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‘Where’d you get this photo?’
For the first time, Grim Face almost smiled. ‘I took it with my own camera, as you know very well. At Saint-Tropez.’
Charlie rubbed at her forehead, wishing that any part of this made sense. She swallowed, staring hard at the photo. ‘Who is this girl? How do you know her?’
His jaw tightened with impatience. ‘It’s time to stop the games now, Olivia.’
‘I’m not—’ This was getting tedious. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked instead. ‘What’s this all about?’
Now it was his turn to sigh, to give a weary, resigned shake of his head and to run a frustrated hand through his thick dark hair, ruffling it rather attractively.
Charlie found herself watching with inappropriate interest.
‘My name’s Rafe.’ He sounded bored, as if he was repeating something she already knew. ‘Short for Rafael. Rafael St Romain.’
‘Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell. It sounds—maybe—French?’
‘French is our national language,’ the man called Rafe acceded. ‘Although most of our citizens also speak English. I live in Montaigne.’
‘That cute little country in the Alps?’
He continued to look bored, as if he was sure she was playing with him. ‘Exactly.’
Charlie had heard about Montaigne, of course. It was very small and not especially important, as far as she could tell, but it was famous for skiing and—and for something else, something glamorous like jewellery.
She’d seen photos in magazines of celebrities, even royalty, holidaying there. ‘Well, that’s very interesting, Rafe, but it doesn’t—’
Charlie paused. Damn. She couldn’t afford to waste time with this distraction. She made a quick check around the gallery. The vagrant was still asleep in the window seat. The old ladies were having a good old chinwag. The other couple were also deep in discussion, still looking at her father’s paintings and studying the catalogue.
She needed to speak to them. She had a feeling they were on the verge of making a purchase and she couldn’t afford to let them slip away, to ‘think things over’.
‘I really don’t have time for this,’ she told Rafael St Romain.
Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of the couple nodding together, as if they’d reached a decision. Ignoring his continuing grim expression, she skirted the counter and stepped out into the gallery, her soft-soled shoes silent on the tiles.
‘What did you think of the Morissets?’ she asked, directing her question to the couple.
They looked up and she sent them an encouraging smile.
‘The paintings are wonderful,’ the man said. ‘So bold and original.’
‘We’d love one for our lounge room,’ added the woman.
Her husband nodded. ‘We’re just trying to make a decision.’
‘We need to go home and take another look at our wall space,’ the woman said quickly.
Charlie’s heart sank. She knew from experience that the chances of this couple returning to make an actual purchase were slim. Most true art lovers knew exactly what they wanted as soon as they saw it.
This couple were more interested in interior décor. Already they were walking away.
The woman’s smile was almost apologetic, as she looked back over her shoulder, as if she’d guessed that they’d disappointed Charlie. ‘We’ll see you soon,’ she called.
Charlie smiled and nodded, but as they disappeared through the doorway her shoulders drooped.
She wished this weren’t her problem, but, even though she’d moved out of home into a tiny shoebox studio flat when her father remarried, she still looked after her father’s finances. It was a task she’d assumed at the age of fourteen, making sure that the rent and the bills were paid while she did her best to discourage her dad from throwing too many overly extravagant parties, or from taking expensive holidays to ‘fire up his muse’.
Unfortunately, her new stepmother, Skye, was as unworldly and carefree as her dad, so she’d been happy to leave this task in Charlie’s hands. The bills all came to the gallery and Charlie was already trying to figure out how she’d pay the electricity bills for this month, as well as providing the funds for nourishing meals.
Skye would need plenty of nourishment while she cared for Isla, tiny little Isla who’d taken a scarily long time to start breathing after she was born. Despite her small size, Charlie’s baby sister had looked perfect, though, with the sweetest cap of dark hair, a neat nose and darling little mouth like a rosebud. Perfect tiny fingers and toes.
But the doctors were running some tests on Isla. Charlie wasn’t sure what they were looking for, but the thought that something might be wrong with her baby sister was terrifying. Since Isla’s birth, her father had more or less lived at the hospital, camping by Skye’s bed.
Charlie was dragged from these gloomy thoughts by the phone ringing. She turned back to the counter, annoyed to see that Rafael St Romain in his expensive grey suit hadn’t budged an inch. And he was still watching her.
Deliberately not meeting his distrustful grey gaze, she picked up the phone.
‘Charlie?’
She knew immediately from the tone of her father’s voice that he was worried. A chill shimmied through her. ‘Hi.’ She turned her back on the exquisitely suited Rafael.
‘We’ve had some bad news about Isla,’ her father said. ‘There’s a problem with her heart.’
Horrified, Charlie sank forward, elbows supporting her on the counter. Her heart. ‘How—how bad is it?’
‘Bad.’
Sickening dizziness swept over Charlie. ‘What can they do?’
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Dad?’
‘The doctors here can’t do anything. Her problem is very rare and complicated. You should see her, Charlie. She’s in isolation, with tubes everywhere and all these monitors.’ Her father’s voice was ragged and Charlie knew he was only just holding himself together.
‘Surely they can do something?’
‘It doesn’t sound like it, but there’s a cardiologist in Boston who’s had some success with surgery.’
‘Boston!’ Charlie bit back a groan. Her mind raced. A surgeon in Boston meant serious money. Mountains of it. Poor little Isla. What could they do?
Charlie knew only too well that her father had little chance of raising a quick loan for this vital operation. He’d never even been able to raise a mortgage. His income flow was so erratic, the banks wouldn’t take the risk.
Poor Isla. What on earth could they do? Charlie looked again at the paintings hanging on the walls. She knew they were good. And since her father had married Skye, there’d been a new confidence in his work, a new daring. His latest stuff had shown a touch of genius.
Charlie was sure Michael Morisset was on the very edge of being discovered by the world and becoming famous. But it would be too late for Isla.
‘I’m going to ring around,’ her father said. ‘To see what help I can get. You never know...’
‘Yes, that’s a good idea,’ Charlie told him fervently. ‘Good luck. I’ll make some calls too and see what I can do. Even if I can get some advice, anything that might help.’
‘That would be great, love. Thanks.’
‘I’ll call again later.’
‘OK.’
‘Give Skye a hug from me.’
Charlie disconnected, set the phone down, and let her head sink into her hands as she wrestled with the unbearable thought of her newborn baby sister’s tiny damaged heart, the poor, precious creature struggling to hold on to her fragile new life.
‘Excuse me.’
She jumped as the deep masculine voice intruded into her misery. She’d forgotten all about Rafael St Romain and his stupid photo. Swiping at tears, she turned to him. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have time to deal with this Olivia business.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
To her surprise he seemed less formidable. Perhaps he’d overheard her end of the conversation. He almost looked concerned.
‘You were speaking with your father,’ he said.
Charlie’s chin lifted. ‘Yes.’ Not that it was any of his business.
‘Then clearly I am in the wrong. I apologise. The woman I’m searching for has no father.’
‘Right. Good.’ At least he would leave her in peace now.
‘But the likeness is uncanny,’ he said.
‘It is.’ Charlie couldn’t deny this. The photo that had supposedly been taken in Saint-Tropez showed a mirror image of herself, and, despite her new worries about Isla, she couldn’t help being curious. ‘How do you know this Olivia?’ she found herself asking. ‘Who is she?’
Rafael regarded her steadily and he took a nerve-racking age before he answered. Trapped in his powerful gaze, Charlie flashed hot and cold. The man was ridiculously attractive. Under different circumstances she might have been quite helplessly smitten.
Instead, she merely felt discomfited. And annoyed.
‘Olivia Belaire is my fiancée,’ he said at last. ‘And for the sake of my country’s future, I have to find her.’
For the sake of his country’s future?
Charlie’s jaw was already gaping and couldn’t drop any further. This surprise, coming on top of her father’s bombshell, was almost too much to take in.
How was it possible that a girl who looked exactly the same as herself could live on the other side of the world and somehow be responsible for an entire country’s future?
Who was Olivia?
Charlie had heard of doppelgängers, but she’d never really believed they existed in real life.
But what other explanation could there be?
A twin sister?
This thought was barely formed before fine hairs lifted on Charlie’s skin. And before she could call a halt to her thoughts, they galloped on at a reckless pace.
This girl, Olivia, had no father, while to all intents and purposes she, Charlie, had no mother.
Charlie’s father had always been vague about her mother. Her parents had divorced when Charlie was a baby and her mother had taken off for Europe, never to be heard from or seen again. Over the years, Charlie had sometimes fretted over her mother’s absence, but she and her dad had been so close, he’d made up for the loss. Money worries aside, he’d been a wonderful dad.
The two of them had enjoyed many fabulous adventures together, sailing in the South Pacific, hiking in Nepal, living in the middle of rice fields in Bali while her father taught English during the day and painted at night. They’d also had a few very exciting months in New York.
When her father had married Skye, Charlie had been happy to see him so settled at last, and she’d been thrilled when Skye became pregnant. She liked the idea of being part of a bigger family. Now, though, she couldn’t help thinking back and wondering why her father had limited his travels to Asia, strictly avoiding Europe. Had he actually been avoiding her mother?
Charlie gulped at the next thought. Had he been afraid that she’d discover her twin sister?
Surely not.
CHAPTER TWO (#u5356dc31-f7a0-5610-a4ec-224aac1d8871)
RAFE WAS REELING as he watched the play of emotions on the girl’s face. He was still coming to terms with the frustrating reality that this wasn’t Olivia, but her exact double, Charlotte.
Charlie.
The likeness to his missing fiancée was incredible. No wonder his detectives had been fooled. The resemblance went beyond superficial features such as Charlie Morisset’s golden curls and blue eyes and her neatly curving figure. It was there in the way she moved, in the tilt of her chin, in the spirited flash in her eyes.
Take away her blue jeans and sneakers and put her in an haute couture gown and, apart from her Australian accent, which wasn’t too terribly broad, no one in Montaigne would ever tell the difference.
The possibilities presented by this resemblance were so tempting.
Rafe, Crown Prince of Montaigne, needed a fiancée.
He’d been engaged for barely a fortnight before Olivia Belaire took flight. Admittedly, his arrangement with Olivia had been one of hasty convenience rather than romance. They’d struck a business deal in fact, and Rafe understood that Olivia might well have panicked when she’d come to terms with the realities of being married to a prince with enormous responsibilities.
Rafe had come close to panicking, too. One minute he’d been an AWOL playboy prince, travelling the world, enjoying a delightful and endless series of parties...in Los Angeles, London, Dubai, Monaco...with an endless stream of girls to match...redheads, brunettes, blondes...all long-legged and glamorous and willing.
For years, especially in the years since his mother’s death, Rafe had been flying high. He and Sheikh Faysal Daood Taariq, his best friend from university, had been A-list invitees at all the most glittering celebrity parties. As was their custom, they’d made quite a hit when they arrived at the wild party in Saint-Tropez.
Just a few short weeks ago.
Such a shock it had been that night, in the midst of the glitz and glamour, for Rafe to receive a phone call from home.
He’d been flirting outrageously with Olivia Belaire, and the girl was dancing barefoot while Rafe drank champagne from one of her shoes, when a white-coated waiter had tugged at his elbow.
‘Excuse me, Your Highness, you’re needed on the phone.’
‘Not now,’ Rafe had responded, waving the fellow off with the champagne-filled shoe. ‘I’m busy.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s a phone call from Montaigne. From the castle. They said it’s urgent.’
‘No, no, no,’ Rafe had insisted rather tipsily. ‘Nothing’s so important that it can’t wait till morning.’
