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 of trying.”
Her lips compressed, then her shoulders drooped. “Okay, now there’s been too much buildup.”
He rinsed his hands in the small square sink in the middle of the island. “You,” he enunciated, “are impossible.”
“Fine.” She braced her hands on the countertop. “Here goes. The Hudsons would like to use your château as a movie set.” She clamped her jaw and waited for his reaction.
Alec stilled.
Was she joking?
Was she crazy?
He’d spent years avoiding the press—years of fighting tooth and nail for a scrap of privacy. To invite a movie crew, cameras, actors, an entire Hollywood cartel into his home for weeks on end?
He gathered the thinly sliced onions onto the knife edge, then dumped them all at once in the hot olive oil. They hissed and sizzled, steam rising to the ceiling.
“No,” he said, with absolute finality. There was not a chance in hell.
Okay, Charlotte had expected resistance. Alec wasn’t going to say yes immediately. Who would? It was an inconvenience and a disruption in his life. She understood that.
“It’s my grandparents’ love story,” she put in, trying to stress the significance of the film. “They met during the war. In occupied France.”
Alec didn’t say a word.
“All of Hudson Pictures’ resources will be behind it.” The quality would be unparalleled.
He lifted a spatula and stirred the sizzling onions.
“My grandmother was a cabaret performer, and they were secretly married under the noses of the Germans.”
Alec looked up. “And this makes a difference how?”
“Cece Cassidy is attached to the project. It’s sure to be a contender for best writer—”
“Like the screenwriter’s the problem.”
“Is it about money?” she probed. “They’d absolutely compensate you for the inconvenience. And they’d leave everything exactly as they found it. You wouldn’t—”
“It’s about my home not being a movie set.”
“They wouldn’t need your entire home.” Charlotte searched her brain for more ammunition. “You’d be able to stay in residence. Jack sent me a script breakdown. They’d need the kitchen, the great room, one of the libraries and a couple of bedrooms. Oh, and the grounds of course. They’d need the grounds. Maybe your back deck for one scene.”
“And that’s all?” Alec drawled, his sarcastic tone playing havoc with her confidence.
“I’m fairly sure that’s all.” She kept her voice even.
“They wouldn’t need access
