Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress: Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress. Barbara Dunlop
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“Dinner is casual tonight,” he told her. “La pissaladière. And I’ll bring up a bottle of 1996 Montcalm Maison Inouï from the cellar.”
“It’s not that kind of a discussion,” she warned, turning back to face him. Bringing out the big guns from his family’s winery wasn’t going to make her fall into his bed.
“You’re in Provence,” he countered smoothly, closing the door. “Everything is that kind of a discussion.”
She blinked to adjust her eyes to the interior light. “This is business.”
“I understand.” But his expression didn’t change.
“Do you?”
“Absolument.”
She didn’t believe him for a second. But she had no choice but to stay for dinner. Jack needed the location. She needed the credibility with the Hudson family. And she wasn’t about to blow this chance.
Alec had been handed a second chance.
Three long years later, the sexy woman he’d admired across the dance floor was in his kitchen, looking sexier than ever. If he’d known Raine’s friend Charlotte and his Ottobrate Ballo Charlotte were one and the same, he’d have made this happen a whole lot sooner. But patience was good. Anticipation was good.
And now, gazing at her crystal-clear blue eyes, her dark lashes, her full lips and porcelain-smooth skin, he was glad he’d waited. Her neck was long and graceful, decorated with a delicate, moon-shaped diamond and gold pendant that telegraphed taste rather than extravagance. The suit’s skirt fit her like a glove, emphasizing the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips and her long, sleek, toned legs that ended in a pair of sexy heels.
On the butcher-block island in the terra-cotta tiled kitchen, he popped the cork on the Maison Inouï. It was his family’s signature label, their finest vintage, bottles he saved for very special occasions.
He reached up to the hanging rack, sliding off a pair of crystal red-wine goblets.
Having initially gazed around with interest, Charlotte was now standing uncertainly at the center of the large room.
He nodded to one of the low-backed bar stools on the opposite side of the island. “Hop up.”
She hesitated for a split second, but then slipped gracefully into the leather-upholstered seat, setting her small clutch bag on the lip of the counter.
“Thank you,” she said primly as he placed one of the glasses of wine in front of her.
Alec remembered that intriguing expression, the shield of formality, covering what he was certain was a fiery rebel, chafing beneath the bounds of propriety. He’d tried to test the theory in Rome, but her grandfather, the watchful ambassador, had stopped him cold.
Back then, he’d shrugged the disappointment off philosophically. Women came; women went. Sometimes it worked out. Sometimes it didn’t.
He lifted his wineglass, swirling the small measure of wine, taking an experimental sip and letting the deep, sweet, woodsy flavor of the wine glide over his tongue.
Sometimes a man got another chance.
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