Monte Carlo Affairs. Emilie Rose
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shrugged. “Tout a un prix.”
Everything has a price. Yes, he did seem to live by that rule. But how could she deny the other women this opportunity to rub elbows with royalty? “You fight dirty.”
“I play to win.”
“Okay. On behalf of my friends, I accept.” Jeez. That had sounded ungracious. But she hated being manipulated.
“Bien. And while you are in an accepting mood …” He left the kitchen and returned moments later carrying the bag. “For you.” He held up a hand to stop her protest. “Open it before you refuse.”
She reluctantly accepted the bag, withdrew a small box, opened it and gasped. Her watch. Hugging it to her chest, she ducked her head, blinked her stinging eyes and struggled to contain the happy sob building in her chest. He couldn’t possibly know how much this meant to her. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. The limo driver found it. The band was broken. I had it replaced with a similar one.”
“My mother gave me this when I graduated high school. It was the last gift she gave me before she—” Her throat thickened, choking off her words.
Franco smoothed his hand from her brow to her nape. His fingers clenched in her hair and then stroked forward to lift her chin. “I am glad we found it. Now finish your drink and then go downstairs and remove your clothing. The masseuse will be here in ten minutes.”
“Masseuse?” Stacy wasn’t wild about the idea of someone else seeing or touching her naked body. She hadn’t joined her suitemates in the hotel spa for sea-salt massages for that very reason. But she wouldn’t mind Franco’s hands on her. “You’re not going to, um … massage me?”
A slow naughty smile curved his lips. “I am going to watch. And after she has turned your muscles to butter and departed, I am going to take you on the massage table.”
The image he painted sent a shiver of arousal over her. Stacy realized she was beginning to like not only Franco, but this mistress stuff too.
And that was definitely not good news.
My God. He had almost hugged her.
Franco fisted his hands and watched the lights of Stacy’s taxi disappear into the night. What kind of fool was he to be swayed by eyes brimming with tears and gratitude? And yet when Stacy had looked at him earlier tonight, clutching that cheap watch to her breast and smiling through tear-filled eyes, he’d almost succumbed to the urge to embrace her.
He did not hug or cuddle or any of those other relationship things that would lead a woman to expect more from him than he could give. And he did not trust tears. Tears were nothing more than a weapon in a woman’s arsenal. How often had Lisette used tears to get her way during their marriage? After the abortion she’d tried to soften him by crying and claiming that he’d been spending more time at work than with her, and she’d been afraid he no longer loved her and would not wish to have a baby with her.
Regret crushed his chest in a vise. He had spent more time at work during that final year of his marriage. His father’s latest divorce settlement had forced him to borrow against the estate, and that meant finding new sources of revenue to cover the debt. Franco had not explained that to Lisette which meant if he were to believe her story, he would have to accept part of the blame for the loss of his child. And that was a burden he could not bear.
Much better to remember that Lisette, like his mother, had been selfish. She’d made a decision she had no right to make without his input, and then she’d tried to place the blame on a scapegoat—him. And of course, there had been more to her story, as he’d discovered the day the hospital released her and his replacement had arrived to carry her to her new home.
He slammed the front door. Stacy Reeves was no different from any other woman. He simply hadn’t figured out her strategy yet. But he would. In the meantime, he would make use of her beautiful body and then send her back to her hotel each night until he had his fill of her. And he would sleep alone—as he always did.
“Ohmigod, is that Prince William?” Amelia asked in a hushed voice on Saturday night.
Stacy followed Amelia’s wide-eyed gaze over the glittering guests gathered in La Salle Des Etoiles in the Monte Carlo Sporting Club to the tall blond with an aristocratic nose. Stacy had never been a royal watcher. She probably wouldn’t recognize a prince if he walked up and shook her hand, but that didn’t dilute the excitement of being in the room with the kind of people who graced the pages of the magazines in her former employer’s waiting room.
“It could be. Franco said there would be royalty here.” In the minutes since they’d climbed from the limo and made their way inside Stacy had spotted at least a dozen American movie stars, two rock idols and a late-night talk-show host. She was so far out of her element it wasn’t even funny.
“You want to tell me how you scored tickets for Le Bal de L’Eté?” asked Candace, looking stunning in a platinum satin dress. Vincent hadn’t been able to get away from the job site to join them, but Candace had handled her disappointment well. “Vincent said they’re almost impossible to get unless you’re famous or one of the super-rich upper class.”
Stacy glanced at her suitemates, each wearing an evening gown Franco had purchased. He’d given Stacy the name of an elite shop on Avenue des Beaux Arts and told her the proprietress would take care of them. “You’ll have to ask Franco.”
Amelia fidgeted beside her in pale-yellow tulle. “So is it getting serious between you two? Because from where I stand he’s looking a lot like Prince Charming and the Fairy Godfather rolled into one very attractive package.”
Stacy stroked her hand over the delicate floral beading on her turquoise dress and searched for an answer that wouldn’t shock her friends. Telling them the driver had picked her up Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday evenings and delivered her to Franco’s villa for sex and dinner probably wasn’t the best response. Just thinking about those nights made her tingle.
But Franco had been out of town since Thursday morning, and her body, which had happily gone without sex for so many years, was having withdrawals. And withdrawal is all it is, she assured herself. Just because he’d shown her facets of her sexuality that she’d never known existed didn’t mean she was developing an emotional attachment to him. She hadn’t missed him or anything mushy like that. Besides, his absence had allowed her to spend time with her suitemates.
She was actually beginning to feel like one of the group instead of an outsider. The bonds of friendship were forming, and tonight while they’d fussed over each other’s clothes, hair and makeup in preparation for the ball she’d had a hint of what it might have been like to have sisters. But she wasn’t comfortable enough yet to tell her suitemates the unvarnished truth. “Not serious, no. I’m just having a holiday romance as Madeline suggested.”
“Are you sure it’s not more than that?” Candace asked. “You certainly jumped on that gown the moment the shop owner told you Franco had suggested she help you choose something the color of your eyes.”
Heat rushed to Stacy’s cheeks. So she wanted to look attractive for him. What was wrong with that? She was beginning to realize he wasn’t an arrogant ass even though he did a good imitation of one quite often by pulling away immediately after making love—having sex. But if he were truly a jerk he never would have had her watch repaired or treated her friends to this Cinderella evening. He’d shown his generosity in a dozen other ways outside of bed, like the museum and theater tickets that had been delivered to their suite Thursday morning, the basket of chocolates yesterday and the flowers today. He was showering her with gifts her friends could share—gifts she couldn’t refuse without depriving her suitemates.
She shrugged. “He’s paying for my gown. He ought to have some say about it.”
“Uh-huh,” Madeline said, her disbelief clear. She’d chosen a drop-dead-sexy black dress guaranteed to make heads turn, but Madeline seemed to be searching for someone