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.
Consequently, his combination of old-school police procedures with the latest technical surveillance savvy was invaluable. Rafe had every faith in him.
Now Rafe looked again towards the bed where Charlie slept, curled on her side with golden curls tumbling on the pillow, and he was surprised by the tenderness he felt towards this girl who’d so readily stepped into her sister’s shoes. He wondered if their similarities were more than skin deep.
He suspected that the two girls’ personalities were quite different, found himself hoping for this, in fact. And that made no sense at all.
* * *
When Charlie woke, the flight attendant was offering her a tray with orange juice and a pot of coffee.
‘We’ll be landing in Dubai in less than an hour,’ she was told.
Really?
A glance through the doorway showed Rafe, already up and dressed and sitting on one of the lounges, working on his computer again. Or perhaps he’d been working all night? Charlie downed her orange juice and hurried to her private bathroom to change out of her pyjamas and wash her face.
She took her tray with the coffee through to the lounge.
‘Good morning.’ Once again, Rafe’s smile held a hint of amusement. ‘You slept well?’
‘Unbelievably well,’ Charlie agreed.
She settled into a lounge and took a sip of coffee. ‘I didn’t realise we’d be landing in Dubai. I guess we need to refuel?’
‘It’s not a long stop,’ he said. ‘But yes, we need to refuel and my good friend, Sheikh Faysal Daood Taariq, wants to give us breakfast.’
‘Did you say a—a sheikh?’
‘That’s right.’
Charlie stared at Rafe in dismay. The thought of breakfast with a sheikh was even more confronting than stepping onto a private jet with a prince. She took a deeper sip of her coffee, as if it might somehow clear her head. ‘Are you sure I should come to this breakfast?’
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Rafe. ‘You’re my fiancée.’
‘Oh, yes.’ This demanded more coffee. ‘Yes, of course.’ Charlie’s hand shook ever so slightly as she refilled her cup from the silver pot. The deeper ramifications of becoming her sister Olivia were only just sinking in.
This,
