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
