The Prince's Convenient Proposal

by Barbara Hannay

  She would burst into tears if she tried to talk about Isla, especially now with the scheduled surgery only hours away. ‘I’m just a bit tense,’ she hedged.

  Rafe’s grey eyes narrowed. ‘And this tension relates to your father?’

  ‘Sort of...yes.’ It was the best she could manage. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest and hoped this was the end of Rafe’s interrogation.

  ‘Is there any way I can help?’

  This was so unexpected.

  Charlie had never had a drop-dead handsome man offer to help her. For a moment she was tempted to pretend that Rafe really was her fiancé, to tell him everything that was bothering her as she threw herself into his arms and sobbed on his strong, capable shoulder.

  Just in time, she dragged her thoughts back to reality. ‘It’s kind of you to offer to help, Rafe. But, actually, I haven’t talked to you about—my concerns—because I knew you might want to help. And you can’t really, and if you did try, then there’d probably be all kinds of publicity and—’

  ‘I can avoid publicity when I need to,’ Rafe cut in. ‘My press secretary is very good at managing these things.’

  Charlie supposed this was true. There would be many times when a royal needed to avoid the press, and other times when he would welcome the attention. She supposed Rafe had been well aware that his presence at the hospital today would be a draw-card for journalists. Perhaps, Charlie realised now, he’d been using the hospital visit as some kind of bait to lure Olivia out of hiding.

  This thought drew Charlie up sharply. But she didn’t want to think too deeply about Rafe’s relationship with Olivia. She especially didn’t like to contemplate the regrettable reality that Rafe planned to go ahead with his marriage to her sister, even though he didn’t love her and she clearly didn’t love him.

  On the other hand, when Charlie considered what she’d been prepared to do to save Isla, she supposed Rafe might go to any length to save his country. It was all rather depressing, really.

  And Rafe was still waiting for her answer.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. It was only midday, and by her calculations Isla’s surgery was scheduled for three pm Montaigne time. She still had to wait hours and hours before she knew the outcome.

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ she told him. ‘But now is not a good time to talk about it.’

  ‘When will be a good time?’ Rafe persisted.

  ‘By the end of the day.’ She had no idea how she would fill in the rest of the day. ‘I just wish this day would go faster,’ she said, thinking aloud.

  ‘So, why don’t you allow me to divert you for an hour or so with lunch in one of our finest restaurants?’

  Charlie was momentarily dumbstruck. ‘Aren’t you too busy?’

  ‘Not today. I’ve kept my schedule clear.’ A smile shimmered in his eyes as he waited for her answer.

  ‘Will there be lots of people staring at us?’

  ‘Not at this place. Most of Cosme’s clientèle are famous in their own right. Come on, Charlie. I’ll drive you there myself. Let me show you a little more of my country and one of my favourite places.’

  The smile he gave her now would have done Prince Charming proud, and Charlie had to admit that the thought of a pleasant lunch in a lovely restaurant was way more appealing than pacing alone in her room and uselessly worrying.

  Really, when the man invited her so nicely, she’d be churlish to refuse, wouldn’t she?

  * * *

  Rafe drove to Cosme’s in a flashy silver sports car, with the hood up against the biting cold. As far as Charlie could tell, most of the city’s roads seemed to be narrow and winding, which must have made life difficult for the guys with the snowploughs. Many streets were ancient and cobbled and crowded in by tall buildings made from centuries-old stone. She was sure she would have been nervous if she’d been behind the wheel, but Rafe drove his car skilfully and with obvious enjoyment.

  She wondered how often he got to taste this kind of freedom, although she supposed he wasn’t ever completely free. His minders were still following at a discreet distance.

  The restaurant, simply called Cosme’s, was in an old building that might have once been a castle. Two pine trees stood like sentries in huge pots on either side of a bright red door, making a bright splash of welcome colour.

  Inside, Charlie and Rafe, with their coats and scarves taken care of, were led up a winding stone staircase to a spacious dining area made completely of stone and warmed by a blazing, crackling fire, a proper open fire with logs. The other diners scarcely paid them any attention as they were shown to their table set in an alcove.

  It was all wonderfully simple, but perfect—a starched white tablecloth, gleaming, heavy silver, a small candle in a pottery holder and another spectacular view.

  Charlie was rapt as she looked out through their alcove’s arched window to the pale winter sky and a steep, snow-covered mountainside. ‘This is absolutely gorgeous, Rafe. Thank you for bringing me here.’

  He grinned. ‘The pleasure’s all mine. But wait till you try the food.’

  The menu was large and of course everything was in French.

  ‘You know the menu well,’ Charlie said. ‘I think I’d like you to choose. What do you suggest I should try?’

  ‘Well, you can’t beat the traditional French favourites,’ Rafe suggested. ‘Cosme has perfected them. I’m sure you’d enjoy his soupe à l’oignon.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ A proper French onion soup on a cold winter’s day sounded perfect.

  ‘But perhaps, first, you would like to try an entrée? How about something local, like goat’s cheese baked with Alpine honey?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘Yes, please. It sounds amazing.’

  And, of course, it was totally delicious. For Charlie, who was used to cramming in a hasty sandwich at her desk in the gallery, this leisurely, gourmet lunch was the ultimate luxury.

  As she tasted her first sip of a divine vintage Chablis, she couldn’t help asking, ‘Has Olivia been here?’

  Amusement flickered in Rafe’s eyes and at the corners of his mouth. ‘Actually, no, she hasn’t.’

  She knew it was small-minded of her to be pleased about this. Surely it was shameful to have feelings of sibling rivalry for a sister you’d never even met.

  Charlie’s soup arrived, along with a veal dish for Rafe. The soup was wonderfully rich and savoury with a to-die-for golden, cheesy bread crust. It was so good she couldn’t talk at first, apart from raving, but after a bit she encouraged Rafe to tell her more about Montaigne.

  She was keen to learn more about its history and its traditions, about the mining threat and his plans for his country’s future. So he told her succinctly and entertainingly about the country’s history and the jewellery-making craftspeople and the famous Alpine skiers. As he talked she could feel how genuinely he loved this small principality and its people.

  Charlie decided there was something very attractive about a man whose vision extended beyond his own personal ambitions. Not that she should dwell on Prince Rafael of Montaigne’s attractions.

  She was halfway through the soup, when she asked, in a burst of curiosity, ‘What’s it like to be you, Rafe? To be a prince? Does it do your head in sometimes?’

  He frowned. ‘My head in?’

  ‘Does it ever feel unreal?’

  He seemed to find this rather amusing. ‘Mostly, it feels all too real.’

  ‘But you must have met a lot of famous people. I guess you must have an awesome Christmas card list.’

  This time Rafe laughed out loud, a burst of genuine mirth. ‘Yes, I suppose it is an awesome list,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Will you add me?’ Charlie couldn’t resist asking. ‘After all this is over?’

  Any amusement
in his face died. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘If you’d like a Christmas card, I’d be happy to add you to my list, Charlie.’

  The thought of being back in Australia and finding Prince Rafael’s card in the mail wasn’t as cheering as it should have been.

  Charlie promptly changed the subject. ‘Do you ever wish you could just be plain old Rafe St Romain?’

  He wasn’t smiling now. ‘Many, many times. But hardly anyone can have exactly what they want, can they?’

  ‘I—I guess not.’

  ‘That’s why life’s a compromise.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Charlie softly. But today she really needed a fairy tale for Isla. ‘I suppose your parents drummed that into you?’

  He gave this a little thought before he answered. ‘It was my granny, actually. She was a crusty old thing, prone to giving lectures. Her favourite lesson was about the need to put duty before personal happiness. I must admit, I ignored her advice for as long as I could.’

  ‘How long was that? Until your father died?’

  His eyes widened. ‘You’re very perceptive, aren’t you?’

  Charlie dropped her gaze. ‘Sorry, I have a bad habit of asking nosy questions.’

  But Rafe shook this aside. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said. ‘I spent far too long living the high life. It’s my deepest regret that my father died not knowing if I’d give up the nonsense and step up to the mark as his heir.’

  His jaw was stiff as he said this, his mouth tight, as if he was only just holding himself together. An unexpected welling of emotion prompted Charlie to reach out, to give his hand a comforting squeeze.

  Rafe responded with a sad little smile that brought tears to her eyes.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said quickly. ‘I don’t think Granny was ever very happy herself, and she was forever warning me that I couldn’t expect to be as carefree and contented as my parents were.’

  ‘Well, at least you must be reassured to know that your parents were happy.’

  ‘Yes.’ This time Rafe’s smile wasn’t quite as sad. ‘My mother was from Russia. She was the daughter of a count. Her name was Tanya and she was very beautiful. My father worshipped her.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Charlie thought how sad it was that Rafe, by contrast, was arranging to marry for convenience, to save his country, tying himself into a contract with a girl he didn’t seem to particularly admire.

  If her sister ever came out of hiding.

  To Charlie this seemed like a compromise of the very worst kind.

  ‘By the way,’ he said suddenly, changing their mood with a sudden warm smile, ‘you should finish this meal with one of Cosme’s chocolate eclairs. That’s a happy ending you can always rely on.’

  ‘Oh,’ Charlie moaned. ‘I don’t think I have room.’

  ‘We can ask for a tiny bite-size one. I promise, they’re worth it.’

  * * *

  Charlie checked her phone again as they were getting back into the car. Rafe had noticed her checking it twice, very quickly, during the meal.

  ‘When do you expect to hear something?’ he asked.

  She looked at him, her blue eyes wide, almost fearful.

  ‘You’re obviously waiting for a phone call,’ he said.

  She nodded sadly. ‘But it won’t come for ages yet. It’s only just starting.’

  Rafe had turned on the ignition and was about to drive off, but now he waited. Charlie had been relaxed and animated during lunch, but now she was tense and pale. ‘What has just started, Charlie?’

  She opened her mouth, as if she was going to tell him, and then, annoyingly, shut it again.

  Rafe sat very still, but with poorly contained patience. ‘What?’ he asked again, but she didn’t reply.

  He watched her trembling chin, knew she was struggling not to cry, and couldn’t believe how the sight of her distress bothered him as much as it frustrated him. He almost demanded there and then that she tell him about it.

  He certainly would have done so, if they weren’t in a car on a narrow street with curious pedestrians on either side. Instead, with grim resignation, he put his foot down on the accelerator and the car roared off.

  * * *

  When Rafe pulled up at the castle steps a valet was waiting to open Charlie’s door and to park the car. Charlie wondered if ancient dungeons had been turned into underground car parks and she might have asked Rafe about this, but the question died when he linked his arm with hers and kept a firm hold on her as they went up the steps and inside the huge front doors.

  ‘We’ll have coffee in Olivia’s room,’ he told the waiting Chloe.

  Charlie had expected to be alone now. She wanted to focus on Isla, to send positive thoughts while she waited for news. Just in time, she remembered not to show that she minded Rafe’s company. No matter how tense she was, she couldn’t let him down in front of the watchful eyes of his staff. She was supposed to be his loving fiancée, after all.

  She waited until they were in the lift. ‘You don’t need to come to my room, Rafe.’

  His eyes were cool grey stones. ‘But I choose to.’

  He said this with such compellingly regal authority Charlie knew it was pointless to argue. She supposed she should be grateful for his company. Try as she might to send positive thoughts, she would probably end up sitting alone, unhelpfully imagining all kinds of gruesomeness as a surgeon’s scalpel sliced through poor Isla’s tiny chest.

  Upstairs once again, she and Rafe sat opposite each other on the sofas. It was a scene that was beginning to feel very familiar, with the fire flickering, the huge window offering them its snowy view of the city and a coffee pot and their mugs sitting on the low table between them.

  ‘Shall I pour?’ Charlie asked.

  Rafe nodded gravely. ‘Thank you.’

  The coffee was hot and strong. Charlie took two sips then set her mug down.

  ‘How long do you have to wait for this news?’ Rafe asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I guess it depends—’ It was ridiculous to avoid telling him now. ‘I have no idea how long it takes to operate on a not quite two weeks old baby’s heart.’

  She watched the shock flare in his eyes.

  ‘This is your little half-sister?’ he said, eventually.

  Charlie swallowed. ‘You knew?’

  ‘I knew you had a baby sister, your stepmother’s child. You visited her in Sydney before you left.’

  She supposed his ‘men’ had told him this. ‘Her name’s Isla,’ she said. ‘She was born with a congenital heart defect.’

  ‘Oh, Charlie.’

  She held up a hand to stop him. ‘Don’t be nice to me, or I’ll cry.’

  Rafe stared at her, his expression gravely thoughtful. ‘Where is this surgery taking place?’

  ‘In America. In Boston. The surgeon is supposed to be brilliant. The best.’

  ‘I’m sure you can rely on that brilliance,’ Rafe said, and this time his voice was surprisingly gentle.

  Charlie nodded. Already, after getting this sad truth out in the open, she was breathing a little more easily.

  Rafe was looking at his phone. ‘I guess the Internet should be able to tell us how long these sorts of operations might take.’

  ‘I guess.’ Charlie hugged her coffee mug to her chest as she watched him scroll through various sites.

  ‘Hmm...looks like it could take anything from two and a half hours to over four hours.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  Poor Isla.

  Rafe looked up from his phone, his gaze direct, challenging. ‘This is what you wanted the money for, isn’t it?’

  The tears she’d warned him about welled in her eyes. Fighting them, Charlie pressed her lips together. She nodded, swallowed deeply before she could speak.
‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Mind? No, of course I don’t mind. How could I mind about my money being spent on something so—so decent and honourable?’ His mouth twisted in a lopsided, sad smile.

  ‘Oh, Charlie,’ he said again and his voice was as gentle as she’d feared it would be.

  Oh, Charlie.

  With just those two words, Rafe unravelled the last shreds of her resolve.

  The tension of the past few days gave way. She could feel her face crumpling, her mouth losing its shape. Then suddenly Rafe was on the sofa beside her and he was drawing her into his arms, bringing her head onto his shoulder.

  For a brief moment, Charlie savoured the luxury of his muscled strength, the reassuring firmness of his considerable chest through the soft wool of his sweater, but then the building force of her pent-up emotions broke through and she wept.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RAFE KNEW THIS was wrong. A weeping Charlie in his arms was not, in any way, shape or form, a part of his plans. But he was still trying to digest her news and its implications.

  Surely he shouldn’t be so deeply moved by the fact that Charlie had used his money for such a worthy cause?

  It had been much easier to assume that she’d wasted it.

  Now, disarmed by the truth, Rafe knew he had to get a grip, had to throw a rope around the crazy roller coaster of emotions that had slugged him from the moment Charlie hurled herself into his embrace.

  These emotions were all wrong. So wrong. He’d struck a business deal with this girl, and a short term one at that. She was a conveniently purchased stopgap. Nothing more. He wasn’t supposed to feel aching tenderness, or a desperate need to help her, to take away her worries.

  The problem was—this girl had already become so much more than a lookalike body double that he could parade before Montaigne like a puppet. Charlie Morisset was brave and unselfish and warm-hearted and, when these qualities were combined with the natural physical attributes she shared with her beautiful sister, she became quite dangerous. An irresistible package.