A Royal Proposal

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

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.’

‘It’s urgent news about your father, Your Highness.’

In an instant Rafe had sobered. In fact, his veins had turned to ice as he’d walked stiff-backed to the phone to receive the news that his father, the robust and popular ruling Prince of Montaigne, had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Rafe’s memories of the rest of that dreadful night were a blur. He’d been shocked and grief-stricken and filled with remorse, and he’d spent half of the night on the phone, talking to castle staff, to his country’s Chancellor, to Montaigne’s Chief of Intelligence, to his father’s secretary, his father’s publicist—who were now Rafe’s secretary and publicist.

There’d been so much that he’d had to come to terms with in a matter of hours, including the horrifying, inescapable fact that he needed to find a fiancée in a hurry.

An ancient clause in Montaigne’s constitution required a crown prince to be married, or at least betrothed, within two days of a ruling prince’s death. The subsequent marriage must take place within two months of this date.

Such a disaster!

The prospect of a sudden marriage had appalled Rafe. He’d been free for so long, he’d never considered settling down with one woman. Or at least, no single woman had ever sufficiently snagged his attention to the point that he’d considered a permanent relationship.

Suddenly, however, his country’s future was at stake.

Looking back on the past couple of weeks, Rafe was ashamed to admit that he’d been only dimly aware of the mining company that threatened Montaigne. But on that harrowing night he’d been forced to pay attention.

The message was clear. Without a fiancée, Rafe St Romain would be deposed as Prince of Montaigne, the Chancellor would take control and the mongrels intent on his country’s ruin would have their way. In a blink they would tie up the rights to the mineral wealth hidden deep within Montaigne’s Alps.

Among the many briefings Rafe had received that night, he’d been given an alarming warning from Montaigne’s Chief of Intelligence.

‘You cannot trust your Chancellor, Claude Pontier. We are certain he’s corrupt, but we’re still working on ways to prove it. We don’t have enough information yet, but Pontier has links to the Leroy Mining Company.’

In other words...if Rafe wasn’t married within the required time frame, he would be deposed and the Chancellor could take control, allowing the greedy pack of miners to cause irreparable damage to Montaigne. Given free rein, they would heartlessly tear the mountains apart, wreaking havoc on his country’s beautiful landscape and totally destroying the economy based on centuries-old traditions.

With only two days to produce a fiancée, Rafe had turned to the nearest available girl, who had happened to be the extraordinarily pretty, but slightly vacuous, Olivia Belaire. Unfortunately, less than two weeks after their spectacular and very public engagement ball, Olivia had done a runner.

To an extent, Rafe could sympathise with Olivia. The night she’d agreed to step up as his fiancée had been a crazy whirlwind, and she certainly hadn’t had time to fully take in the deeper ramifications of marriage to a ruling prince. But Rafe had paid her an exceedingly generous amount, and the terms for their eventual divorce were unstinting, so he found it hard to remain sympathetic now, when his country’s problems were so dire.

Despite his wayward playboy history, Rafe loved his country with all his heart and he loved the people of Montaigne, who were almost as famous for the exquisite jewellery they made from locally sourced gemstones as they were for their wonderful alpine cuisine. With the addition of the country’s world-class ski slopes, Montaigne offered an exclusive tourist package that had been his country’s lifeblood since the eighteenth century.

Montaigne could never survive the invasion of these miners.

Regrettably, his police still hadn’t enough evidence to pin Pontier down. They needed more time. And Rafe desperately needed a fiancée.

Damn it, if Charlie Morisset hadn’t just received a phone call from her father that had clearly distressed her, Rafe would have proposed that she fly straight home with him. She would be the perfect foil, a lifesaving stand-in until Olivia was unearthed and placated, and reinstated as his fiancée. He would pay Charlie handsomely, of course.

It seemed, however, that Charlie was dealing with some kind of family crisis of her own, so this probably wasn’t the choice moment to crassly wave money in her face in the hope that he could whisk her away.

‘How on earth did you manage to lose Olivia?’

Rafe frowned at Charlie’s sudden, cheekily posed question.

‘Did you frighten her off?’ she asked, blue eyes blazing. ‘You didn’t hurt her, did you?’

Rafe was almost too affronted to answer. ‘Of course I didn’t hurt her.’ In truth, he’d barely touched her.

Instantly sobered by the news of his father’s death, he had dropped his playboy persona the very moment he and Olivia had left the party in Saint-Tropez. As they’d hurried back to Montaigne, Rafe had reverted to the perfect gentlemanly Prince. Apart from the few tipsy kisses they’d exchanged while they’d danced at the party, he’d barely laid a hand on the girl.

Of course, he’d been grateful to Olivia for agreeing to a hasty marriage of convenience, but since then he’d been busy dealing with formalities and his father’s funeral and his own sudden responsibilities.

‘I’m sorry to have troubled you,’ he told Charlie now with icy politeness.

She gave a distracted nod.

He took a step back, loath to let go of this lifeline, but fearing he had little choice. Charlie Morisset was clearly absorbed by her own worries.

‘I think Olivia might be my sister,’ she said.

Rafe stilled. ‘Is there a chance?’

She nodded. ‘I know that my mother lives somewhere in Europe. I—I’ve never met her. Well, not that I remember—’

Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly, and the tough, don’t-mess-with-me edge that Rafe had sensed in Charlie from the outset disappeared. Now she looked suddenly vulnerable, almost childlike.

To his dismay, he felt his heart twist.

‘I’ve met Olivia’s mother,’ he said. ‘Her name is Vivian. Vivian Belaire.’

‘Oh.’ Charlie looked as suddenly pale and upset as she had when she was speaking to her father on the phone. She seemed to sag in the middle, as if her knees were in danger of giving way. ‘That was my mother’s name,’ she said faintly. ‘Vivian.’

Rafe had been on the point of departure, but now, as Charlie sank onto a stool and let out a heavy sigh, he stood his ground.

‘I didn’t know she had another daugh—’ Charlie swallowed. ‘What’s she like? My mother?’

Rafe was remembering the suntanned, platinum blonde with the hard eyes and the paunchy billionaire husband, who’d had way too many drinks at the engagement ball.

‘She has fair hair, like yours,’ he said. ‘She’s—attractive. I’m afraid I don’t know her very well.’

‘I had no idea I had a sister. I knew nothing about Olivia.’

He wondered if this was an opening. Was there still a chance to state his case?

‘I can’t believe my father never told me about her.’ Charlie closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as if a headache was starting.

Then she straightened suddenly, opened her eyes and flashed him a guilty grimace. ‘I can’t deal with this now. I have other problems, way more important.’

Disappointed, Rafe accepted this with a dignified bow. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said politely. ‘I hope your other problems are quickly sorted.’

‘Thank you.’ Charlie dropped her gaze to her phone and began to scroll through numbers.

Rafe turned to leave. This dash to the southern hemisphere had been a fruitless exercise, a waste of precious time. His detectives would have to work doubly hard now to find Olivia.

‘But maybe I could see you this evening.’

Charlie’s voice brought him whirling round.

She looked rather forlorn and very alone as she stood at the counter, phone in hand. To Rafe’s dismay her eyes were glittering with tears.

So different from the tough little terrier who’d barked at him when he first arrived in her gallery.

Maybe I could see you this evening.

He wasn’t planning to hang around here till this evening. If Charlie couldn’t help him, he would leave Sydney as soon as his private jet was available for take-off.

But the news of her mother and sister had clearly rocked her, and it had come on top of a distressing phone call from her father. With some reluctance, Rafe couldn’t deny that he was part-way responsible for Charlie’s pain. And he couldn’t stifle a small skerrick of hope.

He was running out of time. If this was a dead end, he needed to hurry home, but if there was even a slight chance that she could help...

‘I’ve got the gallery to run and some important family business to sort out,’ Charlie said self-importantly. ‘But I’d like to know more about Olivia. Maybe we could grab a very quick coffee?’

Was it worth the bother of wasting precious hours for a very quick coffee? The chances of persuading this girl to take off with him were microscopic.

But what other options did he have? Olivia had well and truly gone to ground.

Rafe heard himself saying, ‘I could come back here at six.’

Charlie nodded. ‘Right, then. Let’s do that.’

* * *

By the end of the day, Charlie was feeling quite desperate. Her phone calls hadn’t produced promising results. Apart from launching a Save Isla charity fund, she didn’t have too many options. When she called her father she learned that he hadn’t fared any better.

After her very quick meeting with Rafe, she and her father planned to meet to discuss strategies, and Charlie knew she would be up all night, setting up a website and a special Facebook page, and responding to the media outlets she’d contacted during the day.

Unfortunately, there would be no time to challenge her father about Olivia. Charlie was deeply hurt that he’d never told her about her twin sister, but right now she had another sister to worry about, and she knew her dad was beside himself with worry. It was totally the wrong time to pester him about Olivia Belaire.

* * *

Promptly at six, Rafe was waiting at the gallery’s front door. To Charlie’s surprise, he’d changed into a black T-shirt and jeans, and the casual look, complete with a five o’clock shadow and windblown hair, made him look less like a corporate raider and more like—

Gulp.

The man of her dreams.

She quickly knocked that thought on the head. She was already regretting her impulsive request to see him again. There was little she could learn about Olivia over a quick cup of coffee. But Charlie needed to understand why her sister might have agreed to marry such a compellingly attractive guy and then run away from him.

It was bad enough having one sister to worry about. She needed Rafe to set her mind at rest, so she could channel all her attention to Isla’s cause.

Suddenly having two sisters, both of them in trouble, was hard to wrap her head around. As for her emotions, she’d have to sort them out later. Right now, she was running on pure adrenaline.

* * *

In no time, Charlie and Rafe were seated in a booth in the café around the corner, which was now packed with the after-work crowd. The smell of coffee and Greek pastry filled the small but popular space and they had to lean close to be heard above the noisy chatter.

‘We should have gone back to my hotel,’ Rafe said, scowling at the crowded booths.

‘No,’ Charlie responded quite definitely.

‘It would have been quieter.’

‘But it would have taken time. Time I don’t have.’

His eyes narrowed as he watched her, but he’d lost the hawk-eyed detective look. Now he just looked extraordinarily hot, and she found herself fighting the tingles and flashes his proximity caused.

Their coffees arrived. A tiny cup of espresso for Rafe and a mug of frothy cappuccino for Charlie, as well as a serving of baklava. Charlie’s tummy rumbled at the sight of the flaky filo pastry layered with cinnamon-spiced nut filling. Rafe had declared that he wasn’t hungry, but she wasn’t prepared to hold back. This would probably be the only meal she’d have time for this evening.

She scooped a creamy dollop of froth from the top of her mug. ‘So, the thing I need to know, Rafe, is why my sister ran away from you.’

He smiled. It was only a faint smile, but enough to light up his grey eyes in ways that made Charlie feel slightly breathless. ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that,’ he said. ‘She didn’t leave an explanation.’

‘But something must have happened. Did you have a row?’

‘Not at all. Our relationship was very—’ He paused as if he was searching for the right word. ‘Very civilised.’

Charlie thought this was a strange word to describe a romantic liaison. Where was the soppiness? The passion? She imagined that getting engaged to a man like Rafe would involve a truckload of passion.

Even so, she found herself believing him when he said he hadn’t hurt Olivia. ‘So you’ve heard nothing,’ she said. ‘You must be terribly worried.’

‘I have received a postcard,’ said Rafe. ‘There were no postage marks. The card was hand delivered, but unfortunately no one realised the significance until it was too late. It simply said that Olivia was fine and she was sorry.’

‘Oh.’ Charlie offered him an awkward smile of sympathy. No matter what reasons Olivia had for wanting to get out of the engagement, she’d been flaky to just take off, without facing up to Rafe with a proper explanation.

‘My mother ran away,’ she told him, overlooking the hurt this admission made.

Rafe lifted one dark eyebrow. ‘Do you think Olivia might have inherited an escapee gene?’

Charlie was sure he hadn’t meant this seriously, but the mere mention of inheritance and genes reminded her of Isla. She had to make this conversation quick, so she could get on with more important matters. ‘Look,’ she said, frowning, to let him know she was serious. ‘I’d really like to know a little more about my sister. Where did you meet her?’

‘In Saint-Tropez. At a party.’

‘So, she’s—well off?’

‘Her father—her mother’s husband,’ Rafe corrected, ‘is an extremely wealthy businessman. They have a house in the French Riviera and another in Switzerland, and I think there might also be a holiday house in America.’

‘Wow.’ And my father can’t even afford to buy one house. Charlie tried to imagine her sister’s life. ‘Does she have a job?’

‘None that I know of.’

‘So, how does she spend her days?’

‘Her days?’ Rafe’s lip curled in a slightly bitter smile. ‘Olivia’s not exactly a daytime sort of person. She’s more of a night owl.’

Charlie blinked at this. She only had the vaguest notions of life on the French Riviera. She supposed Olivia was part of the jet-set who spent their time partying and shopping for clothes. If she emerged in the daylight, it was probably to lie in the sun, working hard on her suntan. Just the same, it bothered her that Rafe wasn’t speaking about her sister with any sense of deep fondness. ‘And what sort of work do you do?’ she asked.

‘That’s a complicated question.’

She felt a burst of impatience. ‘I don’t have much time.’

‘Then I’ll cut to the chase. I’m my country’s ruler.’

Charlie stared at him, mouth gaping, as she struggled to take this in. ‘A ruler? Like—like a king?’

‘Montaigne’s only a small principality, but yes.’ His voice dropped as if he didn’t wish to be overheard. ‘I’m the Prince of Montaigne. Prince Rafael the Third, to be exact.’

‘Holy—’ Just in time, Charlie cut off a swear word. She couldn’t believe she’d met a real live prince and was sitting in her local café with him. Couldn’t believe that her sister had actually scored a prince as a fiancé. ‘You mean I should be calling you Sir, or Your Highness, or something?’