Monte Carlo Affairs. Emilie Rose
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but she took a deep breath and marched in. The furniture surfaces were clear of clutter. No photographs or knickknacks gave a clue to the room’s owner other than big, bold wooden furniture and luxurious linens. The classic landscapes on the wall also revealed little. She would not stoop to pawing through his drawers.
The view of Larvotto through the open drapes lured her, but she ignored it and cautiously opened a door to reveal a closet as large as her apartment bedroom. It looked like a GQ man’s dream with clothing and shoes neatly aligned on the racks and shelves. There was no sign of a woman anywhere … except for the dress Stacy had left behind the other night hanging alone on an otherwise empty rod with the shoebox beneath it.
She closed the door, returned to the foyer and looked out the window, but there was no sign of Franco’s car. The opposite hallway beckoned. Just past the stairs to the basement she found an open door and looked inside. Franco’s study. A large dark-wooden desk dominated the space and tall bookshelves lined the walls on either side of the double French doors opening onto the back patio.
A pair of photographs on one shelf drew her across the room. She lifted one of Franco and another man about the same age standing in front of a picturesque castle. Vincent Reynard. Stacy recognized him from the picture Candace had shown her, but the photo had been taken before the accident that had marred half of Vincent’s face. Franco looked at least a decade younger than the man she knew, and his smile was genuine and devastatingly handsome instead of twisted and cynical. Fewer lines fanned from his eyes and none bracketed his chiseled lips. Had this been taken during their grad-school days? But the setting looked European instead of American.
Stacy returned the frame to the shelf. An older man stared out at her from the second photograph. His heavily lined face couldn’t conceal the same classic bone structure and cleft chin as Franco. He had Franco’s thick hair and straight brows, but his were snowy white instead of coffee-bean dark, and his eyes weren’t nearly as guarded as Franco’s. Was this Franco’s father? She’d never know. And she was okay with that. Really.
Turning slowly, she scanned the tables, sofa and bar cart, but she found no sign of Franco’s ex-wife. She returned to the entrance hall and eyed the staircase. Did she dare? What if Franco came home while she was upstairs? How would she explain her snooping without revealing that she’d visited her father’s house after her mother’s death and what she’d discovered had given her the willies? Franco didn’t need to know her tragic past or that her father most likely had been mentally unbalanced. No one needed to know. It was hard enough to make friends without people wondering if she carried her father’s defective genes.
Her futile search supported Franco’s claim that he was over his wife and his marriage and that he’d moved here after the divorce …unless there was something upstairs. Not that Stacy really cared about his wife, but she wanted to make sure Franco wasn’t the type to use his money and power in dangerous ways.
It’s not as if you’re the kind of woman a man can’t forget, especially a man like Franco who must have far more glamorous women than you at his beck and call all the time.
That again raised the question of why he had chosen her?
The sound of a car in the drive made her heart stutter. She hustled to the window, looked out as Franco’s black sedan rolled to a stop. Her mouth dried and something resembling anticipation shot through her.
How could she be eager to see him? He was using her.
And you’re using him, so don’t get sanctimonious.
He climbed from the vehicle. His gaze searched the front of the house and found her in the window. For a moment he paused with one arm braced on the top of the car and just stared at her. A lump rose in her throat and her heart beat like a hummingbird’s wings. He bent and reached inside. When he emerged again and started toward the villa he carried a small white bag with pink ribbon handles that looked too feminine in his big hand.
Another gift she’d have to refuse?
And why did she keep refusing? The diamond bracelet alone could be pawned to pay off her car. But they’d agreed on a price for a service and to keep tacking on extras seemed unethical…. As if there could be anything more unethical than their current agreement. The irony of her situation didn’t escape her. But she had to be able to live with herself after this affair ended, and that meant setting standards and sticking to them. It wasn’t easy. There had been precious few gifts in her past. And she’d lost the most important one.
She rubbed her bare wrist and then wiped her palms over her pencil-slim skirt and opened the front door. If they were truly lovers this was the point where she’d rush down the walkway to embrace him and welcome him home. Instead, as he approached she stood frozen inside the door unsure exactly what he expected of her.
The closer he came the more shallow her breathing became. While her gaze fed on his lean dark-suited form, he inventoried her lavender blouse, navy skirt and sensible low-heeled pumps. Suddenly she felt dowdy, and she wished she’d slipped into the flirty and feminine sundress hanging in his closet. That she’d even consider dressing to please him rattled her. “Hi.”
“Bonsoir, Stacy.” His arm encircled her waist. He snatched her close, taking her mouth in a ravenous kiss that bent her backward. She clutched his lapels and held tight. Their thighs spliced and the heat of his arousal nudged her belly. His tongue stroked hers and hunger suffused her with embarrassing swiftness.
By the time he released her she was breathless and dizzy, with her pulse galloping out of control. She unfurled her fingers from his suit coat and sagged against the door frame. He swept past her, set the gift bag on the credenza and continued through the living room and toward the kitchen.
Stacy stared at the bag, her curiosity piqued. Maybe it wasn’t for her. After taking a few moments to gather her composure—and to battle the urge to peek into the bag—she closed the front door on the balmy evening and followed him.
Franco had removed his suit coat and laid it over the end of the center island. He held a martini shaker in his hands. The flexing and shifting of his muscles beneath his white shirt as he mixed the sloshing liquid filled her mind with images of those bare muscles bunching and contracting beneath his supple skin as he braced himself above her. She plucked at her suddenly sticking blouse and exhaled slowly.
He poured the contents into a glass and set it on the counter in front of her. Her eyebrows rose.
“You are surprised I noticed you never drink more than one glass of wine at dinner and you ordered fruity drinks at the club?” he asked as he opened a bottle of red wine with practiced ease.
“I guess I am.”
He filled his wineglass and lifted it in a silent toast then nodded toward the martini. “Try it.”
Stacy lifted the glass and sipped. Chocolate, cherry and vanilla mingled on her tongue. “Very good.”
“It is made with Midas Chocolate liqueur.” He reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew a handful of gilt-edged cards which he placed on the counter. “Le Bal de L’Eté is this Saturday. I have tickets.”
There were more than two tickets in the pile. “A summer ball?”
“Oui, it is an annual charity event to mark the opening of the summer season at the Monte Carlo Sporting Club. Europe’s l’aristocratie, including royalty, attend. You and your friends might even meet the prince.”
She gaped. “Of Monaco?”
“Oui.”
She’d heard it wasn’t uncommon to see members of the royal family on the street or at sporting events, but to meet them … “Will either of the two long dresses you’ve seen me wear work?”
He shook his head. “Non. I will arrange for you—”
“Then I can’t possibly go.”
“—and your friends to have appropriate gowns,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted.