Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress: Transformed Into the Frenchman's Mistress. Barbara Dunlop

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 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