Monte Carlo Affairs. Emilie Rose

cursed the flush warming her skin. The man issued compliments too easily, and she didn’t intend to be swayed by his glib tongue. She’d been burned by insincere flattery once before. The humiliating aftermath wasn’t something she wanted to relive.

      He opened the door with one hand. The other curved behind her waist, palm splayed. She could feel the imprint through the thin fabric of her dress as he guided her forward. She hurried inside only to stop suddenly in the tiled foyer.

      This must have been someone’s home once, but now a maître d’s stand occupied the niche beneath a curving staircase. The dining rooms Stacy could see to the left and right were furnished with half a dozen widely spaced, candlelit tables draped in white linens. Crystal and silver glinted in the flickering light, and music played quietly in the background. Intimate, but not unbearably so. Some of Stacy’s tension eased. She could handle this.

      But internal alarm bells rang as the hostess led them upstairs and finally stopped in a small private room with only one table. This very likely had once been a bedroom. Any plans Stacy might have had to keep this meal impersonal by watching the other patrons or trying to translate their conversations evaporated. The same music she’d heard downstairs drifted through exterior doors left open to a wrought-iron railed balcony. A gentle flower-scented breeze stirred the sheer curtains and made the candle flames dance.

      Franco seated her. She startled when his fingertips brushed her upper arms, dragging her wrap back so that it bared her shoulders. He draped the lace over her chair, and then sat at a right angle to her, his knee touching hers beneath the table. She shifted away from the contact, but that didn’t stop the buzz of awareness vibrating through her.

      An older man entered. He and Franco held a rapid-fire discussion Stacy couldn’t understand, and then he departed. “Was that French?”

      “Non. Monégasque, the local dialect. It’s a combination of French and Italian.”

      “Is that what you were speaking at your shop the day we met?”

      “Oui, but French is the language spoken most often in Monaco. Do you speak French?”

      “A little. I had the required two semesters in college and then I listened to some instructional CDs before coming here.”

      He covered her hand with his on the table and stroked his thumb over the inside of her wrist. Her pulse bolted like a startled rabbit. “You may practice on me, if you wish.”

      The spark in his eyes said she needn’t limit her practice to the language. Stacy pulled her hand free and tangled her fingers in her lap. Looking away, she chewed the inside of her lip and tried to ignore the tension knotting low in her belly.

      Their server returned with a tray of tiny stuffed tomatoes and mushrooms, poured the wine and departed even though they hadn’t ordered yet.

      “There aren’t any menus?”

      “Non. Trust me. You will not be disappointed.”

      Trust. He couldn’t possibly know how difficult it was for her to trust anyone but herself. “What if I have food allergies?”

      “Do you?”

      “No,” she admitted, feeling slightly ashamed for being difficult. She sipped her wine, sampled a crab-stuffed tomato and struggled to find a topic that would dilute the romantic atmosphere. “I was surprised to discover that Monaco relies heavily on French laws, including the French wedding ceremony and that they’ve removed the promise of fidelity from their vows. Why is that? Can French men not be faithful?”

      Franco sat back, the smile slipping from his face. “I was faithful to my wife.”

      That doused the warmth in her belly. “You’re married?”

      “Divorced.” And bitter by the sounds of that one bitten-off word. “You?”

      “I’ve never been married.” She’d never even been in a long-term relationship. She’d had one clumsy encounter in high school and a brief intimate relationship with a guy from work. She shoved the bad memories back into their cave. “How long were you married?”

      “Five years.”

      “What happened?” None of her business really, but she’d never met a divorcé who didn’t want to talk about the unpleasant experience, and dull as it may be, hearing about someone else’s dirty laundry was better than having Franco focus his seductive charms on her.

      He shrugged, but the movement seemed stiff instead of casual. “We wanted different things.”

      “Do you have any children?”

       “Non.”

      Had she imagined his hesitation? “Do you keep in touch?”

      “I have not seen Lisette since the divorce.”

      “And you’re okay with that?”

       “Absolument.”

      Absolutely. She studied Franco, trying to gauge his sincerity. His direct gaze showed no doubts, no prevarications.

      Her father hadn’t willingly let go. Had that been because he’d loved her mother so much or because he’d considered her a possession, as the therapists had said? Stacy shook off the questions to which she’d never have answers and focused on her date. “Have you always lived in Monaco?”

      “Non. I grew up outside Avignon, France. My family home is still there. I relocated my residence and Midas Chocolates headquarters here eight years ago after my divorce.” His expression turned speculative. “You are trying very hard not to enjoy our evening, Stacy. Why is that?”

      He read her too easily. “You’re mistaken.”

      “Then prove me wrong by dancing with me.”

      When he put it that way how could she refuse? “I’m not much of a dancer.”

      He rose, pulled back her chair and offered his hand. “Pas un problème. I will guide you. Relax. I am not going to devour you before dessert.”

      But after dessert, then what? She wanted to ask, but she was too overwhelmed by his proximity to form the words. He laced his fingers through hers and rested their joined hands over his heart. She could feel the steady thump against her knuckles. He looped his other arm around her waist, spreading his palm over the base of her spine and pressing his chin to her temple. He held her as close as a lover with his thighs brushing hers. Too close. She tried to retreat, but the muscles hidden beneath his expensive suit flexed and held fast.

      Her breath quickened. His scent, a blend of tangy lime and something totally masculine filled her nostrils. Her mouth dried and her skin steamed. She could barely hear the music to which he swayed over her thudding heart. Regardless of how unwise it might be she could feel herself weakening and wanting to give in to the desire that welled inside her each time he was near.

      Pressing her palm against his lapel, she angled her upper body away from his. The move had the unfortunate consequence of aligning their faces. His mouth was much too near. If she rose on her tiptoes she could—

      No. She couldn’t.

      “Where is the music coming from?”

      His indulgent half smile sent a spiral of need through her. “There is a string quartet on the terrace.”

      He danced her through the open doors and then raised his arm for her to spin, but instead of letting her turn a full circle he caught her with her back to his chest and held her facing the flower-filled courtyard below the balcony.

      Stacy gasped at the hot length of him spooning her back and then she lifted her gaze from the couples whirling around the flagstone dance floor and the air left her lungs in a long, appreciative, “Wow.”

      The rocky terrain of Monaco spread out in front of her. One thing about having a country clinging to the side of the mountain was that no matter where