glanced toward the entrance and saw a handsome man with brown hair. He resembled the man in the photos she’d seen, and yet Franco led her in the opposite direction. That wasn’t Vincent? But then the man in question turned his head to scan the room and Stacy saw the tight, burned skin on the right side of his face. Definitely Vincent. She caught her breath in sympathy. She couldn’t imagine the pain he’d endured. Candace had told her about the series of surgeries he’d already undergone and those yet to come.
Franco shot her a hard look and his grip on her hand tightened. “His scars repel you?”
“Of course not. Besides, I knew what to expect. Candace showed me a picture. She’s very protective of him.” And from the hard and cool tone of Franco’s voice and the warning glint in his eyes, it seemed as if he might be as well. Loyalty to his friends was yet another interesting facet of Franco’s personality, but reading him was like trying to decipher a foreign language. There were bits she couldn’t understand. “Where are we going?”
“To retrieve his fiancée.” They reached a group of women gathered on the far side of the room. “Excusez-moi, mesdemoiselles. I must borrow Candace.”
Candace frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“Non. There is someone you need to see.”
Candace noted Stacy’s hand held tightly in Franco’s and a smile curved her lips. “Having a good night?”
Stacy’s face and neck warmed. “Yes.”
“And it is about to get better,” Franco muttered for Stacy’s ears only, sending a flash fire through her.
He led them toward the entrance and stopped at the bottom of the stairs where Vincent waited with love in his eyes so intense Stacy’s heart stuttered.
Candace spotted him, squealed and launched herself into his arms. Given Stacy’s already erotic thoughts, witnessing their passionate kiss made her squirm and glance at Franco. His thumb stroked over the inside of her wrist and his eyes promised soon. Her pulse tripped.
The couple drew apart, hugged and parted again with blinding smiles. And then Vincent turned to Franco. The men embraced and exchanged a few words too quiet for Stacy to overhear in the noisy ballroom. The genuine affection between them surprised Stacy. To date, Franco had seemed somewhat aloof except when in seduction mode.
When they parted, Candace dragged Stacy forward. “Stacy, this is Vincent. Vincent, Stacy.”
Vincent extended his hand. Ignoring the scars, Stacy shook it. From Candace she knew he’d come a long way in his recovery, but other people’s squeamishness sometimes bothered him. “It’s good to meet you, Stacy.”
“You too, Vincent. And thank you for this once-in-a-lifetime vacation.”
“You’re welcome. Anything that keeps Candace from overdoing it with the wedding plans works for me.” Vincent encircled Candace’s waist and spread his left hand possessively over her still flat belly. The couple exchanged another intimate, love-laden glance.
What would it be like to have a man look at her that way?
The rogue thought staggered Stacy. Suddenly it hit her that she would never experience the bond that Candace and Vincent shared. Until now that hadn’t concerned her. In fact, being alone and safe was a path she’d deliberately chosen, but now the solitary life she’d planned yawned ahead like a barren stretch of desert road.
Because of her bargain with Franco she’d soon have a home. But it would be empty.
She’d never fall in love.
Never experience the hope, joy and anticipation of having a child with someone she loved—all of the emotions written clearly on Candace’s face.
Stacy would live alone. Die alone. And the world would be no different because of her time in it.
Sadness settled over her like a cold, wet blanket. Every lesson she’d learned to this point had made her afraid to let anyone get too close. But she’d found the courage to make friends. Could she also find the courage to allow a man into her life and into her heart?
Not a powerbroker like Franco. But maybe someone tamer. Someone less wealthy. Someone she could trust.
If such a man even existed.
Eight
Stacy had shared intimacies with Franco that made her blush, and yet she still knew very little about him beyond the physical. She hoped a night in his family home would fill in a few of the blanks.
“Do you always buy your women?” she asked to fill the silence during the hours-long Sunday-afternoon car ride to Avignon.
Franco’s jaw hardened and he shot her a chilly glance. “I have never offered a woman money for sex before you.”
If that was supposed to make her feel special, it failed. “Good, because it seems a little like … prostitution.”
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