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The Prince's Convenient Proposal
Barbara Hannay


The stand-in fiancéeTo secure his country’s future, reformed playboy Prince Rafael of Montaigne needs a wife. A convenient marriage seems the ideal solution…until his fiancée disappears and Rafe must ask her identical twin sister, Charlie Morisset, to become his stand-in bride-to-be!Down-to-earth Charlie accepts Rafe’s convenient proposal—in exchange for the funds to save her baby’s sister’s life. Being swept in to a crazy royal whirlwind seems a small price to pay…until she’s finds herself falling for Rafe…a prince she knows she will have to walk away from…







The stand-in fiancée

To secure his country’s future, reformed playboy Prince Rafael of Montaigne needs a wife. A convenient marriage seems the ideal solution...until his fiancée disappears and Rafe must ask her identical twin sister, Charlie Morisset, to become his stand-in bride-to-be!

Down-to-earth Charlie accepts Rafe’s convenient proposal—in exchange for the funds to save her baby sister’s life. Being swept into a crazy royal whirlwind seems a small price to pay, until she finds herself falling for Rafe—a prince she knows she will have to walk away from...


Charlie gave Rafe a rueful smile. ‘It wouldn’t work, though, would it? I’d give the game away as soon as I arrived in Montaigne and opened my mouth.’

His smile deepened. ‘We would try to limit the amount of time you needed to speak in public. It’s all about appearances, really. And when it comes to how you look, you certainly had me and my detectives fooled.’

‘But I haven’t agreed to this,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘It’s so risky. I mean, there’s so much room for things to go wrong. What will happen, for example, if Olivia doesn’t turn up before your cut-off date? I couldn’t possibly marry you.’

She went bright pink as she said this.

Rafe watched the rosy tide with fascination. This girl was such a beguiling mix of innocence and worldliness. But now wasn’t the time to be distracted…


The Prince’s Convenient Proposal

Barbara Hannay






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


BARBARA HANNAY has written over forty romance novels and has won a RITA® Award and an RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award, as well as Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year. A city-bred girl, with a yen for country life, Barbara lives with her husband on a misty hillside in beautiful far north Queensland, where they raise pigs and chickens and enjoy an untidy but productive garden.


For Sophie and Milla.


Contents

Cover (#u4bbb3979-ada3-5072-8fcd-e8f59e91b7eb)

Back Cover Text (#uf9a5d196-49f3-5597-8f2e-008c766c0eab)

Introduction (#u1e066c70-ed86-5524-97d7-a74bbc39013d)

Title Page (#u847fa80a-9995-5323-9f30-dc012543ea53)

About the Author (#uf691ac88-e728-5b78-95b3-f60e3471e974)

Dedication (#u1d4fa0da-1d21-5d53-9f97-312dd526e8fb)

CHAPTER ONE (#u8f9633bc-ea88-5da4-b614-97dcce764243)

CHAPTER TWO (#ua9cf9157-22fc-56a9-98db-0c262fec02ed)

CHAPTER THREE (#ucc2c1cb8-8ffd-5180-919d-233ea663f580)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u6bd1981a-6579-5964-9e58-a0236c081537)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#u5356dc31-f7a0-5610-a4ec-224aac1d8871)

WEDNESDAY MORNINGS WERE always quiet in the gallery, so any newcomer was bound to catch Charlie’s eye as she sat patiently at the reception desk. This morning, her attention was certainly caught by the tall, dark-haired fellow who came striding through the arched doorway as if he owned the place. He was gobsmackingly handsome, but it was his commanding manner that made Charlie almost forget to offer him her customary, sunny and welcoming smile.

A serious mistake. The cut of this fellow’s charcoal-grey suit suggested that he actually had the means to purchase one of the gallery’s paintings.

And, boy, Charlie needed to sell a painting. Fast. Her father, Michael Morisset, was the artist most represented on these gallery walls and his finances were in dire straits. Again. Always.

Sadly, her charming and talented, but vague and impractical parent was hopeless with money. His finances had always been precarious, but until recently he and Charlie—actually, it had mostly been Charlie who’d struggled with this—had managed to make ends meet. Just. But now, her father had remarried and his new wife had produced a brand-new baby daughter, and his situation was even more desperate.

Charlie was thinking of Isla, her new, too fragile and tiny half-sister, as she flashed the newcomer a bright smile and lifted a catalogue brochure from the pile on the counter.

‘Good morning,’ she said warmly.

‘Morning.’ His response was cool, without any hint of an answering smile. His icy grey eyes narrowed as he stopped and stood very still, staring at Charlie.

She squeezed her facial muscles, forcing an even brighter smile as she held out a brochure. ‘First time at the gallery, sir?’

Momentary surprise flashed in his eyes, but then he said, ‘Of course.’

Charlie thought she caught the hint of an accent, and his gaze grew even chillier, which spoiled the handsome perfection of his cheekbones and jawline and thick, glossy dark hair.

‘How are you, Olivia?’ he asked.

Huh?

Charlie almost laughed. He looked so serious, but he was seriously deluded. ‘I’m sorry. My name’s not Olivia.’

The newcomer shook his head. ‘Nice try.’ He smiled this time, but the smile held no warmth. ‘Don’t play games. I’ve come a long way to find you, as you very well know.’

Now it was Charlie’s turn to stare, while her mind raced. Was this fellow a loony? Should she call Security?

She glanced quickly around the gallery. A pair of elderly ladies were huddled at the far end of the large space, which had once been a warehouse. Their heads were together as they studied a Daphne Holden, a delicate water colour of a rose garden. The only other visitor, so far this morning, was the fellow in the chair by the window. He seemed to be asleep, most probably a homeless guy enjoying the air-conditioning.

At least no one was paying any attention to this weird conversation.

‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said again. ‘You’re mistaken. My name is not Olivia. It’s Charlie.’

His disbelief was instantly evident. In his eyes, in the curl of his lip.

‘Charlotte, to be totally accurate,’ she amended. ‘Charlotte Morisset.’ Again, she held out the catalogue. ‘Would you like to see the gallery? We have some very fine—’

‘No, I’m not interested in your paintings.’ The man was clearly losing his patience. ‘I haven’t come to see the artwork. I don’t know why you’re doing this, Olivia, but whatever your reasons, the very least you owe me is an explanation.’

Charlie refused to apologise a second time. ‘I told you, I’m not—’ She stopped in mid-sentence. There was little to be gained by repeating her claim. She was tempted to reach for her handbag, to show this arrogant so and so her driver’s licence and to prove she wasn’t this Olivia chick. But she had no idea if she could trust this man. For all she knew, this could be some kind of trap. He could be trying to distract her while thieves crept in to steal the paintings.

Or perhaps she’d been watching too much television?

She was rather relieved when a middle-aged couple came into the gallery, all smiles. She always greeted gallery visitors warmly, and Grim Face had no choice but to wait his turn as she bestowed this couple with an extra-sunny smile and handed them each a catalogue.

‘We’re particularly interested in Michael Morisset,’ the man said.

Wonderful! ‘We have an excellent collection of his paintings.’ Charlie tried not to sound too pleased and eager. ‘The Morrisets are mostly on this nearest wall.’ She waved towards the collection of her father’s bold, dramatic oils depicting so many facets of Sydney’s inner-city landscape. ‘You’ll find them all listed in the catalogue.’

‘And they’re all for sale?’ asked the woman.

‘Except for the few samples of his earliest work from the nineteen-eighties. It’s all explained in the catalogue, but if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask me. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Wonderful. Thank you.’

The couple continued to smile broadly and they looked rather excited as they moved away. Behind her back, Charlie crossed her fingers. Her father needed a big sale so badly.

Unfortunately Grim Face was still hanging around, and now he leaned towards her. ‘You do an excellent Australian accent, but you can’t keep it up. I’ve found you now, Olivia, and I won’t be leaving until we have this sorted.’

‘There’s nothing to sort.’ Charlie felt a stirring of panic. ‘You’ve made a mistake and that’s all there is to it. I don’t even know anyone called Olivia.’ She sent a frantic glance to the couple studying her father’s paintings.

After she’d given them enough time to have a good look, she would approach them with her gentle sales pitch. Today she had to be extra careful to hit the right note—she mustn’t be too cautious, or too pushy—and she really needed this guy out of her hair.

She cut her gaze from his, as if their conversation was ended, and made a show of tidying the brochures before turning to her computer screen.

‘When do you get time off for lunch?’ he asked.

Charlie stiffened. He was really annoying her. And worrying her. Was he some kind of stalker? And anyway, she didn’t take ‘time off for lunch’. She ate a sandwich and made a cup of tea in the tiny office off this reception area, but she wasn’t about to share that information with this jerk.

‘I’m afraid I’m here all day,’ she replied with an imperiousness that almost matched his.

‘Then I’ll see you at six when the gallery closes.’

Charlie opened her mouth to protest when he cut her off with a raised hand.

‘And don’t try anything foolish, like trying to slip away again. My men will be watching you.’

His men?

What the hell...?

Truly appalled, Charlie pulled her handbag from under the desk, dumped it on the counter, and ferociously yanked the zipper. ‘Listen, mate, I’ll prove to you that I’m not this Olivia person.’ Pulling out her purse, she flipped it open to reveal her driver’s licence. ‘My name’s Charlotte Morisset. Like it or lump it.’

Her pulse was racketing at a giddy pace as he leaned forward to inspect the proffered licence. There was something very not right about this. He had the outward appearance of a highly successful man. Handsome and well groomed, with that shiny dark hair and flashing grey eyes, he might have been a male model or a film star, or even a barrister. A federal politician. Someone used to being in the spotlight.

It made no sense that he would confuse her—ordinary, everyday Charlie Morisset from the wrong end of Bankstown—with anyone from his circle.

Unless he was a high-class criminal. Perhaps he’d heard the recent ripples in the art world. Perhaps he knew that her father was on the brink of finally garnering attention for his work.

My men will be watching you.

Charlie snapped her purse shut, hoping he hadn’t had time to read her address and date of birth.

‘So you’ve changed your name, but not your date of birth,’ he said with just a hint of menace.

Charlie let out a huff—half sigh, half terror. ‘Listen, mister. I want you to leave. Now. If you don’t, I’m calling the police.’ She reached for the phone.

As she did so Grim Face slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his coat.

White-hot fear strafed through Charlie. He was getting out his gun. Her hands were shaking as she pressed triple zero. But it was probably too late. She was about to die.

Instead of producing a gun, however, he slapped a photograph down on the counter. ‘This is the girl I’m looking for.’ He eyed Charlie with the steely but watchful gaze of a detective ready to pounce. ‘Her name is Olivia Belaire.’

Once again, Charlie gasped.

It was the photo that shocked her this time. It was a head and shoulders photograph of herself.

There could be no doubt. That was her face. Those were her unruly blonde curls, her blue eyes, her too-wide mouth. Even the dimple in the girl’s right cheek was the same shape as hers.

Charlie heard a voice speaking from her phone, asking whether she wanted the police, the ambulance or the fire brigade.

‘Ah, no,’ she said quickly. ‘Sorry, I’m OK. It was a false alarm.’

As she disconnected, she stared at the photo. Every detail was exact, including the tilt of the girl’s smile. Except no, wait a minute, this dimple was in the girl’s left cheek.

Then again, Charlie supposed some cameras might reverse the image.

The girl, who looked exactly like her and was supposed to be Olivia Belaire, was even wearing a plain white T-shirt, just as Charlie was now, tucked into blue jeans. And there was a beach in the background, which could easily have been Sydney’s Bondi Beach. Charlie tried to remember what she’d been wearing the last time she’d been to Bondi.

‘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.’

‘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?’

Rafe smiled. ‘Please, no. Rafe’s fine.’

Almost immediately, another thought struck Charlie. ‘Olivia might have been abducted, mightn’t she? That postcard might have been a—a hoax.’

Rafe shook his head. ‘Security footage in the castle shows her leaving of her own volition. We know she drove her car towards Grenoble. After that—?’ He frowned. ‘She disappeared.’

‘She might have been kidnapped.’

‘There’s been no request for a ransom.’

‘Right.’ Charlie gave a helpless shrug. ‘And you’ve had your people searching everywhere? Even down here in Australia?’

‘Yes.’

As Charlie sipped her coffee, she tried to put herself in Olivia Belaire’s shoes. What would it be like to be engaged to this good-looking Prince? To be marrying into royalty? Would Olivia have been expected to undertake a host of public duties? Would she be required to chair meetings? Run charities? Visit the children’s hospital?

At the very thought of a children’s hospital, she shivered. Poor little Isla.

Fascinating though this conversation was, she’d have to cut it short.

But, as she speared a piece of baklava with her fork, she couldn’t help asking, ‘Do you think Olivia might have got cold feet? Could she have been worried about the whole royalty thing? All the responsibilities?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘That’s hard on you, Rafe. I—I’m sorry.’ Lowering the enticing pastry to her plate, Charlie picked up her phone instead. She needed to check the time. She had to meet her father. She really should leave.

As if he sensed this, Rafe said, ‘Before you go, I have a proposition.’

‘No way,’ Charlie said quickly, suddenly nervous. Prince or not, she’d only just met the man and she wasn’t about to become embroiled in his troubles. She had enough of her own.

‘You could earn a great deal of money,’ he said.

Now he had her attention.


CHAPTER THREE (#u5356dc31-f7a0-5610-a4ec-224aac1d8871)

CHARLIE CERTAINLY BRIGHTENED at the mention of money, and Rafe was surprised by his stab of disappointment. After all, her reaction was exactly what he’d expected.

Now, however, caution also showed in Charlie’s expressive face, and that was also to be expected.

‘Why would you offer me money?’ she asked.

‘To entice you to stand in as your sister.’

She stared at him as if he’d grown an extra head. ‘You’ve got to be joking.’

‘I’m perfectly serious.’

Leaning back, she continued to watch him with obvious distrust. ‘You want me to pretend to be your fiancée?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, that’s ridiculous. Why?’

At least, she listened without interrupting while he explained. She leaned forward again, elbows on the table, chin resting in one hand, blue eyes intent, listening as if transfixed. Rafe told her about the inconvenient clause in Montaigne’s constitution, about the country’s mineral wealth and the very real threat of a takeover, and the possibility of ruin for the people who meant so much to him.

Charlie didn’t speak when he finished. She sat for a minute or two, staring first at him and then into space with a small furrow between her neatly arched brows. Then she picked up her phone.

‘Excuse me,’ she said without looking up from the small screen. ‘I’m just researching you.’

Rafe smiled. ‘Of course.’ He drained his coffee and sat back, waiting with barely restrained patience. But despite his tension, he thought how pleasant it was to be in a country where almost nobody knew him. Of course, his bodyguards were positioned just outside the café, but in every other way he was just an ordinary customer in a small Sydney coffee shop, chatting with a very pretty girl. The anonymity was a luxury he rarely enjoyed.

‘Wow,’ Charlie said, looking up from her phone. ‘You’re the real deal.’

Rafe’s moment of fantasy was over. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Would you consider my proposal?’

She grimaced. ‘I hate to sound mercenary, but how much money are we talking about?’

‘Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars US.’

Charlie’s eyes almost popped out of her head. Her first instinct was to say no, she couldn’t possibly consider accepting such a sum. But then she remembered Isla.

Fanning her face with her hand, she took several deep breaths before she answered. ‘Crikey, Rafe, you sure know how to tempt a girl.’

Wow—not only would she be able to help Isla, she would be a step closer to finding out about Olivia as well. How could she pass up such an opportunity to meet her long-lost sister and maybe get some answers?

But even as she played with these beguiling possibilities Charlie gave Rafe a rueful smile. ‘It wouldn’t work, though, would it? I’d give the game away as soon as I arrived in Montaigne and opened my mouth.’

Yes, her Aussie accent was a problem. ‘Do you speak French?’

‘Oui.’

‘You learnt French here in Australia?’ Rafe asked in French.

‘I went to school in New Caledonia,’ Charlie replied with quite a passable French accent. ‘I lived there for a few years with my father. Our teacher was a proper Frenchwoman. Mademoiselle Picard.’

Rafe smiled with relief. Charlie’s French might be limited, but she could probably get by. ‘I think you would manage well enough. Olivia isn’t a native French speaker.’

‘As long as I dropped the crikeys?’

His smile deepened. ‘That would certainly help, but we would try to limit the amount of time you needed to speak in public. It’s all about appearances, really. And when it comes to how you look, you certainly had me and my detectives fooled.’

‘But I haven’t agreed to this,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘It’s so risky. I mean, there’s so much room for things to go wrong. What will happen, for example, if Olivia doesn’t turn up before your cut-off date? I couldn’t possibly marry you.’

She went bright pink as she said this.

Rafe watched the rosy tide with fascination. This girl was such a beguiling mix of innocence and worldliness. But now wasn’t the time to be distracted.

‘I’m confident we’ll find Olivia,’ he assured her. ‘But whatever happens, you have my word. If you come to Montaigne with me, you’ll be free to leave at the end of the month, if not sooner.’

‘Hmm... What about—?’ Charlie looked embarrassed. ‘You—you wouldn’t expect me to actually behave like a fiancée, would you? In private, I mean?’

This time Rafe manfully held back his urge to smile. ‘Are you worried that I’d expect to ravish you on a nightly basis?’

‘No, of course not.’ She dropped her gaze to the half-eaten baklava on her plate. ‘Well, yes...perhaps. I guess...’

‘There’s no need to worry,’ he said more gently. ‘Again, you have my word, Charlie. If you agreed to this, I would proudly escort you to public appearances as my fiancée, but in both public and in private I’d be a total gentleman. You’d have your own suite of rooms in the castle.’

Just the same, the thought of taking Charlie to bed was tempting. Extremely so. Despite her innocent, cautious façade, Rafe sensed an exciting wildness in her, an essential spark he’d found lacking in her sister.

But, sadly, his years as a playboy prince were behind him. Now responsibility for his country weighed heavily. If Charlie agreed to return with him to Montaigne, the engagement would be a purely political, diplomatic exercise, just as it had been with Olivia.

Charlie was very quiet now, as if she was giving his proposal serious thought.

‘So what do you think?’ he couldn’t help prompting, while trying desperately to keep the impatience from his voice.

Charlie looked up at him, all big blue eyes and dark lashes, and he could see her internal battle as she weighed up the pros and cons.

Rafe wished he understood those cons. Was she worried about leaving her job at short notice? Were there family commitments? Did this involve the phone call from her father? A jealous lover?

He frowned at this last possibility. But surely, if there was a serious boyfriend on the scene, Charlie would have mentioned him by now.

‘I can’t pretend I’m not interested, Rafe,’ she said suddenly. ‘But I need to talk to—to someone.’

So...perhaps there was a boyfriend, after all. Rafe tried not to frown.

‘When do you need a decision?’ she asked.

‘As soon as possible. I hoped to fly out tonight.’

‘Tonight? Can you book a flight that quickly?’

‘I don’t need to book. I have a private jet.’

‘Of course you do,’ Charlie said softly and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘You’re a prince.’ She gave a slow, disbelieving shake of her head, but then her gaze was direct as she met his. ‘What time do you want to leave, then?’ she asked.

Now. ‘Ten o’clock? Eleven at the latest.’ He pulled a chequebook from his pocket and filled in the necessary details, including his scrawled signature. ‘Take this with you,’ he said as he tore off the cheque.

Charlie took it gingerly, almost as if it were a time bomb. She swallowed as she stared at it. ‘You’d hand over that amount of money? Just like that? You trust me?’

Rafe didn’t like to point out that his men would be tailing her, so he simply nodded.

She folded the cheque and slipped it into her handbag and she looked pale as she rose from her seat. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ she said. ‘Give me your phone number and I’ll text you.’


CHAPTER FOUR (#u5356dc31-f7a0-5610-a4ec-224aac1d8871)

MICHAEL MORISSET, WHO had the same curls and clear blue eyes that Charlie had inherited, looked as if he’d aged ten years when she met him at the hospital.

It was frightening to see her normally upbeat and carefree father looking so haggard and worn.

Skye looked even worse. Only a few short days ago, the happy mother had been glowing as she proudly showed off her sweet newborn daughter. Now Skye looked pale and gaunt, with huge dark circles under her eyes. Her shoulders were stooped and even her normally glossy auburn hair hung in limp strands to her shoulders.

Charlie’s eyes stung as she hugged her stepmother. She couldn’t imagine how terrified Skye must be to know that her sweet little daughter had only the most tenuous hold on life.

‘Would you like to see Isla?’ Skye asked.

Charlie nodded, but her throat closed over as her father and Skye took her down the hospital corridor, and she had to breathe in deeply through her nose in an attempt to stay calm.

The baby was in a Humidicrib in a special isolation ward and they could only look at her through a glass window.

Isla was naked except for a disposable nappy, and she was lying on her side with her wrinkled hands folded together and tucked under her little chin. A tube had been inserted into her nose and was taped across her cheek to hold it in place. Monitor wires were taped to her tummy and her feet. Such a sad and scary sight.

‘Oh, poor darling.’ The cry burst from Charlie. She couldn’t help it. Her heart was breaking.

She tried to imagine a doctor operating on such a tiny wee thing. Thank heavens she had found the money for the very best surgeon possible. She suppressed a nervous shiver. This was hardly the time to dwell on the details of what earning that money entailed. Her baby sister was her focus.

As she watched, Isla gave a little stretch. One hand opened, tiny fingers fluttering, bumping herself on the chin so that she frowned, making deep furrows across her forehead. Now she looked like a little old lady.

‘Oh,’ Charlie cried again. ‘She’s so sweet. She’s gorgeous.’

She turned to her father and Skye, who were holding hands and gazing almost fearfully at their daughter.

‘I’ve found a way to raise the money,’ Charlie told them quickly.

Skye gasped. ‘Not enough to take her to Boston, surely?’

‘Yes.’

Skye gave a dazed shake of her head. ‘With a special nurse to accompany her?’

‘Yes, there’s money to cover all those costs.’

‘Oh, my God.’

Skye went white and clutched at her husband’s arm, looking as if she might faint.

‘Are you sure about this, Charlie?’ her father demanded tensely. ‘I don’t want Skye to get her hopes up and then be disappointed.’

Charlie nodded. ‘I have the cheque in my handbag.’ Nervously, she drew out the slim, astonishing slip of paper. ‘It might take a few days before the money’s deposited into your bank account, but it’s a proper bank cheque. It’s all above board.’

‘Good heavens.’ Her father stared at the cheque and then stared at his daughter in disbelief. ‘How on earth did you manage this? What’s this House of St Romain? Some kind of church group? Who could be so generous?’

This was the awkward bit. Charlie had no intention of telling her dad and Skye about Rafe and the fact that she’d agreed to be a stand-in as a European prince’s pretend fiancée. For starters, they wouldn’t believe her—they would think she’d taken drugs, or had been hit on the head and was hallucinating.

But also, telling them about Rafe would involve telling them about Olivia, and this wasn’t the right moment to bring up that particular can of worms. Charlie was angry about her father’s silence over such an important matter as her sister. On the way to the hospital she’d allowed herself a little weep about her absent mother and unknown twin sister, but she’d consoled herself that by accepting the role of fake fiancée she was actually taking a step closer to finding the truth.

For now, though, they had to stay focused on Isla.

‘Dad, you have my word this money is from a legitimate source and there’s nothing to worry about. But it’s complicated, I’ll admit that. You’ll have to trust me for now. You’ve got enough to worry about with Isla. Let me take care of the money side of things.’

‘I hope you haven’t gone into debt, Charlie. You know I won’t be able to pay this back.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that either. The only issue will be finding someone to run the gallery while I’m—’ Charlie quickly changed tack. ‘I’ll be—busy organising everything. Do you think Amy Thornton might be available?’

‘I’m pretty sure Amy’s free. But for heaven’s sake, Charlie—’ For a long moment her father stared at her. ‘If you don’t want to tell me, I’m not going to press you,’ he said finally. ‘I do trust you, darling. I know you won’t be breaking any laws.’

‘Of course not. I’ve managed to find a generous—’ Charlie swallowed. ‘A generous benefactor, who wishes to remain anonymous.’

‘How amazing. That’s—that’s wonderful.’

Charlie forced a bright smile. ‘So now your job is to get busy with talking to doctors and airlines and everything that’s involved with getting Isla well.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Tears glistened in her father’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’ His voice was ragged and rough with emotion. ‘Not every girl would be so caring about a half-sister.’

The three of them hugged, and Skye was weeping, but to Charlie’s relief her father quickly broke away to find a nursing sister. In no time he and the nurse were making the necessary arrangements. Her dad was stepping up to the mark and adopting full responsibility.

She was free to go.

She’d never realised how scary that could be.

* * *

A frenetic hour later Charlie had rung Amy Thornton and secured her services at the gallery for the next month. She’d showered, changed into jeans and a sweater for the long flight, and had taken her cat, Dolly, next door to be minded by Edna, a kind and very accommodating elderly neighbour.

As she frantically packed, she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this. She didn’t dare to stop and think too hard about her sudden whirlwind decision—she knew she’d have second, third and fourth thoughts about the craziness of it all. The only safe way to keep her swirling emotions under control was to keep busy.

Finally, she was packed and ready with her passport, which was, fortunately, up to date.

Rafe arrived just as Charlie was sitting on her suitcase trying to get it closed. He shot a curious and approving glance around her tiny flat with its bright red walls and black and white furnishings, which she was quietly rather proud of, and which normally included her rather beautiful black and white cat.

Then he eyed her bulging luggage and frowned.

‘I know it’s winter in Montaigne,’ Charlie offered as her excuse. ‘So I threw in every warm thing I have. But I’m not sure that any of my stuff is really suitable for snowy weather.’

Or for an aspiring princess, she added silently.

Rafe passed this off with a shrug. ‘You can always buy new warm clothes when you get there.’

Yes, she could do that if she hadn’t already reallocated his generous payment. She felt a tad guilty as she snapped the locks on her suitcase shut.

Rafe picked it up. ‘I have a taxi waiting.’

‘Right.’ Charlie stifled a nervous ripple. This was going to work out. And it wasn’t a completely foolish thing to do. It was worthwhile. Really, it was. She would provide a front for Rafe while he got things sorted with Olivia and saved his country from some kind of economic ruin. And little Isla was getting a very important chance to have a healthy life.

Straightening her shoulders, she pinned on a brave smile. ‘Let’s get this show on the road,’ she told Rafe.

To her surprise, he didn’t immediately turn to head for the door. He took a step forward, leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. She caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, felt the warm brush of his lips on her skin.

‘Thank you for doing this, Charlie.’ His eyes blazed with surprising emotion and warmth. ‘It means a lot to me.’

Charlie wasn’t sure what to say. When people did unexpectedly nice things she had a bad habit of crying. But she couldn’t allow herself to cry now, so she nodded brusquely. Then she followed him out, shut the door, and slipped the key under the mat outside Edna’s door, as they’d arranged.

As she did so, Edna’s door opened to reveal the old lady with Dolly in her arms.

‘We thought we’d wave you off,’ Edna said, beaming a jolly smile as she lifted one of Dolly’s white paws and waggled it. But then Edna saw Rafe and she forgot to wave or to smile. Instead she stood there, like a statue, eyes agog.

Great.

Charlie suppressed a groan. When she’d told her neighbour about her hastily arranged flight, she hadn’t mentioned a male companion. Now everyone in their block of flats would know that Charlie Morisset had taken off on reckless impulse with a tall, dark and extremely handsome stranger.

* * *

Conversation was limited as the taxi whizzed across Sydney, although Rafe did comment on the beauty of the harbour and the magnificent Opera House. In no time, they arrived at a private airport terminal that Charlie hadn’t even known existed.

There was no queue, no waiting, no taking her shoes off for Security, not even tickets to be checked. Her passport was carefully examined though, by a round little Customs man with a moustache, who did a lot of bowing and scraping and calling Rafe ‘Your Highness’. Then their luggage was trundled away and there was no more to do.

Rafe’s plane was ready and waiting.

Oh, boy. Charlie had been expecting a smallish aircraft that would probably need to make many stops between Australia and Europe. This plane was enormous.

‘Do you own this?’ she couldn’t help asking Rafe.

He chuckled. ‘I don’t need to own a jet. They’re very easy to charter, and I have a priority listing.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ she muttered under her breath.

At that point, she might have felt very nervous about flying off into the unknown with a man she’d only just met, but Rafe took her arm as they crossed the tarmac, tucking it companionably under his, and somehow everything felt a little better and safer. And he kept a firm steadying hand at her elbow as they mounted the steps and entered the plane.

Then Charlie forgot to be nervous. She was too busy being impressed. And overawed.

The interior of Rafe’s chartered jet was like no other plane she’d ever seen or imagined. It was more like a hotel suite—with padded armchairs and sofas, and a beautiful dining table.

Everything was exquisite, glamorous and tasteful, decorated in restful blues and golds. As they went deeper into the plane, there were wonderful double beds—two of them, Charlie was relieved to see—complete with banks of pillows, soft wall lamps, and beautiful gold quilts.

The only things to remind her that this was a jet were the narrowness of the space and the lines of porthole windows down each side.

‘OK,’ she said, sending Rafe a bright grin. ‘I’m impressed.’

‘I hope you have a comfortable flight.’

‘There’d have to be something wrong with me if I didn’t.’

He looked amused as he smiled. ‘Come and take a seat ready for take-off.’

Rafe’s bodyguards had boarded the plane as well, but they disappeared into a section behind closed doors, leaving Rafe and Charlie in total privacy as they strapped themselves into stupendously luxurious white leather chairs. An excessively polite, young female flight attendant appeared, dressed demurely in powder blue and carrying a tray with glasses of champagne, complete with strawberries and a platter with cheese and grapes and nuts.

Oh, my. Until now, Charlie had been too busy and preoccupied to give much thought to what being a prince’s fiancée involved, but it seemed this gig might be a ton of fun. Despite her worries about Isla and about all the unknowns that lay ahead of her, she should try to relax and enjoy it.

* * *

The flight was a breeze. First there was a scrumptious meal of roasted leek soup, followed by slow-cooked lamb and a tiny mousse made from white chocolate and cherries, and to drink there was wonderful French champagne.

Charlie gave Rafe a blissful smile as she patted her lips with the napkin. ‘This is so delicious,’ she said, for perhaps the third or fourth time.

He looked slightly bemused and she wondered if she’d gone a bit too far with her praise.

Of course, she’d been out with guys who’d fed her beautiful meals before this, but it was still an experience she could never get tired of. At home, she’d done most of the cooking before her father’s marriage, and she now cooked for herself in the flat, but she’d never seemed to have time to learn more than the basics. Fancy gourmet food was a treat.

After dinner, Rafe said he had business to attend to and was soon busy frowning at his laptop. Charlie, yawning and replete, changed into pyjamas and climbed into an incredibly comfortable bed.

She expected to lie awake for ages mulling over the amazing and slightly scary turn her life had taken in one short day, but with a full tummy, an awesomely comfy bed, and the pleasant, deep, throbbing drone of the plane’s engines, she fell asleep quickly.

* * *

Rafe suppressed a sigh as he watched Charlie fall asleep with almost childlike speed. Was that the sleep of innocence? He hadn’t slept well for weeks—since the night of his father’s death. There always seemed to be too much to worry about. First his guilt and despair that he’d been so caught up in his good-time life that he’d missed any chance to bid his father farewell. And then the weighty realities of assuming his sudden new responsibilities.

Now he scanned the emails he’d downloaded before boarding the plane, but there was still no good news about Olivia, or about the intelligence surveillance on Claude Pontier.

Rafe was confident that it wouldn’t be long now, before they caught Pontier out. Montaigne’s Head of Police, Chief Dameron, was a wise, grey-haired fellow, approaching retirement, so he had a wealth of experience. He’d come up through the ranks, earning his promotions through hard work and diligence, but he’d also been trained by the FBI.




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