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.
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
