Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress: Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress

Charlotte wriggled forward on the high seat. “You’re trying to tell me you suffer the attentions of supermodels in order to make business contacts?”

“I’m trying to tell you I like my privacy, and you shouldn’t make assumptions about other people’s lifestyles.”

“Alec, you hand out hotel room keys on the dance floor.” She knew from firsthand experience. He’d tried it with her.

His knife stilled.

She sat back, not even attempting to mask her satisfaction. “You are so busted.”

“Really?” He resumed slicing. “Well, you are so not making a movie in my château.”

Chapter Two

Round one had gone to Alec, and Charlotte had no choice but to back off and regroup as they moved to the veranda for dinner. The sizzling pissaladière was now on a round glass table between them.

Flickering light from the garden torches highlighted the planes and angles of his face, while the freshening breeze picked up the scents of lavender and thyme. He seemed relaxed enough. While the pissaladière had baked, their conversation had ranged from vacation spots to impressionist painters to the monetary policy of the European Union.

But now, it was time for round two.

“You could hide anything personal,” she opened conversationally, transferring a slice of the delicate tomato pie to her plate. “You could stay out of sight. I doubt any of the crew would even know it was your château.”

“Please,” he drawled, lifting the silver serving spoon from her hand. “There’s a big sign over the gate that says Château Montcalm.”

“Take it down.”

“My name is etched into five-hundred-year-old stone.”

Right. “Surely you’re not the only Montcalm in Provence.”

“I’m the only one who makes the front page.” He settled on two slices of the pie.

“I think you’re overestimating your fame.”

“I think you’re overestimating your powers of persuasion.”

“More wine?” she asked, topping off his glass while treating him to the brilliant smile her grandfather’s image consultant had insisted she learn for photographs.

He watched the burgundy liquid rise in his crystal goblet. “It won’t work, Charlotte.”

She finished topping his glass. “What won’t work?”

“I was weaned on Maison Inouï.”

She feigned innocence. “You think I’m trying to get you drunk?”

“I think you’re entirely too fixated on my château.” He moved the bottle to one side so that his view of her was unobstructed. “What gives? There are plenty of other châteaus.”

She tried to stay businesslike. But his mocha eyes glowed under the soft torchlight, making it look like he somehow cared.

“It’s perfect for the story,” she told him honestly, gazing around the estate. “The family thinks—”

“You’re not even involved in the business.”

Charlotte squared her shoulders. “I am a Hudson.” She found herself battling a stupid but familiar sense of loneliness. Her Cassettes grandparents had given her a wonderful life, a dream life. If her heart had ached for her brother, Jack, in the dead of night, it was only because she’d been so young when they were separated.

“Charlotte?”

She blinked at Alec.

“There are many châteaus in Provence.”

“He…they want this one.”

“He?”

“The producers.” She was doing this for the good of the film, not specifically for Jack.

“Something going on between you and the producers?”

“No.”

Alec gazed at her in silence. The wind kicked up a notch, and the stems of lavender rustled below them in the country garden.

“What?” she finally asked, battling an urge to squirm.

He lifted his wineglass. “You want it too bad.”

She huffed out a breath. “I don’t see why this has to be such a big thing. What do you want? What can we do? How can we persuade you to give up your precious privacy for six weeks?”

He sipped the wine, watching her intently. Then he set down the glass, running his thumb along the length of the stem.

“There is one thing I want.” His molten eyes told her exactly what that one thing was.

“I am not sleeping with you to get a film location.”

Alec tipped back his head and laughed.

Charlotte squirmed. Had she completely misread his signals? Made a colossal fool of herself?

No. She couldn’t have been that far wrong. The man had once tried to give her his hotel room key.

“I’m not asking to sleep with you, Charlotte.”

She took an unladylike swig of her own wine, struggling desperately not to blush in humiliation. “Well. Good. That’s good.”

He grinned. “Although, I definitely wouldn’t say no if you—”

“Shut up.”