dress, the reserve she wore like a cloak and those hungry eyes had intrigued him. The touch of her tongue on his finger had electrified him. If she could arouse him with such a small gesture, then he couldn’t wait to experience the results of a more intimate encounter.
A quick call to Vincent had garnered him a few pertinent details about Mademoiselle Reeves and had confirmed that she was suitable for his needs. Yes, playing his father’s game would indeed be pleasurable.
Franco ordered two glasses of champagne and made his way toward her. She stood back from the roulette table in the Café de Paris, observing the trio of women she’d come in with, but not participating in the gambling. In fact, she hadn’t made a single wager since she’d arrived half an hour ago.
Tonight she’d twisted her shoulder-length chestnut hair up on the back of her head, revealing a pale nape, a slender neck and delicate ears he could not wait to nibble. Her floor-length gown—a sleeveless affair the color of aged ivory—gently outlined her curves but unfortunately covered her remarkable legs. She’d draped a lacy wrap over her shoulders and strapped on high-heeled gold sandals.
Elegant. Subtle. Desirable.
Mais oui. They would be magnificent together. Anticipation quickened his blood as he reached her side. He paused long enough to savor her scent. Gardenias. Sultry, yet sweet. “Vous êtes très belle ce soir, mademoiselle.”
She startled and turned. “Monsieur Constantine.”
“Franco.” He offered a flute and ignored her stiff, unwelcoming posture. Her blue-green eyes, as changeable as the Mediterranean, were more azure than they’d been earlier in the day. What color would they be when they made love? He had every intention of finding out.
After a moment’s hesitation she accepted the drink. “Merci, Mon—”
He covered her fingers with his on the fragile crystal, stilling her words. He wanted to hear his name on her lips. “Franco,” he repeated.
Her lips parted and the tip of her tongue glided over her plump cherry-red flesh. He nearly gave in to the need to taste her, but he restrained himself with no small effort. She was skittish. He had to move slowly if he wanted to successfully close this deal.
“Franco.” She gave his name the French pronunciation not the nasally American one he’d grown to hate during his graduate studies in the U.S.
He touched the rim of his glass to hers. “À nous.”
She blinked and frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“To us, Stacy.” She hadn’t given him leave to use her name, and he was taking liberties—the first of many he intended to take with the alluring American.
Her eyes darkened and rejection stamped her fine features, but her cheeks pinked. “I don’t think—”
“Monsieur Constantine,” a feminine voice interrupted.
He reluctantly released Stacy’s hand, and forcing his lips into a polite smile, turned to the trio of women. “Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles.”
Vincent’s fiancée introduced her friends, and while etiquette decreed Franco greet each lady, every fragment of his being remained focused on the woman who would soon be his lover. He noticed each nervous shift of Stacy’s body, heard the sounds of her silk dress sliding over her skin the way his hands soon would, and he relished the catch of her breath as he deliberately brushed against her when he motioned for a waiter. He ordered beverages for each of the women and then held Stacy’s gaze as she lifted her flute to her mouth. He mimicked her actions, wishing it were her warm lips against his instead of the cool glass.
The brunette Madeline sidled closer, making her interest known with her direct stare and come-hither stance while the auburn-haired Amelia blushed and looked away from the other woman’s bold behavior. Both women were attractive, but he only had eyes for Stacy. Eventually, the trio turned back to the roulette wheel, affording him the privacy with his quarry he craved. Or as much privacy as one could have in a crowded casino.
“Have you wagered?” He knew she hadn’t. He’d been watching.
“No.”
He reached in his pocket, retrieved a handful of chips and offered them to her. “Try your luck?”
Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. “That’s ten thousand doll—euros.”
“Oui.”
Wide-eyed, she backed away. “No. No, thank you.”
“You wish to play for higher stakes? We can go to the Salon Touzeta, if you like.”
“That’s a private room.”
“Oui.”
She looked at her friends, as if hoping they’d rescue her, but the wheel held their attention. “I don’t gamble.”
The more she refused, the more he wanted her. Was she playing hard to get to torment him or to raise her price? Very likely both. But he would win. Since his wife’s betrayal he always did. “You owe me the pleasure of your company at a meal.”
Wary eyes locked with his. “Why me? Why not someone who’s interested and willing?” A slight tilt of her head indicated her brunette companion.
He shrugged. “Who knows why a body sings for one and not the other?”
Her lace wrap slipped from her shoulder. Franco lifted his hand and dragged a knuckle along the exposed skin of her upper arm. Her shiver before she stepped out of reach gratified him. She would be a responsive lover. “Have dinner with me, Stacy.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Have dinner with me,” he repeated. “If you choose not to see me privately again afterward, then I will accept your decision.”
Her chin lifted. “And if I refuse?”
Enjoying her cat-and-mouse game, he smiled. Her breath caught audibly. Bien. The attraction wasn’t one-sided. “Then you and your friends will be seeing me quite often.”
Slightly imperfectly aligned white teeth captured her bottom lip. How had she escaped the American obsession with a perfect smile? “One dinner. That’s it?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. Because I can take no for an answer when the woman really means it.”
Her shoulders squared. “I mean it.”
He could not prevent a small smile. “Non. Your mouth says one thing, but your beautiful eyes say another. You want to have dinner with me.”
Her cheeks flushed and her kissable lips compressed. She nodded sharply. “One dinner and then you leave me alone.”
A surge of adrenaline shot through him at the small success. He touched his champagne flute to hers. Victory was within his grasp.
“À nous, Stacy. Nous serons magnifiques ensemble.”
Two
