Monte Carlo Affairs: The Millionaire's Indecent Proposal

The line formed between her eyebrows. “You don’t have to buy presents for me.”

He would make sure she wore it when she met his father. He shrugged. “Open it.”

She set aside her wine, hesitantly opened the box and stared. Seconds later she snapped the lid closed and shoved the box toward him. “I can’t accept that.”

He stilled. “You don’t like diamonds?”

“Of course, but—”

“You have a diamond bracelet?”

“No.” She closed her eyes, swallowed and then met his gaze. “Franco, we already have a deal. Can we just stick to it?”

He masked his surprise and puzzlement. He had never had a woman refuse his gifts before—especially not expensive jewelry. “Perhaps I wish to see you wearing the diamonds. And nothing else.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed. “Oh,” she repeated and fiddled with the stem of her glass for a moment before looking at him through her thick lashes. It was a worried glance rather than a flirtatious one. “Diamonds do it for you, huh?”

He reared back. “No, diamonds do not do it for me. I merely wished to give you a gift.”

“And I’m telling you that you don’t have to.”

What game was she playing? He examined her face, her guileless eyes. Was her innocence an act? It had to be. Otherwise she never would have accepted his offer. He rose. “I will return momentarily with dinner.”

In the kitchen he mechanically plated the smoked mozzarella with sundried tomatoes and peppercorns in a puddle of olive oil while mulling over Stacy’s refusal. She had to have an ulterior motive. He retrieved the filet barole from the warming oven, divided it onto dishes and poured the cognac and mushroom sauce over it.

Was she after a bigger prize? Perhaps a diamond ring instead of a bracelet? If so, she would not get one from him. He would never marry again. His one and only failed marriage had taught him that women were selfish creatures. Nothing mattered except their wants. Nothing.

Not even life.

His throat tightened at the memory of the babe his wife had carelessly discarded without his knowledge or consent. Had there not been complications with the abortion, causing the doctors to hospitalize Lisette and call Franco to Paris, he would never have known her “shopping trip” was a lie or that she had conceived his child—a child she did not want. And then there were his father’s costly divorces. Stacy was no different from any other greedy woman. She had revealed her true nature by accepting his terms. He set his jaw.

Non. He did not trust women. He enjoyed them briefly and then he moved on. But he was a generous lover both in bed and out. Stacy would have no complaints.

Stacy was not at the table when he carried the tray outside. He scanned the dimly lit terrace and found her in the shadows by the railing overlooking the garden below. Or perhaps she studied the whirlpool. His arousal stirred in anticipation.

After placing the meal on the table he joined her. “Dinner waits.”

She turned slightly. A gentle breeze lifted tendrils of hair. “I’m sorry, Franco. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings by refusing the bracelet. I just don’t think we should try to make this into something it’s not.”

Again she surprised and perplexed him. “What would that be?”

“A relationship.”

His thoughts exactly, but hearing her voice them disturbed him in an inexplicable way. “We are going to be lovers, Stacy. We will have a relationship, albeit a temporary one. And if I choose to buy things for you then I do so because it pleases me, not because I expect more from you than our original agreement. Now come. We will eat and then we will pursue our mutual pleasure.”

Would she be worth a million bucks?

Stacy’s stomach clenched. She had absolutely no appetite and her taste buds had deserted her, but she forced down another bite of tender steak to drag out the meal as long as possible. Throughout dinner she’d watched Franco’s hands as he cut his meat or cradled his wineglass, and her mind had raced ahead. Those hands would soon be on her. Cupping her flesh. Stroking her skin. Was that anticipation or dread making her dizzy?

What if after they did this Franco decided she wasn’t worth the money? After all, she wasn’t experienced. She could count her intimate encounters on one hand, and her knowledge was limited to the basics—which in her opinion were overrated. If he expected anything like the fancy stuff she’d read about in the women’s magazines she’d borrowed from work, then he’d be disappointed.

Franco placed his knife and fork on his empty plate. “The food is not to your liking?”

Chew. Chew. Chew. Gulp. “It’s delicious. Did you cook?”

His knowing eyes called her a liar. “No. It is catered. Perhaps your appetite lies elsewhere.”

Her fork slipped, the tines screeching across the china. She winced. Franco had probably never encountered a more gauche female. He was sexy and sophisticated down to the soles of his shoes and she was … not. So why had he chosen her?

She abandoned her utensils, blotted her mouth with her cloth napkin and then knotted her fingers in her lap. “I guess I’m just not very hungry.”

“I am ravenous.” He abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “But not for food.”

Stacy’s heart stalled and then raced, but Franco reached for their plates instead of her, piled them on the tray and carried them toward the kitchen.

Time’s up. Time to deliver your end of the bargain.

Stacy slowly exhaled and then lurched into action, nearly overturning her glass in the process. She gathered the stemware and then followed Franco inside, wishing she’d drunk more than one glass of wine. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t be so nervous. But she’d never acquired a taste for wine. She preferred girly drinks with umbrellas, and she drank precious few of those because she kept herself on a strict budget. Unfortunately, sobriety left her tense and clear-headed enough to doubt her sanity in accepting his proposition. Besides, getting drunk would be stupid. She needed to stay in control.

Whatever had possessed her to believe she was qualified to be Franco’s mistress? How could she satisfy a worldly man like him? And how could she become intimate with a man she barely knew? Franco wasn’t much of a talker. If he’d shared half as much conversation as he had lingering, desire-laden, toe-curling glances, then she could write an in-depth biography about him. But he hadn’t. Then again, neither had she.

Details aren’t necessary. This isn’t about friendship or forever.

Stacy stiffened her spine. She could get through this. She’d survived attending fourteen schools in ten years, her mother’s shocking and unexpected death and her father’s betrayal. Four weeks as Franco’s plaything would grant her the economic freedom to buy a home and to stop feeling like a visitor in her own life—a visitor who might have to pack up and leave at any moment.

But thinking about the money made her feel a little like a hooker. A lot like one, actually. So she shoved those thoughts aside and tried to focus on the man. About how sexy and desirable Franco made her feel …

When she wasn’t thinking about the money. She winced.

Franco deposited the tray beside the sink and then took the goblets from her and set them on the counter.

“Let me help you wash those,” she offered, hoping to buy time.

“The dishes can wait. I cannot.”

Before Stacy could do more than blink, Franco’s arms surrounded her and his mouth crashed onto hers. Possessive. Hungry. Demanding. He cupped her bottom, pulling her flush against the length of his hot muscle-packed body, and his tongue found hers, stroking, tasting, tangling. Arousal simmered beneath Stacy’s skin, but it couldn’t completely overcome her stomach-tightening trepidation or doubts.

Franco was a wealthy, powerful man who had the money to buy whatever he wanted—including her. Would he play by the rules? She was on foreign territory here—both in Monaco and in this affair. Who would protect her if this turned ugly?

She pushed against his chest, breaking the kiss. “Wait.”

“For?” His barely audible growl swept across her damp lips, and his passion-darkened eyes bored into hers.

She licked her lips and tasted him. “What if I don’t meet your expectations?”

“I find that unlikely.” His hand covered her breast, his thumbnail unerringly finding and caressing her nipple with a back and forth motion.

Tendrils of sensation snaked through her defenses. She had to stay clear and focused. Letting go meant becoming vulnerable. Perhaps she should just take care of him? But how? Drop to her knees and take him in her mouth? If so, she had a problem, because her one and only experience with that in high school had not gone well. She shuddered.