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
