A Royal Proposal. Barbara Hannay

his commanding manner that made Charlie almost forget to offer him her customary, sunny and welcoming smile.

      A serious mistake. The cut of this fellow’s charcoal-grey suit suggested that he actually had the means to purchase one of the gallery’s paintings.

      And, boy, Charlie needed to sell a painting. Fast. Her father, Michael Morisset, was the artist most represented on these gallery walls and his finances were in dire straits. Again. Always.

      Sadly, her charming and talented, but vague and impractical parent was hopeless with money. His finances had always been precarious, but until recently he and Charlie—actually, it had mostly been Charlie who’d struggled with this—had managed to make ends meet. Just. But now, her father had remarried and his new wife had produced a brand-new baby daughter, and his situation was even more desperate.

      Charlie was thinking of Isla, her new, too fragile and tiny half-sister, as she flashed the newcomer a bright smile and lifted a catalogue brochure from the pile on the counter.

      ‘Good morning,’ she said warmly.

      ‘Morning.’ His response was cool, without any hint of an answering smile. His icy grey eyes narrowed as he stopped and stood very still, staring at Charlie.

      She squeezed her facial muscles, forcing an even brighter smile as she held out a brochure. ‘First time at the gallery, sir?’

      Momentary surprise flashed in his eyes, but then he said, ‘Of course.’

      Charlie thought she caught the hint of an accent, and his gaze grew even chillier, which spoiled the handsome perfection of his cheekbones and jawline and thick, glossy dark hair.

      ‘How are you, Olivia?’ he asked.

      Huh?

      Charlie almost laughed. He looked so serious, but he was seriously deluded. ‘I’m sorry. My name’s not Olivia.’

      The newcomer shook his head. ‘Nice try.’ He smiled this time, but the smile held no warmth. ‘Don’t play games. I’ve come a long way to find you, as you very well know.’

      Now it was Charlie’s turn to stare, while her mind raced. Was this fellow a loony? Should she call Security?

      She glanced quickly around the gallery. A pair of elderly ladies were huddled at the far end of the large space, which had once been a warehouse. Their heads were together as they studied a Daphne Holden, a delicate water colour of a rose garden. The only other visitor, so far this morning, was the fellow in the chair by the window. He seemed to be asleep, most probably a homeless guy enjoying the air-conditioning.

      At least no one was paying any attention to this weird conversation.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Charlie said again. ‘You’re mistaken. My name is not Olivia. It’s Charlie.’

      His disbelief was instantly evident. In his eyes, in the curl of his lip.

      ‘Charlotte, to be totally accurate,’ she amended. ‘Charlotte Morisset.’ Again, she held out the catalogue. ‘Would you like to see the gallery? We have some very fine—’

      ‘No, I’m not interested in your paintings.’ The man was clearly losing his patience. ‘I haven’t come to see the artwork. I don’t know why you’re doing this, Olivia, but whatever your reasons, the very least you owe me is an explanation.’

      Charlie refused to apologise a second time. ‘I told you, I’m not—’ She stopped in mid-sentence. There was little to be gained by repeating her claim. She was tempted to reach for her handbag, to show this arrogant so and so her driver’s licence and to prove she wasn’t this Olivia chick. But she had no idea if she could trust this man. For all she knew, this could be some kind of trap. He could be trying to distract her while thieves crept in to steal the paintings.

      Or perhaps she’d been watching too much television?

      She was rather relieved when a middle-aged couple came into the gallery, all smiles. She always greeted gallery visitors warmly, and Grim Face had no choice but to wait his turn as she bestowed this couple with an extra-sunny smile and handed them each a catalogue.

      ‘We’re particularly interested in Michael Morisset,’ the man said.

      Wonderful! ‘We have an excellent collection of his paintings.’ Charlie tried not to sound too pleased and eager. ‘The Morrisets are mostly on this nearest wall.’ She waved towards the collection of her father’s bold, dramatic oils depicting so many facets of Sydney’s inner-city landscape. ‘You’ll find them all listed in the catalogue.’

      ‘And they’re all for sale?’ asked the woman.

      ‘Except for the few samples of his earliest work from the nineteen-eighties. It’s all explained in the catalogue, but if you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask me. That’s why I’m here.’

      ‘Wonderful. Thank you.’

      The couple continued to smile broadly and they looked rather excited as they moved away. Behind her back, Charlie crossed her fingers. Her father needed a big sale so badly.

      Unfortunately Grim Face was still hanging around, and now he leaned towards her. ‘You do an excellent Australian accent, but you can’t keep it up. I’ve found you now, Olivia, and I won’t be leaving until we have this sorted.’

      ‘There’s nothing to sort.’ Charlie felt a stirring of panic. ‘You’ve made a mistake and that’s all there is to it. I don’t even know anyone called Olivia.’ She sent a frantic glance to the couple studying her father’s paintings.

      After she’d given them enough time to have a good look, she would approach them with her gentle sales pitch. Today she had to be extra careful to hit the right note—she mustn’t be too cautious, or too pushy—and she really needed this guy out of her hair.

      She cut her gaze from his, as if their conversation was ended, and made a show of tidying the brochures before turning to her computer screen.

      ‘When do you get time off for lunch?’ he asked.

      Charlie stiffened. He was really annoying her. And worrying her. Was he some kind of stalker? And anyway, she didn’t take ‘time off for lunch’. She ate a sandwich and made a cup of tea in the tiny office off this reception area, but she wasn’t about to share that information with this jerk.

      ‘I’m afraid I’m here all day,’ she replied with an imperiousness that almost matched his.

      ‘Then I’ll see you at six when the gallery closes.’

      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