The Prince's Convenient Proposal Page 2

  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

  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.’