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      ‘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 gaze, Charlie flashed hot and cold. The man was ridiculously attractive. Under different circumstances she might have been quite helplessly smitten.

      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.

       CHAPTER TWO

      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

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