Transformed Into The Frenchman's Mistress / Bargained Into Her Boss's Bed. Barbara Dunlop
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.”
He clamped his jaw.
She waited as long as she could stand.
“Fine. What is it—”
“Charlotte!” came Raine’s delighted voice. She rushed through an open set of French doors, dropping her purse and a briefcase on a lounger. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
She wore a slim, tailored black dress and charcoal stockings, and her high-heeled shoes clattered on the stone deck. Her dark hair was cut in a chic bob, and her bright red mouth was sliced in a smile of delight.
“The trip came up suddenly,” said Charlotte, coming to her feet, as did Alec beside her. “But I thought you were away until Tuesday.” She cursed her stupidity at rushing the conversation with Alec. If only she’d waited a few hours!
“I talked to Henri. He told me you were here.” There was a clear admonishment in the tone.
But then they embraced in a tight hug, Raine laughing with delight in Charlotte’s ear.
When they finally separated, Alec broke in. “Bonsoir, ma soeur.”
Raine glanced over, feigning surprise. “Alec? I didn’t see you there.”
He shook his head and held out his arms.
She walked into a warm hug and an affectionate kiss for each cheek.
Watching them, regret twitched reflexively inside Charlotte. She glanced away, wishing she could have such an easy relationship with Jack.
“So,” said Raine as she settled into the third chair. “What are we eating?” She sniffed at the pissaladière. Then she lifted the wine bottle, brows arching at the label. “Très bon.”
“I know how to be a good host, even if you don’t,” said Alec.
“I didn’t even know she was coming.” Raine tipped the bottle up, and up. “It’s empty.”
Alec reached behind him, exchanging it for a full one while Raine helped herself to a slice of the pie.
“What are we talking about?” she asked, glancing from one to the other.
Alec deftly drilled into the wine cork. “Charlotte wants to use the château as a movie set.”
Charlotte cringed at the bald statement.
But Raine looked intrigued. “Really?”
Charlotte nodded.
“That’s fantastic.”
“I didn’t say yes,” Alec warned.
“Why on earth not?” asked Raine.
He popped the cork. “Because you interrupted us.”
“But you were about to,” she prompted.
“I was about to suggest a compromise.”
Charlotte reminded herself it wasn’t sex. Though there was still a nervous churning in her stomach. What would Alec want? More important, what was she willing to give?
Not sex. No. Of course not. Still…
He continued speaking, and she