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 little 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?’
‘Bad.’
Sickening dizziness swept over Charlie. ‘What can they do?’
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
‘Dad?’
‘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