Barbara Dunlop - Transformed Into The Frenchman’s Mistress

The third book in the Hudsons of Beverly Hills series, 2009

Dear Reader,

Is there anything more romantic than a chateau in the south of France, with picturesque gardens, a well-stocked wine cellar and hot hero? And who doesn’t love the thought of being whisked away to Paris, Rome and London in a private jet?

French aristocrat Alec Montcalm has it all: the looks, the pedigree, the money and all those gorgeous women. And Charlotte Hudson doesn’t trust him for a single second. Unfortunately, the favor she’s forced to ask is a test of her loyalty to her family. It’s a favor Alec is willing to grant her-for a price.

I hope you enjoy the newest installment in the Hudsons’ saga!

Barbara Dunlop

Slightly windblown, and more than a little jet-lagged, Charlotte Hudson found herself in France. A phone call from her brother, Jack, yesterday had cut short her tour with their grandfather, Ambassador Edmond Cassettes. The diplomatic contingent had been in New Orleans, where Charlotte and the ambassador were being wined, dined and entertained by the governor, a couple of senators and every Louisiana mayor with aspirations of doing business with the wealthy Mediterranean nation of Monte Allegro.

Then Jack had called, and now she was in Provence, pulling up to the Montcalm family château with a favor to ask. Her college friend Raine would be surprised to see her, but Charlotte was couting on Raine’s good nature to help her secure the favor. It was the first time her brother, or anyone on the Hudson side of the family, had included her in Hudson Pictures’ filmmaking business. And she desperately wanted to impress.

Charlotte had been raised in Europe by her maternal grandparents, while Jack was raised an ocean away in Hollywood by the Hudsons. She mad met the filmmaking dynasty of a family on only a couple of occasions. They were perfectly polite to her, but it was clear they were close-knit, and she was very much the outsider.

But now, terminally ill matriarch Lillian Hudson was determined to honor her late husband’s wishes by having Hudson Pictures bring their wartime romance to the big screen. The entire family had rallied around the project and decreed Château Montcalm was the perfect location.

Charlotte finally had a chance to participate in the Hudsons’ world.

She drew a breath, giving her straight skirt and matching ivory blazer a final tug as she approached the main doors of the Montcalm’s stately, three-story stone mansion. The doors were intimidating oversize planked walnut, inset with vintage beveled windows. The château was old-world and impressive. She knew it had been in the Montcalm family for a dozen generations, ever since some fiery warlord of a Montcalm ancestor had taken it in battle. Her friend Raine had quite the pedigree.

Charlotte took a breath and reached for the ornate doorbell, waiting only a moment until a formally dressed butler drew the door wide, his expression a study in formality and courtesy.

“Bonjour, madame.”

“Bonjour,” Charlotte returned. “I’m looking for Raine Montcalm.”

The man paused while he considered Charlotte’s appearance. “Do you have an appointment?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I’m Charlotte Hudson. Raine and I are friends. We were together at Oxford.”

“Mademoiselle Montcalm is unavailable.”

“But-”

“I do apologize.”

“Could you at least tell her I’m here?” She hoped Raine would become available if she heard Charlotte’s name.

“The mademoiselle is not currently in residence.”

Charlotte struggled to decide if she was getting the brush-off. “She’s really not here?”

He didn’t answer, but his expression became crisper and even more formal, if that was possible.

“Because, if you could just let her know-”

“A problem, Henri?” came a gravelly, masculine voice.

Oh no. Not Alec.

“Non, monsieur.”

Charlotte reflexively drew back as a tall, aristocratically handsome man moved into the doorway, displacing the butler. Raine’s brother was supposed to be in London. Charltte had seen his picture in the tabloids just yesterday, dancing at some posh nightclub on Whitehall.

“I’m afraid Raine’s away on-” He suddenly stopped speaking. A wolfish smile grew on his lips. “Charlotte Hudson.”

She didn’t answer.

“Thank you, Henri.” Alec’s dismissal was polite but clear, his gaze never leaving Charlotte.

As the butler drew back, Alec leaned indolently against the doorjamb. He wore a charcoal Caraceni suit, a classic white shirt and a dark silk tie that was scattered with bright red flecks. The flecks, it seemed, were miniatures of the Montcalm family crest, painstakingly embroidered into the fabric.

Her heart pounding with a mixture of awareness and trepidation, Charlotte decided to bluff. She held out her hand and gave him a breezy smile. “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.”

At least that part wasn’t a lie. There’d been nothing remotely formal about their one and only meeting. It had been humiliating, and her only defense was to pretend she’d forgotten all about it.

“Oh, we’ve been introduced, Ms. Hudson.” His warm, callused hand closed over hers, sending a shiver along her spine.

She painstakingly schooled her features, raising her brow in question.

“Three years ago.” He cocked his head to one side, clearly challenging her to acknowledge him.

She held her ground.

“The Ottobrate Ballo in Rome,” he continued, eyes mocking. “I asked you to dance.”

He’d done a lot more than ask. He’d nearly derailed her career in under five minutes.

Rome had been one of her first official assignments as her grandfather’s executive assistant. Becoming his official E.A. had been a big step for her, and she’d been nervous all night, anxious to do well.

Alec’s smile widened as he watched her expression. “It’s etched very firmly in my mind,” he told her.

“I don’t-”

“Sure you do,” he countered softly, and they both knew he was right. “And you liked it.”

Too true.

“But then Ambassador Cassettes stepped in.”

Thank goodness for her grandfather.

“Charlotte?” Alec prompted.

She pretended she’d only just remembered. “You tried to give me your room key,” she accused with a stern frown.

“And you took it.”

“I didn’t know what it was.” She’d been twenty-two years old, a neophyte on the diplomatic circuit, and he’d been right there, poised to take advantage of her.

He chuckled his disbelief, and she glared at him.

Then he sobered. “You were beautiful that night.” His gaze went soft as he gave her figure a slow once-over.

She couldn’t keep the outrage from her tone. “I was twenty-two that night.”

His shoulders went up in a careless shrug. “You didn’t have to take the key.”

“I was confused.” It truly had taken her a moment to realize the card he’d handed her was a hotel room key.

“I think you were tempted.”

Her brain warned her mouth to shut up. But her emotions overrode the instruction. “I’d known you for two minutes.” Other women might be tempted by a dashing, urbane aristocrat with money to burn, but Charlotte wasn’t interested in a fling.

“I’d been watching you for a lot longer than two minutes.”