Emilie Rose - Monte Carlo Affairs

Filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread, she’d returned to the hotel late in the afternoon. But there’d been no message from Franco. Stacy had shared a quiet meal at a sidewalk café with Candace and then gone to bed early, only to toss and turn all night.

How could she miss a man she didn’t even know? She blamed her uneasiness on not wanting to violate the terms of their agreement by being unavailable. It definitely wasn’t a desire to see him again. The warmth between her thighs called her a liar.

“Typical of a guy,” Candace continued, “he was stumped when I asked him what we should wear.”

Stacy reached for one of her three guide books, looked up the club and read aloud, “‘Jimmy’z—An exclusive dance club where the jet set hangs out. Dress code—casual to formal, but wear your designer labels.’”

Stacy didn’t own any designer labels.

“You three can go shopping after we tour the Oceanographic Museum and the cathedral this morning,” Candace said. “But I have an appointment with the stylist for a practice session on my wedding-day hairdo.”

Madeline shook her head. “Not me. I have plans for later.”

“Same here,” Amelia offered.

Stacy couldn’t afford anything new, and she refused to let Candace keep buying things for her. “I’ll find something in my closet.”

And just like that Franco undermined Stacy’s concentration for a second day. Every tall, dark-haired man she spotted in the distance Friday morning made her pulse spike, and no matter how impressive the sights, she kept thinking about Franco and the night ahead. Had it not been for her lack of sleep for the past three nights she wouldn’t have been dead to the world when the suite doorbell rang later that afternoon. Shoving her hair out of her eyes she stumbled groggily into the sitting room, opened the door to a hotel staff member.

“A package for Ms. Reeves,” he said.

“I’m Stacy Reeves.” She accepted the large rectangular pewter-colored box and the man turned away. “Wait. I’ll get a tip.”

“It’s been taken care of, mademoiselle. Bonsoir .”

He turned away. Stacy closed the door and leaned against it, her exhaustion totally eradicated. Only Franco would send her something. She pushed off the door and carried the package into her room. With trembling hands she plucked at the lavender ribbon and opened the box.

A folded piece of ivory stationery lay on top of the lavender tissue paper. She lifted it and read, For tonight.

No name. No signature. But the handwriting was the same as that on the card included with Franco’s flowers. Franco. She inhaled a shaky breath and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal a pile of teal garments, the same shade as the Mediterranean Sea outside the hotel windows.

She pulled out the first piece, a soft, silk camisole, and laid it on the bed. The second, a sheer, beaded wrap top, matched perfectly, as did the third, a handkerchief-hem skirt with the same beading on the edges as the wrap. She held the skirt against her body. It would be fitted from her waist through her hips, but the lower half would swish and swirl about her thighs as she moved. The perfect dancing outfit, and judging by the designer label, it probably cost more than her monthly rent and car payment combined.

And then her gaze caught on two more wrapped items in the bottom of the box. She unwound the tissue from the largest first and found strappy sandals to match the clothing. She slipped one on her bare foot. Perfect fit. In fact, everything looked as if it would fit. How had Franco known her sizes? Even she didn’t know the European conversions. Had Candace told him? Or was he so experienced with women he could accurately guess their sizes just by looking at them. Probably the latter.

She opened the last package, gasped and dropped the matching bra and thong in the exact same shade of teal on the bed. Heat rushed through her.

Franco was dressing her from the skin out. He’d bought the privilege to do so, just as he’d bought the right to undress her later if he chose.

Anticipation—or was it dread?—made her pulse race.

A wiser man would choose another woman, Franco told himself as he entered Hôtel Reynard a few minutes before midnight. Stacy had made him feel more than sexual relief—a luxury he no longer afforded himself. It would not happen again.

He had ignored her yesterday just to prove he could, but he had failed miserably. She had invaded his thoughts like a fever. If the family estate and the company he had sweated blood over were not at stake, he would bid her farewell. But it had taken him two months after making the agreement with his father to find a woman who met both his and his father’s criteria. Stacy came with the added benefit of leaving the country after the month was up. He would not have to deal with a clingy woman who refused to accept goodbye.

Nodding to the concierge, Franco stepped into the penthouse elevator and swiftly ascended. Tonight there would be no intimate conversations. He would dance with Stacy in the crowded, noisy club. Afterward he would send her suitemates back to the hotel in the limo and take Stacy to his villa where they would have sex. And then he would put her in a cab and send her back to the hotel. Alone.

He did not want to know her better—except intimately, of course. Nor did he want to discover what had made an attractive and intelligent woman completely unaware of her appeal, for she seemed to have absolutely no vanity.

The suite’s doorbell chimed when he touched the button, and seconds later the wooden panel swung open. Stacy. She took his breath away. His gaze absorbed her, from her loose shining hair to the outfit he had chosen, down her lovely legs to her pink-painted toenails in the sexy heels.

“ Tu es ravissante, mon gardénia ,” he murmured in a barely audible—thanks to the annoying thickening of this throat—voice.

Her cheeks pinked and she dipped her chin. “Thank you. And if I look ravishing it’s because of the lovely outfit. Thank you for that too. But you don’t have to buy—”

“The color matches your eyes when you climax,” he interrupted. Ignoring her shocked gasp, he reached for her right hand and bent to kiss her knuckles. At the same time he retrieved the diamond bracelet she had left behind from his pocket and fastened it on her wrist.

He straightened. “Are your suitemates ready? I have a limo downstairs.”

“Is that Franco?” Candace called from within the suite.

Fingering the bracelet, Stacy stepped back, opening the door and revealing the trio of women. “Yes. He has a limo waiting.”

“Then let’s go,” Madeline replied. “And Stace, if that’s the kind of stuff you have stashed in your closet I’m glad we’re the same size.”

Stacy shot him a quick glance as if warning him not to correct Madeline. “I need to get my purse.”

His gaze followed her as she walked away, the uneven hem of her skirt swinging flirtatiously above her knees. Knowing her buttocks were bare save the clinging fabric of her skirt and the thin ribbon of her thong made his blood pool behind his zipper. Nor could he take his eyes from her once she rejoined them. This fascination was not good. But it was temporary. He would get over it.

In the limo he settled beside her with the other women on the seat across from them. Stacy’s scent filled his nostrils and her legs drew his gaze. His fisted his hand against the compulsion to smooth his palm up her thigh.

He belatedly remembered the role Vincent had asked of him. “I have a table reserved beside the dance floor. The rules are different here than in the States. Unattached men and women dance freely without partners. If you see someone you wish to dance with you make eye contact, and if the interest is returned you move toward each other on the floor.”