Transformed Into The Frenchman’s Mistress

by Barbara Dunlop

  She raised her brows. “Here?”

  “My friend Renaldo,” said Alec. “He’ll let us know what’s up for rent.”

  “Oh.” Didn’t Charlotte feel like a fool. “A real-estate office.”

  A knowing light came into Alec’s eyes. “What were you expecting?”

  “This,” she quickly responded with a nod.

  He grinned, and she felt her face heat.

  Four

  Alec wanted to sleep with Charlotte-so much so that it was beginning to feel like an obsession. That kiss this morning told him they would all but combust together, and the confused looks she’d been giving him said she’d felt it, too. And now they were alone. They had several hours to spend together. And there were endless possible locations to make love in town. They had everything but a set of runway lights guiding them to paradise.

  But something was holding him back. And he couldn’t begin to imagine what it might be. Guys like him could talk women into bed without breaking a sweat. Half the time it was about his money, of course. But then half the time he didn’t really care.

  Maybe he was getting old. Or maybe he wanted to pretend it was different with Charlotte-that there was more to it than sex on his side and manipulation on hers.

  Which didn’t make sense. He barely knew her. She could be as susceptible to his millions as every other woman he’d met in this lifetime. Just because she was Raine’s friend, and just because she was bright and witty, with an endearing dash of vulnerability, didn’t make her any different from anyone else.

  Still, instead of rushing her to the nearest hotel room, he found himself winding his way through Castres to the first of three houses available for rent.

  The first one was an old, converted mill set next to the river on a few acres of lawn.

  “Gorgeous,” sang Charlotte, tipping her head back and turning in a circle as they entered a boxy, high-ceilinged main room. A polished wooden staircase was set against the stone wall and led up to the landing on the second story. The wood floors gleamed, and the furniture was big and comfortable.

  “You think it might be too small?” asked Alec.

  “It’s charming,” said Charlotte, passing beneath the staircase, past the stone fireplace to the arched doorway that led to a restored kitchen. Bright enamel pots hung from the ceiling, and a giant white sink dominated the counter below a window that looked out over the water. The cupboards were worn, and the floor tiles had definitely seen better days.

  Alec tested the table for dust. “We’re talking about bigwigs and movie stars.”

  Charlotte frowned at him. “I’d stay here,” she declared, wandering to the big sink.

  He followed. “Yeah? Well, apparently, you’re not all that fussy.”

  She turned suddenly, and they were nearly nose to nose, her back trapped against the sink.

  “How would you know that?” she asked.

  He held up his finger to show the dust, rubbing it off with his thumb.

  She watched the motion, and he felt a flicker of warning heat build up inside him.

  “Nothing a little elbow grease won’t fix,” she said.

  “I’m guessing stars don’t do windows,” he countered, attempting to keep the mood light.

  “Of course not. They have people who do it for them. But then, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Got a problem with my money?” Sarcasm wasn’t the female reaction he normally experienced.

  She paused. “I like your car.”

  “You have good taste.”

  “You like to go fast?”

  He digested the statement for a second, wondering which tack to take.

  A flicker of unease crossed her face.

  “I like to go fast,” he agreed softly, keeping his expression steady, allowing her decide whether to let it drop or pick it up and run with it.

  They stared at each other in silence. The river rushed by below the window, and a songbird serenaded them from a nearby tree branch. The house itself was still and silent. It seemed to be holding its breath along with them.

  “I thought the kiss would get us out of this,” she finally said.

  “I guess it didn’t,” he responded.

  Another minute went by.

  “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” she asked.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know, something decisive one way or the other.”

  He smiled. “I thought about that. And then I thought I’d let you make the first move.”

  She shifted against the cool ceramic sink. “And if I don’t?”

  He shrugged. “Then I guess it’s like a staring contest. We’ll see who blinks first.”

  “And you think that would be fun?”

  “I think it would be fascinating.” And he did.

  He had a will of iron when he wanted it. Not that he necessarily wanted it in this case. But toying with Charlotte was like stomping the accelerator of his Lamborghini. It was always exhilarating to see which would come first, disaster or delirium.

  “In that case.” She slipped sideways, dancing away from him, across the kitchen. “I’m betting I can hold out longer than you.”

  “You think?”

  She snagged his attention with a sultry, sexy look. “I guess we’ll find out. Where’s the next house?”

  “Rue du Blanc. Top of the hill.”

  It was a modern stone villa with twelve rooms and a pool overlooking an olive grove. Charlotte liked it. So did Alec. The kitchen was clean and modern, and there were plenty of bedrooms and enough baths for an entourage.

  Their final stop was a full-on castle, with bleached stones, hewn ceiling beams, a formal dining room and seven bedrooms with king-size beds. A gilded fountain dominated the driveway turnaround, while acres of emerald lawn stretched out front. The furniture was French provincial, with many valuable antiques dotting the impressively large rooms. Out back, there was a swimming pool and a meticulously maintained garden maze that was a work of art.

  “I hope they’re not a party crowd,” Alec observed as they moved from the patio back into the formal dining room. Too many highballs, and somebody was going to get hopelessly lost in that maze.

  “Okay, now I envy your money,” said Charlotte, making her way back to the grand entrance hall with its octagonal windows, antique rugs and tapestry. “I’d love to pick up something like this on a whim.”

  “You like it that much?” asked Alec.

  She nodded. “I’d buy it.”

  “The kitchen’s a little small.”

  “I’d renovate.”

  He chuckled. “You’d actually knock out a stone wall?”

  She flung open the double doors to the great room. “It’s my fantasy,” she pointed out, walking through the furniture groupings, past oil portraits and a massive, rolltop desk. “I guess I can knock out whatever I want.”

  At the far end of the great room, there was a balcony overlooking a duck pond. Charlotte wandered into the sunshine and leaned on the wide rail. “If I lived here, I could name the ducks.”

  “You could,” he agreed, moving next to her. “Though I’m not sure how you’d tell them apart.”

  “I’d buy a dog. Put up a swing for the kids.”

  “Kids?”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t use all seven bedrooms myself.” A wistful expression came over her face as she gazed into the distance, obviously imagining a picture-perfect family.

  “So, what’s with you and Jack?” Alec ventured, reminded of her real family.

  She kept her eyes straight forward. “What do you mean?”

  Alec had seen the expression on her face. He’d watched their body language, and the distance they kept between them. “It seemed like there was some kind of tension-”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Are you angry with him?” It seemed like the most logical explanation.

  “Why would I be angry with him?”

  “I do
n’t know. It was-”

  “I barely know him.”

  Alec took in her profile for a moment. “He’s your brother.”

  “We didn’t grow up together.”

  Alec had heard as much from Raine. “What happened?”

  She brushed a speck of sand off the concrete rail, then scratched her thumbnail over a flaw. “When I was four, my mother died. Jack stayed with the Hudson grandparents, and I went with the Cassettes.”

  Alec found his heart going out to her. His parents had died when he was in his twenties, and that was enough of a blow. And he’d always had Raine. Charlotte, on the other hand, had her entire family ripped away when she was little more than a baby. No wonder she fantasized about home and hearth.

  “Did you ever ask why?”

  “Ask Jack?”

  “Your father.”

  She shook her head. “David Hudson and I don’t talk much.”

  Alec stilled her small hand with his own. “I guess not.”

  She shrugged her slim, bare shoulders. “It was hardly Oliver Twist.”

  “But it hurt you just the same.”

  She smoothed back her hair, raking spread fingers through the tangles. “It’s just…sometimes…” But then she shook her head.

  “Tell me,” he prompted.

  She turned to look at him. “Like you and Raine. You hug, you tease.” She moved her hands in a gesture of confusion.

  “That comes from years of learning exactly how to push each other’s buttons.”

  “That might be how you tease her, but that’s not why you hug her.”

  Suddenly, Charlotte looked so vulnerable and confused and alone on the windswept balcony that he couldn’t help himself. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him, cradling her head against his shoulder and smoothing her tousled hair.

  “Be patient,” he advised. “Relationships are complicated.”

  “I’m twenty-five,” said Charlotte. “And we live on different continents.”

  “Some are more complicated than others.”

  Her body trembled against his.

  “Hey,” he soothed, rubbing his palm across her back, trying desperately to keep his perspective. But she was soft and sexy in his arms. She smelled like a spring garden, and the vivid memory of her taste was pounding inside his head.

  She drew back, and he was surprised to see she was laughing instead of crying.

  “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “I guess Jack and I would be on the complicated end of the spectrum.”

  Alec gazed into her bright eyes, her flushed cheeks, the wild hair begging to be smoothed out of the way.

  “No.” He shook his head, and she sobered under his expression. “You and I would be on the complicated end of the spectrum.” And he bent his head to kiss her tempting lips.

  The instant Alec’s lips touched hers, Charlotte knew how he did it. She knew why dozens if not hundreds of women fell head over heels for him, knew why they clambered into his bed and made fools of themselves in public.

  He wasn’t just gorgeous, wasn’t just sexy, wasn’t just a rich man who could wine them and dine them all over the planet. Alec Montcalm was magic.

  It was in his eyes, in his touch, in his voice that made a woman feel like she was the only person on earth.

  Her arms wound around his neck, and she tipped her head to better accommodate his kiss. His hot lips parted, and she invited him in, parrying with his tongue while his arms tightened. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she could feel a tingle start within her nipples, radiating out to touch every fiber of her being.

  He whispered her name, then kissed her deeper, backing her against the rail. His hands cradled her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks, fingertips burying in her hairline. It was, hands down, the most sensual kiss she’d ever experienced.

  Their bodies were plastered together, and his lips began to roam. First to her cheek, her temple, her eyelids. Then he kissed the lobe of her ear, making his way down the curve of her neck.

  She struggled to breathe, her lips still tingling. Her hands found his short hair, tunneling their way through its coarse softness. His kisses found her mouth again, and she moaned her appreciation.

  Her clothes suddenly felt stifling, and the waning sun was hot on her back. Sweat prickled her skin and she longed to tear off her clothes to get some respite from the suddenly humid air.

  Then he clasped her to him, lifting her right off the patio, turning, breathing deeply in her ear.

  “We have to stop,” he rasped, even as she kissed his salty neck.

  She wasn’t sure why, so she kept right on kissing.

  “Not here,” he elaborated with obvious strain.

  Of course.

  Not here.

  They were in a stranger’s house.

  What was she thinking?

  She stopped kissing, burying her face against his shoulder. His skin was superheated, the cotton of his shirt damp against her cheek.

  “Sorry,” she managed between breaths.

  “Hell, I’m sure not.”

  “We can’t keep doing this.” She was warning herself as much as she was warning him. If they kept it up, sooner or later, they were going to make love, even if they didn’t find the perfect time and location.

  “We can,” he argued. “But sooner or later, we’ll get caught.”

  “The tabloids,” she confirmed, appreciating his concern for her reputation.

  “I was thinking of your brother,” Alec admitted, still holding her tight. “But, yes, let’s go with the tabloids.”

  “There’s only one of Jack,” Charlotte noted, not exactly sure of her point. What was she suggesting?

  “You saying we can outsmart him?”

  “I’m saying he can’t be everywhere.” She paused. “But the tabloids can.” And they were definitely worth worrying about.

  “So, what do we do?”

  “You might want to put me down.”

  He gently loosened his arms, letting her slide sensually along his body until her shoes met the deck.

  “Damn it,” he gasped.

  Passion ricocheted along her nerve endings, and she silently echoed his curse. She forced herself to take a step back, and he let her go.

  She laughed weakly, turning her attention to the fields, the duck pond and the distant orchard, struggling valiantly to bring her emotions under control. “You do have a way with women, Alec.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and when he spoke there was a distance in his tone. “Not all women.”

  Maybe not. But she was willing to bet it was with most women. “We need to get back,” she managed.

  “Of course,” he agreed.

  Then he waited for her to start back through the great room. He followed more slowly, locking up behind them.

  In the Lamborghini, Charlotte tipped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the wind buffet her senses while Alec sped back to Château Montcalm and normal life.

  There was nothing remotely normal about Alec’s world. He’d expected a disruption in the château, but nothing had prepared him for five semitrailers in the front yard, a hundred crew members, several dozen extras, one temperamental second-unit director and two demanding stars.

  The worst part was, his very reason for doing this, Charlotte, had all but disappeared. Claiming Alec had monopolized too much of Charlotte’s time when they checked out the rental houses, Raine had latched on to her and stuck by her side round the clock. Not that Alec begrudged them their tennis and spa visits, but was a few minutes alone with Charlotte so much to ask? Sure, they had breakfast and dinner together, but Raine was always there, and sometimes Kiefer, Jack or even Lars joined them.

  Suddenly, there was yet another crash in the front yard, followed by shouts and the booming voice of Lars. Alec stood up, crossed the room and pulled his office window shut, securing the latch. The barrier dampened the noise, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Then he settled back into his de
sk to review the marketing strategy Kana Hanako was proposing leading up to the Tour de France.

  So far, none of the tabloids had made a link between Alec and Isabella, even though she’d arrived in Provence two days ago. She and costar Ridley Sinclair had chosen the modern villa in the olive grove, and were sharing it along with a few entourage members.

  The growl of a motor buzzed its way through the wall. It grew louder and louder, actually shaking the foundation of the château.

  Alec threw down his pen, jerked to his feet and stomped his way through the hallways to the entry, ducking under booms and avoiding cameras and light stands as he made his way to his front door.

  He cut through the open doorway in time to see a massive, truck-mounted crane come to a halt on his driveway turnaround. Huge, hydraulic arms whined out to smack into the ground, stabilizing the unit. The key grip shouted directions to the crane operator.

  “What the hell?” Alec asked to no one in particular.

  “An aerial shot of the balcony scene,” a crew member offered.

  Just then, the crane shifted. One of the arms broke the concrete with a deafening boom, and the ground shook.

  A few people shrieked, but then most settled to laughing nervously as the disturbance subsided.

  Alec wasn’t laughing. His driveway was ruined.

  “Where is Charlotte?” he growled. This was her job. She’d promised to keep the film crew from destroying his home.

  “Where is Charlotte?” he asked in a louder voice.

  The three closest crew members turned to look at him.

  “I want to speak to Charlotte Hudson,” he enunciated.

  One of the crew members spoke into his walkie-talkie.

  “Alec?” came Raine’s voice.

  He turned to find the two women, small souvenir bags in tow, jaunty hats on their heads and pretty tans on their perky faces.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, making a beeline to Charlotte.

  Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “This was your job,” he shouted, gesturing at the chaos around him. “We might as well be having an earthquake. The château is shaking off its foundation. The driveway is destroyed. And I can’t even hear myself think.”

  “I’ll-”