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

“Not nearly enough,” Kiefer grumbled. Then he recapped his water bottle and ran spread fingers through his short hair. “Who were you talking about?”

Alec shook his head.

“I swear I won’t even talk to her.”

Alec paused. “Charlotte Hudson. She’s the friend of Raine’s.”

“Ah.” Kiefer instantly caught on. “You could have bribed her with access to the château.”

Alec nodded.

“She’s not Isabella’s sister or something?”

“Maybe a cousin. I’m not sure. Raine says Charlotte grew up with her maternal grandparents, mostly in Europe. Her grandfather’s the U.S. ambassador to Monte Allegro. She works for him.”

“Sounds tame enough,” Kiefer mused.

“The plan’s off the table. I had a hard enough time getting her to stay at the château for the shoot.”

Kiefer came alert. “She’s staying at the château?”

“Don’t touch it.” Alec’s tone was flat.

“I’m just sayin’—”

“You are not leaking her to the press.”

“Well, somebody’s going to ‘leak’ something. Better it’s her than Isabella.”

“In whose opinion?”

“Mine.”

“You don’t count. You’re the hired help.” Alec snapped one foot back onto the pedal and pushed off.

Kiefer quickly followed suit. “Will you at least ask her?”

“I will not.”

“If she says no, she says no. But she might—”

“She’ll never agree.”

“How do you know?”

Alec pulled onto the rough road for the return trip. “It’s like this,” he explained with exaggerated patience. “You’re executive assistant to an ambassador. You like your job. In fact, the ambassador is your own grandfather. A man with a public reputation like mine asks you to pretend to date him in order to protect his reputation. You say…what, exactly?”

“Point taken,” Kiefer admitted.

They rode in silence to the crest of the hill, where Alec’s thoughts turned to the croissants his cook had been putting in the oven when they left the château.

“Still,” Kiefer continued, as their speed picked up and the morning air whipped past, “the worst she can do is say no.”

“No, no, no,” Charlotte emphasized into the cordless telephone. “You can’t put Syria next to Bulgaria. Put them next to Canada, or the Swiss—”

The telephone handset was summarily tugged out of Charlotte’s hand.

“Hey!” She twisted her head to Raine, who was lying back in the next deck lounger.

“Charlotte has to go now, Emily,” Raine said into the handset. “She’s in the middle of a pedicure.”

“You can’t do that,” Charlotte protested.

But Raine calmly hit the off button.

“You need to hold still,” warned the esthetician working on Charlotte’s toes. “Or you’ll have purple passion streaked halfway to your ankle.”

“You listen to her.” Raine gestured with the phone.

“You hung up on Emily.”

“You’ve been on the phone with her for half an hour.”

“It’s the summit dinner. She was about to put Syria next to Bulgaria.”

“Will it cause a war?”

“Maybe,” said Charlotte, glancing down at her toes. The purple passion sparkled in the sunshine. She’d borrowed a sea-blue two-piece bathing suit from Raine, and they were lounging on thickly padded lounge chairs next to the Montcalm pool. An emerald lawn stretched out in front of them, while lush cypress trees and flowering shrubs screened them from the house, offering dappled shade.

“They’re cultural attachés,” Raine pointed out. “I doubt they have the launch codes.”

“Maybe not. But I can’t just walk away from my responsibilities on a moment’s notice.” Charlotte had spoken with her grandfather this morning, and he’d been more than gracious in giving her the time off, telling her not to worry. But there were about a thousand details she had to make sure were passed on to other staff members.

“I did,” said Raine. “When I heard you were here, I walked right off the shoot in Malta and onto the corporate jet.”

“Is that a problem?” Charlotte quickly asked.

“I guess we’ll find out when the October issue hits the stands, won’t we?”

“No, seriously—”

“The magazine will survive, and so will the ambassador. You need to relax.”

“You should not move for at least half an hour,” Charlotte’s esthetician advised, admiring Charlotte’s toes as she rose from her chair.

“Thank you,” said Charlotte, raising her newly polished fingernails and fluttering them to compare to her matching toes.

Raine’s esthetician finished a final topcoat, and the two women began to pack their things.