. Or as much privacy as one could have in a crowded casino.

“Have you wagered?” He knew she hadn’t. He’d been watching.

“No.”

He reached in his pocket, retrieved a handful of chips and offered them to her. “Try your luck?”

Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “That’s ten thousand doll—euros.”

“Oui.”

Wide-eyed, she backed away. “No. No, thank you.”

“You wish to play for higher stakes? We can go to the Salon Touzeta, if you like.”

“That’s a private room.”

“Oui.”

She looked at her friends, as if hoping they’d rescue her, but the wheel held their attention. “I don’t gamble.”

The more she refused, the more he wanted her. Was she playing hard to get to torment him or to raise her price? Very likely both. But he would win. Since his wife’s betrayal he always did. “You owe me the pleasure of your company at a meal.”

Wary eyes locked with his. “Why me? Why not someone who’s interested and willing?” A slight tilt of her head indicated her brunette companion.

He shrugged. “Who knows why a body sings for one and not the other?”

Her lace wrap slipped from her shoulder. Franco lifted his hand and dragged a knuckle along the exposed skin of her upper arm. Her shiver before she stepped out of reach gratified him. She would be a responsive lover. “Have dinner with me, Stacy.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “If you choose not to see me privately again afterward, then I will accept your decision.”

Her chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”

Enjoying her cat-and-mouse game, he smiled. Her breath caught audibly. Bien. The attraction wasn’t one-sided. “Then you and your friends will be seeing me quite often.”

Slightly imperfectly aligned white teeth captured her bottom lip. How had she escaped the American obsession with a perfect smile? “One dinner. That’s it?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. Because I can take no for an answer when the woman really means it.”

Her shoulders squared. “I mean it.”

He could not prevent a small smile. “Non. Your mouth says one thing, but your beautiful eyes say another. You want to have dinner with me.”

Her cheeks flushed and her kissable lips compressed. She nodded sharply. “One dinner and then you leave me alone.”

A surge of adrenaline shot through him at the small success. He touched his champagne flute to hers. Victory was within his grasp.

“À nous, Stacy. Nous serons magnifiques ensemble.”

Two

Nous serons magnifiques ensemble.

“We will be magnificent together.” Stacy groaned and tossed her French-to-English-to-French dictionary on the coffee table. Her flushed skin and restlessness had nothing to do with the morning sun streaming through the hotel sitting room’s open curtains or her eagerness to get out and see more of Monaco. The blame for her twitchiness could be placed solely on the desire in Franco’s eyes last night when he’d said the mysterious phrase before taking his leave.

She’d dreamed about him, about those hungry eyes and that deeply cleft chin. No surprise there, since the man’s blatant sexiness was an assault on her senses.

Franco Constantine was pursuing her and she had no idea why. The country was full of more beautiful, more sophisticated and more available women, but for some incomprehensible reason he wanted her. And, like it or not, as foolish as it might be—and it was incredibly foolish—she was attracted to him too. Scary, heady stuff. Her instincts told her to blow him off, but his friendship with Vincent made that tricky. Stacy couldn’t afford to be rude and risk upsetting Candace.

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 indulgent 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.”

I want to make love with you. Blood rushed to her head and then drained with dizzying speed to settle low in her belly. She closed her eyes, bit her lip and shook her head. “I can’t.”

But she wanted to. She really, really wanted to. Sex had never been the exciting event for her that everyone claimed it was. She had a feeling it would be with Franco, but he was exactly the kind of man she’d sworn to avoid.

“Non? Because even though your mouth tells me no, this—” his head bent and his lips scorched a brief kiss over the frantically beating pulse in her neck “—this says yes.”

Torn between desire and common sense she pressed her palms against his chest and prayed for the strength to keep refusing. A flash of movement beyond his shoulder caught her eye. She sent up a silent thank-you for the reprieve. “The waiter is back.”

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 breasts 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 breasts rose and fell rapidly, the tight nipples 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.”

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.

Why not? You want to.

She’d have to be crazy to risk it. From what she’d seen of his home Franco had to be ten times wealthier than she’d suspected. And ten times sexier. He arouses you with nothing more than words. Why not give those big hands a try? It’s not like you’re ever going to let yourself fall in love with anyone. So why hold out?

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Candace interrupted Stacy’s illicit thoughts. “I can’t imagine living like this.”

Stacy pushed aside the tantalizing images. “Neither can I. It must be a real power rush to have enough money to buy whatever you want. We should find a shady spot to sit and wait for Franco.”

“He knows about the baby, doesn’t he? Did you tell him?” Candace asked as they strolled toward the shady covered loggia.

“Yes, he knows. Vincent told him.”

“I should have guessed Vincent would. He’s very protective, and he would trust Franco not to betray our little secret.” Candace plopped onto a rattan lounge chair covered by a deep white cushion, lay back and closed her eyes. “Wouldn’t it be great to live in paradise like this only two doors apart?”

Stacy chose a chair. She couldn’t relax in Franco’s home—not with him stalking her like a predatory beast. And then Candace’s meaning sank in. “There’s nothing like that between Franco and me.”

“Oh please. He undresses you with his eyes whenever he thinks I’m not looking. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

Stacy had noticed, and she was ashamed to admit the desire simmering in Franco’s gaze sent a reciprocal surge through her. At least she assumed that achy, itchy tension was desire. No one had ever made her feel as attractive or feminine in her life, and she’d certainly never looked at a man and wondered how his hands would feel on her body. What would it be like to experience that kind of passion? Did she dare risk it?

“Sex is all he wants.”

“Honey, that’s all any man wants at first.” Candace yawned.

“True. But I’m not looking for a husband.”

“Then why not do as Madeline suggested and enjoy what Franco’s offering? Other than Vincent, Franco is unquestionably the sexiest man I’ve ever met. My God, his accent just melts me, and you have to admit he’s not hard on the eyes. You’ll never get a chance to live like this again. I confess I’m thoroughly enjoying the five-star treatment. But I wish Vincent was here.”

Stacy wanted to tell Candace about Franco’s insulting proposition, but she didn’t dare because telling her friend meant confessing how tempting Stacy found the offer. “Doesn’t Vincent’s wealth ever … concern you?”

Candace rolled to her side and met Stacy’s gaze. “You mean do I worry that he’ll use his money and influence to hurt me? No, I don’t. I trust Vincent. Stacy, you haven’t said much about your past, but from the bits you’ve let slip I’m guessing some rich guy did a number on you. Whoever he was, you can’t let him screw up the rest of your life. Not all rich men are jerks. And you know, I don’t think you’ve dated or gotten laid since I met you. Aren’t you overdue?”

“I’ve dated.” Twice, in three years. Pitiful. But sex? No. She needed more than a couple of dates to let her guard down with someone. If she ever could. And now that she thought about it, she probably never had, which was very likely the reason her last brief relationship had ended.

“Stacy, you’ve heard my sob story about the visiting surgeon who wooed me, bedded me and then returned home to the wife and kids I didn’t know he had. Loving and losing that jerk burned me, but then I met Vincent and realized that sometimes you have to trust your heart and move on or be stuck in the past forever.” Candace yawned again. “Do you mind if I close my eyes until Franco gets back?”

“No, go ahead.” Questions and doubts tumbled through Stacy’s mind. Was she stuck in the past? Had she given her father and that one tragic night too much power over her life? Or was she merely being prudent? If she didn’t face her fears would she continue running from them indefinitely? Running, the way she and her mother had done for eleven years of Stacy’s life. After losing her mother, Stacy had sworn she’d stop running and put down roots.

Roots a million euros could buy.

She stared at the pool and the water pouring over the ledge. She’d said no to Franco’s proposition and she’d meant it. Deep in her heart she knew sleeping with him for the money was the wrong thing to do, but her practical side couldn’t completely dismiss the idea of a lifetime of financial security in return for a month of intimacy with a man she desired like no other.

The mental debate circled her thoughts like an annoying, persistent mosquito no matter how often she swatted it away. Was Franco’s offer too good to be true or was this an opportunity to put her past to bed and secure her future?

Trusting him when she barely knew him went against everything her mother had taught her about being wary of strangers. If only she had more time to discover whether power and money had corrupted Franco, but he’d given her only twenty-four hours to make a life-altering decision. Half of those hours had already passed.

The rattle of crockery drew her gaze to Franco crossing the terrace with a tray in his hands. His biceps bulged under the weight. He paused, his gaze landing on Candace. “She sleeps?”

Candace didn’t stir. Stacy shrugged. “I guess so.”

He nodded toward the house, turned and retraced his path. Stacy hesitated, but then rose and followed. Franco’s kitchen was a combination of old-world charm and modern convenience—a cook’s dream of dark cabinetry, glossy countertops and top-of-the-line appliances. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. He set the tray on the table. “You did not eat breakfast. You must be hungry.”

She studied the array of fruits, cheeses and chocolates. He also had a coffee carafe, a pitcher of orange juice and a couple of bottles of sparkling water. “Your housekeeper did this?”

“You think I am not capable of feeding my guests?”

“I don’t know you well enough to know what to think.” And therein lay the crux of her dilemma. Part of her wanted to explore the way he made her feel and part of her wanted to play it safe.

“My housekeeper comes twice a week. The rest of the time I fend for myself. Eat, please. Or would you prefer I feed you?” He lifted a candy. “These are the chocolate-covered cherries you enjoyed the day we met. I would like to taste it on your tongue.”

Her breath snagged. She staggered back a step, but that wasn’t nearly far enough. She needed a break from his overwhelming charisma because she was perilously close to caving. “I need the restroom.”

“Bien sûr. This way.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth and led her down a hall, through a set of arched double doors, and he then stepped aside and gestured to another door. “C’est là.”

Stacy stood frozen in what could only be Franco’s bedroom. A huge wooden bed covered in a red-and-gold nubby silk spread dominated the otherwise black-and-white space. “You, uh … don’t have a guest bathroom?”

“Of course, but I wanted to see you in my bedroom, and I wanted you, mon gardénia, to imagine yourself in my bed and in my bath with my hands and my mouth on your skin. As I have done.”

The tantalizing vision exploded in her mind in vivid Technicolor, and a fine tremor rippled over her. Her heart hammered and her mouth dried.

Franco didn’t attempt to touch her or coerce her by using the desire clearly visible in his blue eyes. He’d simply stated his wishes and left the rest to her.

One step and she’d have financial security for life and a lover who might possibly make sex enjoyable rather than endurable. And when she left there’d be an ocean between them.

She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

Play it safe? Or risk it all?