Barbara Dunlop - Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress - Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress

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 desk 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—”

“I want that crane gone,” he roared. “And I want it gone now.” He caught Jack in his peripheral vision.

“But—”

“And no more sightseeing. No more spas. No more fun and games with Raine while I suffer this noise and destruction alone.” He was ranting now, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. All he’d asked was that she hang around and make sure these people didn’t ruin his life. Even that seemed to be too much trouble.

“They need the crane shot,” she tried, but her mouth was pinched and her skin was going pale under the tan.

“And I need my château to be standing when this is all over.”

She shrank back, and Alec could have kicked himself.

Instead, he turned on Jack. “And you? What the hell’s the matter with you? I’m standing here screaming at your sister.”

Jack blinked in obvious confusion.

“Why don’t you hit me?”

Now everybody within earshot looked confused.

Alec cursed under his breath, stomping back into the château, thinking seriously about an extended trip to Rome until this was all over.

Charlotte stared at her brother, but his gaze slid away, and he became instantly interested in a list on one of the production assistants’ clipboards. The noise level in the immediate area went back to normal, as everyone’s attention went to their jobs.

Raine shifted toward Charlotte. “That’s not normal,” she intoned.

“Thank goodness,” said Charlotte.

“I don’t know what got into him.”

“He’s not wrong,” said Charlotte. “I did promise to make sure everything ran smoothly.”

“Alec doesn’t yell,” said Raine. “He stews. He plots. He might methodically bankrupt you. But he doesn’t yell.”

“So, I’ve pushed him over the edge.” Charlotte needed to go clear the air. She couldn’t leave things hanging between them like this. She subconsciously started toward the front door.