Monte Carlo Affairs. Emilie Rose

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      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.

      She sighed. He had her cornered and he knew it. “And if I refuse then Candace, Madeline and Amelia will miss the ball.”

      He 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 СКАЧАТЬ