A Royal Proposal. Barbara Hannay
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wool overcoat, with his black leather gloves clasped in one hand, watching Charlie with unexpected vigilance, almost as if she were a puzzling, troublesome child.
She was getting rather tired of trying to understand what this Prince really wanted of her. She was about to demand what his problem was when he spoke.
‘Charlie, can I ask a personal question?’ His manner was perfectly polite, but there was an intensity in his grey gaze that made her suddenly nervous.
In an attempt to cover this, she shrugged, rather like a teenager put on the spot by an inquisitive parent. ‘I guess. What do you want to know?’
‘Would you be prepared to explain why I’ve seen you on the verge of tears on at least three separate occasions now?’
Her cheeks flamed hotly. ‘Three times?’
‘Yes,’ said Rafe. ‘You’ve been upset twice on the phone when you were speaking to your father and then today at the hospital with that tiny baby in your arms.’
‘You’re—you’re very observant.’
‘Look, I don’t want to pry, Charlie,’ Rafe said more gently. ‘I’m fully aware that I dragged you away from your life in Sydney without really asking if it was convenient, but if something is causing you distress, perhaps I should know.’
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