The wine was perfect, so he filled their glasses.
Charlotte tasted hers, and her eyes went wide with the experience. “Nice,” she admitted with respect.
“From our vineyard in Bordeaux.”
“I’m impressed.”
He smiled in satisfaction at her reaction.
“Not that impressed,” she drawled.
“That was pride of craftsmanship,” he told her.
“My mistake.” But her sea-foam eyes told him she knew it was lust.
Of course it was. But not a problem. He’d back off and let her relax.
“La pissaladière,” he decreed, retrieving a steel mixing bowl from beneath the countertop. He then assembled flour, yeast, sugar and olive oil.
She watched wordlessly for a few moments. “You can cook?”
“Oui. Of course.” He sprinkled sugar into the bottom of the bowl, adding the yeast and a measure of water. French children learned to bake almost before they learned to walk.
“You do your own cooking?” she pressed in obvious surprise.
“Sometimes.” He nodded to her wineglass. “Enjoy. Relax. Tell me what you wanted to talk about.”
The invitation seemed to sober her, and she took a slow sip of the wine.
Stalling.
Interesting.
“That is one exceedingly fine wine,” she commented.
“I applaud your good taste, mademoiselle,” he told her honestly. Then he retrieved a heavy skillet and drizzled olive oil into the bottom.
“You’ve lived here a long time?” she asked. Her gaze was on her wineglass as she rubbed her thumb and forefinger over the stem.
He watched the motion for a moment. “I was born here.”
“In Provence or in the château?”
“In the hospital in Castres.”
“Oh.” She nodded then turned silent.
“Is that what you wanted to ask me?”
“Not exactly.” Her white teeth came down on her bottom lip. “My family in America…the Hudsons. They make movies.”
“You don’t say,” he drawled. A person would have to be dead not to know of Hudson Pictures. Their awards were numerous, their reputation stellar and they’d launched the careers of half the Hollywood elite.
“I wasn’t sure you knew,” she defended. “They’re successful in America, but—”
“You’re far too modest.”
“It’s not like I had anything to do with it.” She flicked back her hair, gaze still focused on the burgundy wine. “They’re filming a new movie.”
“Just one?”
That made her look up. “A special one.”
“I see.”
“I don’t.…” She glanced around the spacious kitchen.
Alec set down his chopping knife. “Is it getting any easier with these delay tactics?”
“I’m not—” Then she caught his eyes and sighed. “I really was hoping you’d be Raine.”
“Sorry.”
“Not as sorry as I am.” Then she gave her head a little shake. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
If she didn’t look so serious, he might have laughed. “Is it some kind of women’s thing?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend break up with you?” That wouldn’t be such a bad thing. She could stay here while she got over the guy. And Alec would be on hand to lend a sympathetic ear, or shoulder, or anything else that was required.
“No,” she said. “It’s not that.”
Too bad. “Am I likely to guess?”
She fought a half smile and shook her head.
He picked up the knife, bringing it down to chop off the stem of an onion. “Then shall we get on with it?”
“You’re not making this easy.”
He chopped again. “Well, it’s not from the lack of trying.”
Her lips compressed, then her shoulders drooped. “Okay, now there’s been too much buildup.”
He rinsed his hands in the small square sink in the middle of the island. “You,” he enunciated, “are impossible.”
“Fine.” She braced her hands on the countertop. “Here goes. The Hudsons would like to use your château as a movie set.” She clamped her jaw and waited for his reaction.
Alec stilled.
Was she joking?
Was she crazy?
He’d spent years avoiding the press—years of fighting tooth and nail for a scrap of privacy. To invite a movie crew, cameras, actors, an entire Hollywood cartel into his home for weeks on end?
He gathered the thinly sliced onions onto the knife edge, then dumped them all at once in the hot olive oil. They hissed and sizzled, steam rising to the ceiling.
“No,” he said, with absolute finality. There was not a chance in hell.
Okay, Charlotte had expected resistance. Alec wasn’t going to say yes immediately. Who would? It was an inconvenience and a disruption in his life. She understood that.
“It’s my grandparents’ love story,” she put in, trying to stress the significance of the film. “They met during the war. In occupied France.”
Alec didn’t say a word.
“All of Hudson Pictures’ resources will be behind it.” The quality would be unparalleled.
He lifted a spatula and stirred the sizzling onions.
“My grandmother was a cabaret performer, and they were secretly married under the noses of the Germans.”
Alec looked up. “And this makes a difference how?”
“Cece Cassidy is attached to the project. It’s sure to be a contender for best writer—”
“Like the screenwriter’s the problem.”
“Is it about money?” she probed. “They’d absolutely compensate you for the inconvenience. And they’d leave everything exactly as they found it. You wouldn’t—”
“It’s about my home not being a movie set.”
“They wouldn’t need your entire home.” Charlotte searched her brain for more ammunition. “You’d be able to stay in residence. Jack sent me a script breakdown. They’d need the kitchen, the great room, one of the libraries and a couple of bedrooms. Oh, and the grounds of course. They’d need the grounds. Maybe your back deck for one scene.”
“And that’s all?” Alec drawled, his sarcastic tone playing havoc with her confidence.
“I’m fairly sure that’s all.” She kept her voice even.
“They wouldn’t need access to my private study? Or my bathroom?” he continued, voice going up. “Or maybe they’d like to take a peek inside—”
“You could designate some areas off-limits,” she rushed in. “And you could even stay at one of your other houses during filming.”
His eyes darkened, and he brandished the spatula like a weapon. “And give a pack of Hollywood hooligans free rein over my home?”
“It’s not like they’re some biker gang.” Sure, some stars had a reputation for bad behavior, but the Hudson Pictures producers were very professional. And Raine was a friend. Charlotte wouldn’t fill her house with a bunch of wild partiers.
“I never said they were.”
“Then what is it?”
“Do you have any idea how hard I have to fight for privacy?”
“Well, maybe if you didn’t—” She stopped herself.
“Yes?” he prompted, cocking his dark head to one side.
“Nothing.” 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.”
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.”
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 forced herself to pay attention to the words. “I was going to say yes—”
Raine clapped her hands together in delight.
“Provided,” Alec put in firmly, and Charlotte listened closely. “Provided we have an understanding that the third floor is off-limits. As is the south gallery.”
“Done,” Charlotte quickly answered, sticking out her hand to shake.
“Nobody goes in the rose garden.” He didn’t shake her hand.
She nodded vigorously. Easy. Piece of cake. According to Jack, landowners always had a list of stipulations.
“Or any of the outbuildings. Shooting stops by ten every night. My staff are not part of the production crew. And you stay in residence to make sure it goes smoothly.”
“Abso—” Charlotte snapped her jaw shut, dropping her hand to the table. “What?”
“I don’t want any extra work for my staff,” he repeated.
“Not that part.”
“It’s perfect,” Raine sang, grasping Charlotte’s forearm in a friendly squeeze. “We can hang out, visit. It’ll be like we’re back in college.”
“I can’t move in,” Charlotte protested. “I have a job back in Monte Allegro. My grandfather needs me. There’s a summit in Athens on the twenty-fifth.”
Alec pinned her with a look. “So you’re willing to inconvenience me, but not yourself?”
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