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.”