A folded piece of ivory stationery lay on top of the lavender tissue paper. She lifted it and read, For tonight.
No name. No signature. But the handwriting was the same as that on the card included with Franco’s flowers. Franco. She inhaled a shaky breath and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal a pile of teal garments, the same shade as the Mediterranean Sea outside the hotel windows.
She pulled out the first piece, a soft, silk camisole, and laid it on the bed. The second, a sheer, beaded wrap top, matched perfectly, as did the third, a handkerchief-hem skirt with the same beading on the edges as the wrap. She held the skirt against her body. It would be fitted from her waist through her hips, but the lower half would swish and swirl about her thighs as she moved. The perfect dancing outfit, and judging by the designer label, it probably cost more than her monthly rent and car payment combined.
And then her gaze caught on two more wrapped items in the bottom of the box. She unwound the tissue from the largest first and found strappy sandals to match the clothing. She slipped one on her bare foot. Perfect fit. In fact, everything looked as if it would fit. How had Franco known her sizes? Even she didn’t know the European conversions. Had Candace told him? Or was he so experienced with women he could accurately guess their sizes just by looking at them. Probably the latter.
She opened the last package, gasped and dropped the matching bra and thong in the exact same shade of teal on the bed. Heat rushed through her.
Franco was dressing her from the skin out. He’d bought the privilege to do so, just as he’d bought the right to undress her later if he chose.
Anticipation—or was it dread?—made her pulse race.
Six
A wiser man would choose another woman, Franco told himself as he entered Hôtel Reynard a few minutes before midnight. Stacy had made him feel more than sexual relief—a luxury he no longer afforded himself. It would not happen again.He had ignored her yesterday just to prove he could, but he had failed miserably. She had invaded his thoughts like a fever. If the family estate and the company he had sweated blood over were not at stake, he would bid her farewell. But it had taken him two months after making the agreement with his father to find a woman who met both his and his father’s criteria. Stacy came with the added benefit of leaving the country after the month was up. He would not have to deal with a clingy woman who refused to accept goodbye.
Nodding to the concierge, Franco stepped into the penthouse elevator and swiftly ascended. Tonight there would be no intimate conversations. He would dance with Stacy in the crowded, noisy club. Afterward he would send her suitemates back to the hotel in the limo and take Stacy to his villa where they would have sex. And then he would put her in a cab and send her back to the hotel. Alone.
He did not want to know her better—except intimately, of course. Nor did he want to discover what had made an attractive and intelligent woman completely unaware of her appeal, for she seemed to have absolutely no vanity.
The suite’s doorbell chimed when he touched the button, and seconds later the wooden panel swung open. Stacy. She took his breath away. His gaze absorbed her, from her loose shining hair to the outfit he had chosen, down her lovely legs to her pink-painted toenails in the sexy heels.
“Tu es ravissante, mon gardénia,” he murmured in a barely audible—thanks to the annoying thickening of this throat—voice.
Her cheeks pinked and she dipped her chin. “Thank you. And if I look ravishing it’s because of the lovely outfit. Thank you for that too. But you don’t have to buy—”
“The color matches your eyes when you cli**x,” he interrupted. Ignoring her shocked gasp, he reached for her right hand and bent to kiss her knuckles. At the same time he retrieved the diamond bracelet she had left behind from his pocket and fastened it on her wrist.
He straightened. “Are your suitemates ready? I have a limo downstairs.”
“Is that Franco?” Candace called from within the suite.
Fingering the bracelet, Stacy stepped back, opening the door and revealing the trio of women. “Yes. He has a limo waiting.”
“Then let’s go,” Madeline replied. “And Stace, if that’s the kind of stuff you have stashed in your closet I’m glad we’re the same size.”
Stacy shot him a quick glance as if warning him not to correct Madeline. “I need to get my purse.”
His gaze followed her as she walked away, the uneven hem of her skirt swinging flirtatiously above her knees. Knowing her buttocks were bare save the clinging fabric of her skirt and the thin ribbon of her thong made his blood pool behind his zipper. Nor could he take his eyes from her once she rejoined them. This fascination was not good. But it was temporary. He would get over it.
In the limo he settled beside her with the other women on the seat across from them. Stacy’s scent filled his nostrils and her legs drew his gaze. His fisted his hand against the compulsion to smooth his palm up her thigh.
He belatedly remembered the role Vincent had asked of him. “I have a table reserved beside the dance floor. The rules are different here than in the States. Unattached men and women dance freely without partners. If you see someone you wish to dance with you make eye contact, and if the interest is returned you move toward each other on the floor.”
“You mean the guys don’t ask you to dance?” Amelia queried.
“Not verbally, no. The club is safe, but if you have problems come to me. Stacy and I will be nearby.”
Stacy’s eyes widened. She seemed to sink deeper into the seat as her companions’ speculative gazes landed on her. She had not wanted her friends to know about the money, but hiding the affair would be impossible.
Franco nodded to Candace. “Vincent says you are only to dance with women or ugly men.”
His comment brought a laugh and eased the tension. “The limo is on standby. If you wish to leave, use it. Don’t get into cars with strangers.”
A collective groan arose from the opposite bench and Madeline mumbled, “Not my father’s favorite speech.”
Franco shrugged. “Vincent charged me with your safety.”
The limo pulled to a stop outside Jimmy’z. The women climbed out, Stacy last. Franco followed, his gaze on her shapely bottom. The men gathered near the entrance eyed the women, Stacy in particular. Franco rested a possessive hand on her waist and bent closer. “You will dance with no one but me.”
She briefly closed her eyes and then nodded.
Inside, the hostess led them to their table. The club was dark and the music loud with a driving beat. Franco wondered what Stacy thought of the retro decor, but decided it did not matter. Knowing her tastes was not part of their deal.
He arranged for their drinks and waited with impatience he had no business feeling for Stacy to consume hers while the women chatted, pointed out celebrities and acclimatized themselves to the club. An hour later even the shy Amelia had deserted them for the dance floor. Franco extended his hand. Stacy bit her lip, hesitating before she laid her palm over his and rose.
Thankful that slow songs were few and far between at Jimmy’z, he led her onto the floor. The night would be long enough without the arousing slide of her body against his. Needing the physical exertion to expend some of his caged energy, he released her hand and found the rhythm of the beat. Stacy moved self-consciously at first, but soon either the gyrating crowd surrounding them or the alcohol relaxed her. The results devastated him. A slight sheen of sweat dampened her flushed skin, reminding him of her face just before le petit mort. He would have been better off if Stacy had remained stiff.
His gaze slid over her. When he had chosen her clothing he’d had no idea the effect she would have on his control and his carefully planned evening. Each pirouette flared her skirt almost to her bottom. He wasn’t the only man to notice. A primitive urge to mark her as his surged through him.
He cupped a hand around her nape, pulled her close and pressed a quick, hard kiss on her lips. He said into her ear, “You dance like you make love. Très sexy.”
Shock made Stacy stumble. Could the man read minds? Franco caught her quickly, pulling her flush against the hot length of his hard body. The contact was too intense, too arousing. She jerked back, her gaze slamming into his. Suddenly the air seemed loaded with sexual tension.
For the past two hours she’d been thinking he moved like an invitation to sin—an invitation she wanted to accept more and more with each passing second. She’d believed that after a night in his bed she couldn’t—wouldn’t—desire him again. Wrong. Her body, already warm from dancing, flushed with heat and pulsed with a sexual awareness with which she’d been unfamiliar until Franco.
Franco moved closer, his hand curving around her waist and his h*ps punctuating the beat in a purely sensual dance that made her feminine muscles clench in anticipation. A mating dance. Not graphic or crude. Just devastatingly, pulse-acceleratingly sensuous. And she wasn’t the only woman to notice. Since they’d arrived, each time Stacy had glanced past the cobalt silk stretched across his broad shoulders she’d caught women glaring at her or ogling Franco’s behind, and who could blame them?
More than one bold woman had sashayed up to them on the dance floor and shimmied directly beside him as if trying to draw his attention. But Franco’s gaze never strayed. His eyes had remained locked on hers or on the movement of her body with an intensity burning in the blue depths that made her feel incredibly attractive and yes, very desirable. Realizing she was proud to be the woman he’d chosen was a scary thought since the man should be her worst nightmare.
Her throat dried and her belly tightened. She blamed the discomforts on thirst and hunger. Nerves over this evening had ruined her appetite and she’d barely touched the dinner she and her suitemates had shared earlier. Hoping for a distraction, she dampened her lips and glanced toward their table, but her friends weren’t there to rescue her.
Franco intercepted her look, caught her hand and led her off the dance floor without a word. He paused beside her chair, brushed stray tendrils of hair from her damp forehead and tucked them behind her ears. His fingertips lingered over her pulse points, no doubt noting the rapid tattoo not solely caused by the dancing, and then one hand traced her collar bone and dipped into the V of her top. Desire rippled over her, tightening her n**ples and making her shiver.
“Another drink, mon gardénia?”
Maybe the alcohol was to blame for loosening her inhibitions and erasing her common sense. Whatever, she wanted him to kiss her instead of staring at her lips as if he would consume her were they not surrounded by people, and her response was both unacceptable and unwise, given what she knew of men in his position.
She cleared her throat and sat. “Water this time.”
He signaled the waiter, ordered another round of drinks for their table and seated himself beside her.
Stacy gasped when his hand smoothed up from her knee and then her breath wheezed out again when his fingertips stroked along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
“You wish to go?”
She did. Oh boy, she did. What did it say about her that she couldn’t wait to get back to his house, back to his bed? She waited until after the waiter deposited the drinks and left to reply. “We shouldn’t leave before the others.”