Slow Dance with the Best Man

Charlie opened her mouth to protest when he cut her off with a raised hand.

‘And don’t try anything foolish, like trying to slip away again. My men will be watching you.’

His men?

What the hell...?

Truly appalled, Charlie pulled her handbag from under the desk, dumped it on the counter, and ferociously yanked the zipper. ‘Listen, mate, I’ll prove to you that I’m not this Olivia person.’ Pulling out her purse, she flipped it open to reveal her driver’s licence. ‘My name’s Charlotte Morisset. Like it or lump it.’

Her pulse was racketing at a giddy pace as he leaned forward to inspect the proffered licence. There was something very not right about this. He had the outward appearance of a highly successful man. Handsome and well groomed, with that shiny dark hair and flashing grey eyes, he might have been a male model or a film star, or even a barrister. A federal politician. Someone used to being in the spotlight.

It made no sense that he would confuse her—ordinary, everyday Charlie Morisset from the wrong end of Bankstown—with anyone from his circle.

Unless he was a high-class criminal. Perhaps he’d heard the recent ripples in the art world. Perhaps he knew that her father was on the brink of finally garnering attention for his work.

My men will be watching you.

Charlie snapped her purse shut, hoping he hadn’t had time to read her address and date of birth.

‘So you’ve changed your name, but not your date of birth,’ he said with just a hint of menace.

Charlie let out a huff—half sigh, half terror. ‘Listen, mister. I want you to leave. Now. If you don’t, I’m calling the police.’ She reached for the phone.

As she did so Grim Face slipped a hand into the breast pocket of his coat.

White-hot fear strafed through Charlie. He was getting out his gun. Her hands were shaking as she pressed triple zero. But it was probably too late. She was about to die.

Instead of producing a gun, however, he slapped a photograph down on the counter. ‘This is the girl I’m looking for.’ He eyed Charlie with the steely but watchful gaze of a detective ready to pounce. ‘Her name is Olivia Belaire.’

Once again, Charlie gasped.

It was the photo that shocked her this time. It was a head and shoulders photograph of herself.

There could be no doubt. That was her face. Those were her unruly blonde curls, her blue eyes, her too-wide mouth. Even the dimple in the girl’s right cheek was the same shape as hers.

Charlie heard a voice speaking from her phone, asking whether she wanted the police, the ambulance or the fire brigade.

‘Ah, no,’ she said quickly. ‘Sorry, I’m OK. It was a false alarm.’

As she disconnected, she stared at the photo. Every detail was exact, including the tilt of the girl’s smile. Except no, wait a minute, this dimple was in the girl’s left cheek.

Then again, Charlie supposed some cameras might reverse the image.

The girl, who looked exactly like her and was supposed to be Olivia Belaire, was even wearing a plain white T-shirt, just as Charlie was now, tucked into blue jeans. And there was a beach in the background, which could easily have been Sydney’s Bondi Beach. Charlie tried to remember what she’d been wearing the last time she’d been to Bondi.

‘Where’d you get this photo?’

For the first time, Grim Face almost smiled. ‘I took it with my own camera, as you know very well. At Saint-Tropez.’

Charlie rubbed at her forehead, wishing that any part of this made sense. She swallowed, staring hard at the photo. ‘Who is this girl? How do you know her?’

His jaw tightened with impatience. ‘It’s time to stop the games now, Olivia.’

‘I’m not—’ This was getting tedious. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked instead. ‘What’s this all about?’

Now it was his turn to sigh, to give a weary, resigned shake of his head and to run a frustrated hand through his thick dark hair, ruffling it rather attractively.

Charlie found herself watching with inappropriate interest.

‘My name’s Rafe.’ He sounded bored, as if he was repeating something she already knew. ‘Short for Rafael. Rafael St Romain.’

‘Sorry, that doesn’t ring a bell. It sounds—maybe—French?’

‘French is our national language,’ the man called Rafe acceded. ‘Although most of our citizens also speak English. I live in Montaigne.’

‘That cute little country in the Alps?’

He continued to look bored, as if he was sure she was playing with him. ‘Exactly.’

Charlie had heard about Montaigne, of course. It was very small and not especially important, as far as she could tell, but it was famous for skiing and—and for something else, something glamorous like jewellery.

She’d seen photos in magazines of celebrities, even royalty, holidaying there. ‘Well, that’s very interesting, Rafe, but it doesn’t—’

Charlie paused. Damn. She couldn’t afford to waste time with this distraction. She made a quick check around the gallery. The vagrant was still asleep in the window seat. The old ladies were having a good old chinwag. The other couple were also deep in discussion, still looking at her father’s paintings and studying the catalogue.

She needed to speak to them. She had a feeling they were on the verge of making a purchase and she couldn’t afford to let them slip away, to ‘think things over’.

‘I really don’t have time for this,’ she told Rafael St Romain.

Out of the corner of her eye, she was aware of the couple nodding together, as if they’d reached a decision. Ignoring his continuing grim expression, she skirted the counter and stepped out into the gallery, her soft-soled 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 l

ittle 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?’