Blogger Bundle Volume VIII: SBTB's Harlequins That Hooked You

by Jennifer Crusie

  Her breasts ached in anticipation of his touch, and desire simmered inside her. She couldn’t believe her body could respond with such abandon when she knew Franco was using her. She’d been used before. But she wasn’t a lonely seventeen-year-old trying to fit in at her third high school anymore. She wouldn’t expect love or forever this time, so she wouldn’t be hurt.

  “Hey guys, where’d you go?” Candace’s voice called out from somewhere in the house.

  Franco slowly lifted his head, his lips clinging to Stacy’s for several heartbeats. His passion-darkened gaze speared hers. “Tonight we begin.”

  She couldn’t find her voice, but she managed a stiff nod.

  Dear God, what had she done?

  She’d agreed to trade sex for security. She couldn’t help feeling she’d sold her soul to the devil, and she hoped she didn’t live to regret it.

  Anticipation made Franco edgy. He hated it. He was, after all, a man of thirty-eight and not a boy of eighteen. His hormones did not seem to know the difference tonight.

  Impatience urged him to take Stacy directly to his bedroom, to strip away her modest black dress and cover her ivory skin with his hands and mouth, but her pale, anxious expression cooled his ardor. Standing in his foyer, she looked torn between running back into the night and fulfilling her end of the bargain no matter how unpleasant.

  Where was the passionate but reserved woman he’d left at the hotel mere hours ago? The one who’d kissed him with such fervor this morning that only her friend’s untimely interruption had prevented him from consummating their agreement against his bedroom door? He wanted that passionate woman back. And he would have her. Stacy would be warm and pliant in his arms and his bed before the night ended. And he would win. The woman. And the contest with his father.

  He pitched his keys onto the credenza, halted behind her and curved his hands over her shoulders. She startled. “May I take your wrap?”

  “Oh, um, yes, sure.” She darted a quick, nervous glance at him and tension tightened inside him as an unacceptable thought pierced his conscience.

  “Stacy, are you a virgin?” He’d had lovers, dozens of them, but no virgins. Experienced women understood that all he wanted was the transitory pleasure of their bodies. An innocent might expect more.

  Color rushed to her cheeks and she ducked her chin. “No. But I…this…is new to me. I don’t know where to begin.”

  His clenched muscles loosened. Nerves he could handle. Regrets and crying, he could not. He had intended to satisfy his hunger for Stacy first tonight and then his less demanding appetite for dinner afterward, but perhaps he would alter his strategy. Dinner first. Pleasure later. Anticipation would only heighten the senses. “Leave that to me.”

  Franco stroked the lace down her arms, caught her elbows and pulled her back against his front. Her bottom nudged his thighs. The urge to thrust his growing arousal against her gnawed at him, but he would coax Stacy until she was breathless and eager for his possession, as she had been earlier. He nuzzled through her silky hair and sipped from the warm, fragrant juncture of her neck and shoulder. She shivered.

  Bien, the responsive woman still lurked beneath her pale and tense exterior. He encircled her with his arms and spread his palms over the slight curve of her abdomen. “I will ensure your pleasure tonight, mon gardénia.”

  A little hic of breath lifted her breasts, and though he wanted to cup her soft flesh in his hands and stroke his thumbs over the tips pushing against the fabric of her dress, he could wait. But not long.

  “We will dine on the terrace.” He released her and led her through the living room, draping her wrap over the back of a chair as they passed. On the patio he seated her, lit the candles he’d placed in the center of the table and then poured the cabernet franc. After removing the lid covering the crudités and setting it aside, he sat and lifted his glass. “À nous et aux plaisirs de la nuit.”

  She made a choked sound. “I’m sorry?”

  “To us and the pleasures of the night,” he translated.

  “That’s what I thought you said,” she muttered into the bowl of her glass and took a healthy sip of wine.

  He removed a small box from his suit pocket and placed it on the table in front of her. He had planned to give her this after savoring her delicious body, but why wait? Stacy needed coaxing, and in his experience jewelry always made women more amenable. “For you.”

  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 agre
ement. 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.

  He gripped her upper arms and set her from him. “Stacy, what game are you playing?”

  “I’m not playing a game. I just…” She bit her bottom lip. “We don’t know each other very well.”

  “What is there to know except the pleasure we can give one another?” His fingers threaded through her hair, tugging gently and tipping her head back. “Have you never experienced immediate attraction for someone you have just met and let passion lead?”

  “Uh…no.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-nine. But I, um…”

  “You haven’t had many lovers.”

  Was it obvious? Heat scalded her cheeks. She wanted to hide her face, but his grip on her hair prevented it. “No.”

  His nostrils flared. “I will teach you what pleases me, and I will satisfy you, mon gardénia.”

  He stated it with surety and she wanted to believe him, but why would he bother? He’d bought her whether she liked sex with him or not. “If you say so. You probably should have asked about my sexual experience before offering your bargain.”

  “Ce n’est pas important.”

  Not important? How could her lack of experience be unimportant?

  He released her hair and laced his fingers through hers. “Come. The kitchen is not the best place for our first time.”

  Nerves twisted tighter in her stomach with each step. She knew where they were headed long before they reached the carved double wooden doors. His bedroom. Once inside the large chamber he faced her. “I have pictured you here. Sprawled on my sheets. Naked except for the flush of passion on your skin.”

  She wheezed in a breath at the sensual image his words painted and blurted, “Do you have condoms? Because I’m not on the pill.”

  “And even if you were, the pill is not protection against sexually transmitted diseases—of which I have none,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  Her discomfort with the current conversation further illustrated her lack of qualifications to become Franco’s mistress. A more experienced woman could probably have this preliminary chat without as much as a blush. But not her. She shifted on her feet. “Me neither.”

  “I have protection.” He turned her toward the bed, reached for the zip of her dress, swiftly pulled it down to her hips and then flicked her bra open.

  Oh God, were they going to just do it? She shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. Despite what the magazines said, in her experience, that’s the way it happened. Rushed, fumbling hands followed by awkward contact and grunting. At least it would be over soon.

  Air cooled her skin and then warm hands slipped inside the gaping fabric of her dress to trail down her spine with a feather-light touch. Goose bumps rose on her skin and her toes curled in her pumps.

  Franco’s thumbs worked upward from her lower back, massaging her knotted muscles all the way to he
r neck. His fingers drew ever-widening circles over her shoulders, down to her waist and back again. Her eyelids grew heavy and she shivered as unexpected pleasure rippled over her.

  A hot, open-mouthed kiss on her nape surprised a gasp from her, and then her dress and bra fell from her shoulders. Startled by the swift disrobing, she grabbed at her clothing, but too late. The garments puddled around her ankles. She crossed her arms over her chest, covering her breasts.

  “Non. Do not hide.”

  Her eyelids jerked open. She found her gaze locked with Franco’s in the large gold-leaf mirror hanging over the dresser. Slowly, painfully, she lowered her hands and fisted her fingers beside her. Her heart pumped harder as his gaze devoured her breasts, her black hipster panties and then her legs. In her opinion, her body was okay, her breasts merely average, but if Franco was disappointed in what he’d bought he didn’t show it.

  Behind her, he discarded his coat and tie, tossing both toward a chair without breaking her gaze. His belt whistled free and then thumped into the chair. Each movement stirred the air around them and teased the fine hairs on her body. He unbuttoned his cuffs and then his shirt and tugged his shirttails free, but didn’t remove the garment. Part of her wanted to turn and examine him as he had her, but the governing part of her stood transfixed, muscles locked and rigid.

  “Tu es très sexy, Stacy.” His hands, shades darker than her pale skin, curved around her waist.

  Her lungs failed, but whooshed back into action when his palms splayed over her belly, one above her navel and one below. An unaccustomed urge to shift until his hot hands covered more intimate territory percolated through her, but she remained as still as a statue.

  “Your skin is like ivory. You do not sunbathe?” he whispered against the sensitive skin beneath her ear a second before his lips made electrifying contact.

  “I d-don’t have the time. When I’m not working I volunteer my time mentoring at-risk teens.” Kids who were lonely outsiders like she’d been.