Emilie Rose - Monte Carlo Affairs - The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal

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.