A Royal Proposal. Barbara Hannay

had boarded the plane as well, but they disappeared into a section behind closed doors, leaving Rafe and Charlie in total privacy as they strapped themselves into stupendously luxurious white leather chairs. An excessively polite, young female flight attendant appeared, dressed demurely in powder blue and carrying a tray with glasses of champagne, complete with strawberries and a platter with cheese and grapes and nuts.

      Oh, my. Until now, Charlie had been too busy and preoccupied to give much thought to what being a prince’s fiancée involved, but it seemed this gig might be a ton of fun. Despite her worries about Isla and about all the unknowns that lay ahead of her, she should try to relax and enjoy it.

      * * *

      The flight was a breeze. First there was a scrumptious meal of roasted leek soup, followed by slow-cooked lamb and a tiny mousse made from white chocolate and cherries, and to drink there was wonderful French champagne.

      Charlie gave Rafe a blissful smile as she patted her lips with the napkin. ‘This is so delicious,’ she said, for perhaps the third or fourth time.

      He looked slightly bemused and she wondered if she’d gone a bit too far with her praise.

      Of course, she’d been out with guys who’d fed her beautiful meals before this, but it was still an experience she could never get tired of. At home, she’d done most of the cooking before her father’s marriage, and she now cooked for herself in the flat, but she’d never seemed to have time to learn more than the basics. Fancy gourmet food was a treat.

      After dinner, Rafe said he had business to attend to and was soon busy frowning at his laptop. Charlie, yawning and replete, changed into pyjamas and climbed into an incredibly comfortable bed.

      She expected to lie awake for ages mulling over the amazing and slightly scary turn her life had taken in one short day, but with a full tummy, an awesomely comfy bed, and the pleasant, deep, throbbing drone of the plane’s engines, she fell asleep quickly.

      * * *

      Rafe suppressed a sigh as he watched Charlie fall asleep with almost childlike speed. Was that the sleep of innocence? He hadn’t slept well for weeks—since the night of his father’s death. There always seemed to be too much to worry about. First his guilt and despair that he’d been so caught up in his good-time life that he’d missed any chance to bid his father farewell. And then the weighty realities of assuming his sudden new responsibilities.

      Now he scanned the emails he’d downloaded before boarding the plane, but there was still no good news about Olivia, or about the intelligence surveillance on Claude Pontier.

      Rafe was confident that it wouldn’t be long now, before they caught Pontier out. Montaigne’s Head of Police, Chief Dameron, was a wise, grey-haired fellow, approaching retirement, so he had a wealth of experience. He’d come up through the ranks, earning his promotions through hard work and diligence, but he’d also been trained by the FBI.

      Consequently, his combination of old-school police procedures with the latest technical surveillance savvy was invaluable. Rafe had every faith in him.

      Now Rafe looked again towards the bed where Charlie slept, curled on her side with golden curls tumbling on the pillow, and he was surprised by the tenderness he felt towards this girl who’d so readily stepped into her sister’s shoes. He wondered if their similarities were more than skin deep.

      He suspected that the two girls’ personalities were quite different, found himself hoping for this, in fact. And that made no sense at all.

      * * *

      When Charlie woke, the flight attendant was offering her a tray with orange juice and a pot of coffee.

      ‘We’ll be landing in Dubai in less than an hour,’ she was told.

      Really?

      A glance through the doorway showed Rafe, already up and dressed and sitting on one of the lounges, working on his computer again. Or perhaps he’d been working all night? Charlie downed her orange juice and hurried to her private bathroom to change out of her pyjamas and wash her face.

      She took her tray with the coffee through to the lounge.

      ‘Good morning.’ Once again, Rafe’s smile held a hint of amusement. ‘You slept well?’

      ‘Unbelievably well,’ Charlie agreed.

      She settled into a lounge and took a sip of coffee. ‘I didn’t realise we’d be landing in Dubai. I guess we need to refuel?’

      ‘It’s not a long stop,’ he said. ‘But yes, we need to refuel and my good friend, Sheikh Faysal Daood Taariq, wants to give us breakfast.’

      ‘Did you say a—a sheikh?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      Charlie stared at Rafe in dismay. The thought of breakfast with a sheikh was even more confronting than stepping onto a private jet with a prince. She took a deeper sip of her coffee, as if it might somehow clear her head. ‘Are you sure I should come to this breakfast?’

      ‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Rafe. ‘You’re my fiancée.’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ This demanded more coffee. ‘Yes, of course.’ Charlie’s hand shook ever so slightly as she refilled her cup from the silver pot. The deeper ramifications of becoming her sister Olivia were only just sinking in.

      This, now, was her reality check. When she stepped off this plane, she would no longer be Charlie Morisset.

      ‘You’ll like Faysal,’ Rafe told her with a reassuring smile. ‘I’ve known him for years. We met when we were both at Oxford.’

      ‘I—I see. And he’s a proper sheikh, but you just call him Faysal?’

      ‘Yes, and you can call him Faysal, too. He’s very relaxed and used to westerners.’

      ‘But will I need to wear a headscarf, or curtsy or anything?’

      Rafe grinned. ‘Not today. Not in his home.’

      ‘What about shaking hands? Is that OK?’

      ‘Offering your hand would be perfectly acceptable. You’ll find Faysal is a charming gentleman.’

      ‘Right.’ Charlie looked down at her hands and realised she should probably have painted her nails. She looked at her simple T-shirt and trousers. ‘I should probably change into something a bit dressier.’

      ‘Not at all. You’ll be fine, Charlie. Relax.’ Rafe closed his laptop and slipped it into an overhead locker. ‘It’s time to strap ourselves back into the seat belts for landing.’

      The flight attendant collected their coffee trays, and, once they were belted, she disappeared as the plane began its descent.

      In her seat beside Rafe, Charlie couldn’t resist asking more questions. ‘So, this Faysal—how many wives does he have?’

      This brought another chuckle. ‘None at all so far. He’s still enjoying the life of a bachelor.’

      ‘Right. So he’s a playboy?’

      ‘Of course,’ Rafe said with a knowing smile.

      And I suppose you were a playboy, too, before your father died.

      This sudden realisation bothered Charlie more than it should have. Why should she care about Rafe’s sex life? It was none of her business—although it did make her wonder again about why Olivia had run away from him.

      ‘And for your information, Faysal’s father only has four wives,’ Rafe said.

      ‘Oh?’ she replied airily. ‘Only four?’

      Rafe shrugged. ‘It’s a sign of the times. His grandfather had forty.’

      Good grief.

      * * *

      After only a very short time in Dubai, Charlie realised how truly ignorant she