will be magnificent together.” Stacy groaned and tossed her French-to-English-to-French dictionary on the coffee table. Her flushed skin and restlessness had nothing to do with the morning sun streaming through the hotel sitting room’s open curtains or her eagerness to get out and see more of Monaco. The blame for her twitchiness could be placed solely on the desire in Franco’s eyes last night when he’d said the mysterious phrase before taking his leave.
She’d dreamed about him, about those hungry eyes and that deeply cleft chin. No surprise there, since the man’s blatant sexiness was an assault on her senses.
Franco Constantine was pursuing her and she had no idea why. The country was full of more beautiful, more sophisticated and more available women, but for some incomprehensible reason he wanted her. And, like it or not, as foolish as it might be—and it was incredibly foolish—she was attracted to him too. Scary, heady stuff. Her instincts told her to blow him off, but his friendship with Vincent made that tricky. Stacy couldn’t afford to be rude and risk upsetting Candace.
Stacy shifted uneasily on the sofa. Surely she could manage a meal with him without getting in over her head? One dinner and then he’d promised to leave her alone. She’d eaten with a number of clients who’d implied they wanted her handling more than their books, and she’d resisted easily enough. Of course, she’d never been tempted like this. Franco was beyond her experience, and she couldn’t help feeling as if she’d made a deal she would regret.
The door to Madeline’s bedroom opened and the brunette shuffled into the sitting area. Her gaze roamed over the coffee carafe Stacy had ordered from room service and Stacy’s empty cup. “My God, how long have you been up?”
“A few hours. My body clock is confused.”
“So are you and Franco going to hook up?”
Stacy’s blouse and pants abraded her suddenly warm flesh. “We’re going to have dinner and then he’s all yours.”
Her skin prickled anew. Why did that bother her? Franco was too rich and powerful for her and far out of her league, but that didn’t mean the other woman couldn’t enjoy him.
“No thanks. I met someone after you came upstairs last night, and man oh man, is he hot.” Madeline poured herself a cup of coffee.
This was the girl talk Stacy didn’t do so well. Where were the boundaries? What was she supposed to ask? What topics should she avoid? She settled for a noncommittal, “Oh?”
“Oh yeah.” Madeline smiled as she sipped. “He’s going to act as my tour guide after we kill our diets this morning sampling the different wedding cakes the hotel chef has prepared.”
Amelia glided silently into the room. “Did I hear you say you’re going out today? Me too, if for no other reason than to avoid Toby Haynes.”
“Who?” Stacy asked. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
Amelia grimaced. “Toby Haynes, the race-car driver for the NASCAR team Reynard Hotels sponsors. It was a fire in his pit that burned Vincent.”
“Speaking of Vincent, I guess you’ve both met the groom since he was a patient at the hospital where you work?” Stacy hadn’t—just one more reason she felt like the outsider in the group. Story of her life.
“Yes and his cocky Casanova driver is here in Monaco and determined to be a pain in my backside,” Amelia grumbled.
“Perhaps you and I could do the tourist thing together,” Stacy suggested somewhat hesitantly. These women barely knew her and might prefer to spend their time with someone else.
“Sounds great. I’ll get dressed.” The suite doorbell chimed. Amelia, already on her feet, answered. When she turned around she held a beautiful bouquet of gardenias. “They’re for you, Stacy.”
Stacy’s heart stalled. No one had ever sent her flowers. She accepted the fragrant arrangement, extracted the card and read the slashing black script. Tonight. 20:00. Franco.
“Who are they from?” Amelia asked.
Stacy couldn’t find her voice. Were the gardenias a coincidence or had he actually noticed her perfume?
Madeline read the card over Stacy’s shoulder. “Her delicious chocolatier. Monaco operates on military time. He’s picking you up tonight at eight. Bon chance, mon amie.”
Stacy forced an unsteady smile. She’d need more than luck to resist the sexy Frenchman.
Madeline rose, stretched and yawned. “Amelia, make sure Stacy has something suitably sexy to wear. And Stace, tuck a few condoms in your purse. Be prepared.”
Prepared for Franco Constantine? Impossible.
Thanks to Candace and Amelia, Stacy was as prepared as she possibly could be for her evening with temptation in the form of Franco Constantine, minus the condoms which she most definitely would not need.
After sampling enough wedding cakes to send her blood sugar into orbit, she, Candace and Amelia had attempted to walk off the calories by touring La Condamine, the second-oldest section of Monaco, this morning, and then exploring the wonderful shops on the Rue Grimald in the early afternoon. Afterward the women had returned to the hotel and turned Stacy over to the spa staff for a facial, a manicure and a pedicure.
Stacy stood in front of the mirror and smoothed her hands over the gown they’d found in a European designer clothing outlet. Claiming it would be perfect for the rehearsal dinner, Candace had overridden Stacy’s polite refusal and insisted on buying it for her. The sapphire fabric skimmed Stacy’s figure without clinging, and the halter top gave her enough support that she didn’t need a bra. She felt worlds more sophisticated in this gown than in anything she’d ever owned.
The phone rang and Stacy nearly jumped out of her gold sandals. Her suitemates were out. She crossed her bedroom and lifted the receiver. “Hello.”
“Bonsoir, Stacy,” Franco’s deep voice rumbled over her. “I am in the lobby. Shall I come up?”
Her pulse fluttered like the flag over the prince’s palace in a stiff breeze. Franco in her suite? Absolutely not.
“No. I’ll come down.” She hung up the phone and pressed a hand over her pounding heart. “One dinner. You can do this.”
She draped her lace wrap over her shoulders, grabbed her gold clamshell evening purse and headed out the door. Her stomach stayed behind as the elevator swiftly descended from the penthouse to the lobby level. The doors opened and there he was, a six-foot-something package of irresistible—correction, completely resistible—male. Franco leaned against a marble pillar looking as rich and sinful as the chocolate he’d fed her. Stacy inhaled slowly and then moved forward on less-than-steady legs.
Franco spotted her and straightened. A midnight-blue suit and a shirt in a paler shade emphasized his eyes as his appreciative gaze glided from her upswept hair to her newly polished toenails before returning to her face. Every cell in her body quivered in the wake of the leisurely visual caress. He took her hand and bent over it, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a touch so light she could have imagined it. The whisper of his breath on her skin made her shiver.
He straightened and his intensely blue eyes burned into hers. “Vous enlevez mon souffle,
