LITMIR.BIZ

       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.

      But somehow Rafe had to resist her appeal. He’d made his commitment. He’d chosen Olivia as his fiancée. They’d signed a contract, and even though she’d disappeared he was almost certain she was playing some kind of game with him and would turn up when it suited her.

      Meanwhile, Charlie was being predictably sensible. Already, she was pulling out of his arms and gallantly drying her eyes, and making an admirable effort to regain her composure.

      She gave him a wan smile and they drank their cooling coffee. Outside, the afternoon was turning to early twilight.

      Rafe stood and went to the window, looking out. ‘It’s not snowing. Perhaps we should go for a walk. All the lights are coming on, so it should be quite pleasant, and you still have a long time to wait.’

      He was sure a long walk in fresh air and a chill wind were what they both needed. Anything was safer than staying here on the sofa with Charlie. The temptations were huge, overwhelming, but only a jerk would take advantage of her when she was so distraught.

      ‘Won’t you be mobbed if you try to walk out on the streets?’ Charlie asked.

      ‘It’s not too bad at this time of the year. With an overcoat and a woolly cap and scarves, I can more or less stay incognito.’ He smiled at her. She should have looked pathetic, so wan and puffy-eyed from crying, but she brought out the most alarming protectiveness in him. He held out his hand to haul her to her feet. ‘Come on.’

      * * *

      Charlie had the good sense to recognise that Rafe’s suggestion of a walk was the right thing to do under the circumstances. Sitting here, feeling sick and scared, was not going to help anyone in Boston. She could change into jeans and a sweater, and she’d bought a warm hat, as well as a scarf and gloves, so she would be well protected against the cold.

      Besides, it was incredibly considerate of Rafe to put up with her weeping and to devote this entire day to her. The least she could do was accept his kind suggestion.

      Outside, the sky and the air were navy blue, on the very edge of night. Lamplight glowed golden, as did the lights from shops and houses, from the headlights of cars. Pulling their hats low and winding their scarves tighter, they set off together, with Charlie’s arm linked in the crook of Rafe’s elbow.

      Ahead stretched the long main street that led from the castle. On either side were pastel-coloured buildings from different eras, mostly now converted into shops, hotels and restaurants.

      ‘This section of the city is called Old Town,’ Rafe told her. ‘New Town starts on the far hillside, beyond that tall clock tower.’

      He seemed to enjoy playing tour guide, pointing out the significance of the clock tower and the statue of his great-great-grandfather in full military regalia, complete with medals. When they rounded the next corner and came across a small cobblestoned plaza with a charming statue of a young boy with a flock of goats, Rafe told her the story of the goatherd who was Montaigne’s national hero.

      ‘His name was Guido Durant,’ Rafe said. ‘He acted as a kind of unpaid sentry up in the high Alps. When the Austral-Hungarians were making their way through a narrow pass in winter, planning to invade our country, Guido dug at rocks and stones and managed to get a snow slide going. It turned into a full-blown avalanche and blocked their way. Then he ran through the night all the way to the castle to warn my great-great-grandfather.’

      ‘So he’s Montaigne’s version of William Tell?’ Charlie suggested.

      Rafe shot her a surprised smile. ‘You know about William Tell?’

      ‘Of course. My father used to love telling

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