Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress: Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress. Barbara Dunlop

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СКАЧАТЬ She shook her head. This was turning into enough of a disaster without her insulting him.

      “I must insist,” he said, seeming to grow even taller.

      “We could cover any privacy concerns in the contract.” She attempted to distract him. “You’d really have nothing to worry—”

      “I’ll decide what I worry about. Now what were you about to say?”

      She gazed into his probing eyes. “I forgot.”

      He waited.

      Her brain scrambled, but she couldn’t for the life of her come up with a good lie.

      Oh, hell. She might as well go for it. The battle was all but over, anyway. “Maybe if you didn’t make yourself such an attractive target for the paparazzi.”

      He paused. “You’re suggesting it’s my fault?”

      “You don’t have to escort supermodels to every A-list party in Europe.”

      His brown eyes darkened to ebony. “You think a plain Jane on my arm would stop the gossip? You think a woman who didn’t fit their mold would do anything but guarantee me the front page?”

      Charlotte quickly realized he had a point. Being seen with anybody out of type would cause even more speculation. But he’d missed her point entirely. “You could skip the parties.”

      “I don’t attend that many parties.”

      Charlotte scoffed out a laugh of disbelief.

      He frowned at her. “How many did you attend last month? Last week? Lost count?”

      In fact, she had. “That’s different,” she pointed out primly. “I was on business.”

      He gave the onions another stir and reduced the heat. “What is it you think I do at parties?”

      He washed his hands while she thought about that. Then he retrieved a mesh bag of ripe tomatoes.

      She tried to figure out if it was a trick question. “Dance with supermodels?” She stated the obvious.

      “I make business contacts.”

      “With supermodels?”

      He sliced through a tomato. “Would you rather I went stag? Danced with other men’s dates?”

      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.

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