“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Surprise superseded the sinking feeling over the confirmation that Stacy’s only friend was moving away.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