Round one had gone to Alec, and Charlotte had no choice but to back off and regroup as they moved to the veranda for dinner. The sizzling pissaladière was now on a round glass table between them.

Flickering light from the garden torches highlighted the planes and angles of his face, while the freshening breeze picked up the scents of lavender and thyme. He seemed relaxed enough. While the pissaladière had baked, their conversation had ranged from vacation spots to impressionist painters to the monetary policy of the European Union.

But now, it was time for round two.

“You could hide anything personal,” she opened conversationally, transferring a slice of the delicate tomato pie to her plate. “You could stay out of sight. I doubt any of the crew would even know it was your château.”

“Please,” he drawled, lifting the silver serving spoon from her hand. “There’s a big sign over the gate that says Château Montcalm.”

“Take it down.”

“My name is etched into five-hundred-year-old stone.”

Right. “Surely you’re not the only Montcalm in Provence.”

“I’m the only one who makes the front page.” He settled on two slices of the pie.

“I think you’re overestimating your fame.”

“I think you’re overestimating your powers of persuasion.”

“More wine?” she asked, topping off his glass while treating him to the brilliant smile her grandfather’s image consultant had insisted she learn for photographs.

He watched the burgundy liquid rise in his crystal goblet. “It won’t work, Charlotte.”

She finished topping his glass. “What won’t work?”

“I was weaned on Maison Inouï.”