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