Книга - The Prince’s Fake Fiancée

The Prince's Fake Fiancée
Leah Ashton


Playboy Prince Marko’s rebellious past hides a wealth of pain but he’s neglected his royal duties for too long.And now that his brother and country need him, he’ll do anything to prove he’s changed – starting with making Jasmine Gallagher his convenient fiancée!







His princess for keeps

Playboy Prince Marko’s rebellious past hides a wealth of pain, but he’s neglected his royal duties for too long. And now that his brother and country need him, he’ll do anything to prove he’s changed—starting with a fake fiancée!

Elite bodyguard Jasmine Gallagher was hired to protect the prince, not get swept into his glamorous world, but she can’t help falling for the man behind the crown. Marko’s found a way into Jas’s guarded heart, but will he claim her as more than just his convenient princess?


“You want to kiss me? Right here, in front of hundreds of people?”

He just smiled at her. And looked at her—right into those lovely hazel eyes.

He supposed, in theory, it was a ‘don’t stress about it’ type kiss. At least, that was his intention.

He was playing the role of the loving, supportive fiancé, after all.

But also—yes, he wanted to kiss her. If he was honest with himself, he’d wanted to kiss Jas ever since she’d told him off in that briefing.

She closed her eyes, and he watched as she took a deep breath.

When she opened them, she nodded. And then he kissed her.

Her lips were soft and fleetingly cool beneath his own. They were chastely closed, of course—but they shifted against the pressure of his mouth, as if she’d open her mouth for him if only he were to ask.

It was shockingly, unexpectedly sexy—a simple kiss that felt like a promise of so much more. It wasn’t just about the touch of their lips or the mingling of their breathing but of the subtle movement of their bodies, the way they leaned toward each other while still only joined by their laced fingers.

Marko was no longer aware of their audience, or of the ballroom, or even why he’d kissed her in the first place.

All that mattered was the way her mouth fit so perfectly against his.


The Prince’s Fake Fiancée

Leah Ashton






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


RITA® award-winning author LEAH ASHTON never expected to write books. She grew up reading everything she could lay her hands on—from pony books to the backs of cereal boxes at breakfast. One day she discovered the page-turning, happy-sigh-inducing world of romance novels...and one day, much later, wondered if maybe she could write one, too.

Leah now lives in Perth, Western Australia, and writes happily-ever-afters for heroines who definitely don’t need saving. She has a gorgeous husband, two amazing daughters and the best intentions to plan meals and maintain an effortlessly tidy home. When she’s not writing, Leah loves all-day breakfast, rambling conversations and laughing until she cries. She really hates cucumber. And scary movies. You can visit Leah at www.leah-ashton.com (http://www.leah-ashton.com) or Facebook.com/leahashtonauthor (https://Facebook.com/leahashtonauthor).


For my grandmother, Marica—who inspired this story.

Not just with her homeland of Vela Luka, but also with her sixty-five-year romance with Rafé, which was the kind of love that dreams—and romance novels—are made of.

Thank you for all your help with this book. Thank you also for your food, your garden and all your love.

Hvala, Nana.


Contents

Cover (#ue650f713-1b57-55b1-8e31-53315d650f6b)

Back Cover Text (#u96e1cbaa-e0de-5be8-a657-0c009a6ce3a4)

Introduction (#u0cc98955-c999-5fe2-88c9-976ad2e1b4ee)

Title Page (#u66436cff-9d07-5b09-94a7-6a1b669ef029)

About the Author (#ubd07ecd1-1957-5128-b7b7-9fc9378e3d14)

Dedication (#udfbe990c-5809-5649-8820-984a2f4ded3b)

Chapter One (#u1dbd5069-c1bc-5546-936e-4c3925a6007f)

Chapter Two (#u70567e3b-1d4f-5553-ae3a-12f972edb078)

Chapter Three (#udeb0940b-95a8-5124-b8a0-f497bc7f7c0b)

Chapter Four (#u72f4cc47-e451-596d-a067-d91a9a704482)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ua204b3db-8575-5de1-be8f-dc7369f7b720)

JASMINE GALLAGHER SAT in the back seat of a sleek, dark sedan, silently observing the passing countryside behind windows tinted almost black.

The road hugged the very edge of the island of Vela Ada, almost touching the perfect blue of the Adriatic Sea. It was late afternoon, and the ocean glittered beneath the glorious summer sun, the azure surface interrupted only by the occasional tall-masted boat with sails in blinding white.

Jasmine’s car was the third of three identical vehicles. Leading the small convoy were two of Jas’s team: Scott—who was ex–Special Forces—and Heather—who, like Jas, was ex-Australian National Police. Next in line was what was called the ‘principal’s’ car—the person that Gallagher Personal Protection Services had been tasked with protecting. In Jas’s career she had provided close personal protection services—what most people outside the industry would call a ‘bodyguard’—to a wide range of people: prime ministers, ambassadors, religious leaders, CEOs, celebrities—but this job was a first for her, and a first for her company.

From today—and for the next three months—she was looking after a prince.

Jasmine smiled. Royalty.

This was the opportunity of a lifetime for a girl who’d grown up in public housing on the outskirts of Canberra. And further confirmation that those naysayers who told her a woman couldn’t be the face of a protection services company were clueless.

Not that Jasmine had ever doubted herself.

The dense forest that faced the harbour thinned as the convoy approached the city. At a predetermined landmark—a distinctive cast-iron lamp just over a kilometre from the palace—Jas picked up her phone.

‘We’re approaching,’ she said.

As Jasmine ended the call the woman seated beside her shifted in her seat.

‘Can you quiz me again?’ she asked, her voice just slightly high-pitched. Jas met the gaze of their driver, Simon—a retired SAS Commando—in the rear-view mirror, and knew he was smiling. Felicity had been asking for help with her script and backstory ever since they’d picked her up from Dubrovnik airport, and then over the several hours it had taken to drive and then ferry to Vela Ada.

‘You’ve got this,’ Jasmine reassured her. ‘But we can run through it one more time if you like.’

Felicity nodded. ‘Thank you. I know I’m being ridiculous. I know, I know this, it’s just...’ she paused, pushing her long, perfectly curled blonde hair behind her ears ‘...this isn’t a normal acting job, is it? And Marko... I mean, you’ve met him, right? Prince Marko...? He’s pretty distracting.’

Jasmine laughed. ‘I can’t say I personally feel that way, but guess I can imagine why that would be.’

If you were the type to find tall, dark, broad-shouldered Mediterranean princes distracting. Which Jasmine was not. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by something as irrelevant as attractiveness in her job.

‘Oh, come on,’ Felicity said, narrowing her eyes. ‘You’re not that much older than me, and you’re not dead, so don’t pretend you haven’t noticed he’s totally hot. And that accent. Honestly, he could read a dictionary and make it sound sexy. Why don’t Aussie guys sound like that?’

She flopped back into her leather seat, and now Simon—also Australian—was quietly laughing as the car slowed to a crawl to navigate the narrow cobblestone streets of the city.

‘So, I met Marko in Rome six months ago, during a break, while he completed a secondment with the Italian Army and while I was on holiday. It was terrifically romantic...’

Jasmine nodded as Felicity spoke. Jasmine had, of course, been briefed on this rather unusual arrangement—although she didn’t know every detail that Felicity was running through now. But she wasn’t worried—Felicity was whip-smart, and very well prepared. Ivan—the Prince’s valet—had told her of Felicity’s exceptional improvisation skills as well, so she was clearly an excellent choice. Plus she certainly looked the part—even now, just slightly anxious, the blonde woman oozed class and polish.

The perfect princess. Or rather, princess-to-be.

‘And he took me on a picnic to propose—at the Pavlovic Estate.’ Felicity paused. ‘I mean, can you imagine if that actually happened? If Prince Marko actually proposed to me for real?’ She sighed, and closed her eyes as if imagining the moment herself. ‘Princess Felicity!’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, well, best enjoy it while it lasts. And do my best to make it believable that Europe’s most notorious playboy would actually settle down.’

‘You’ve got this,’ Jas repeated, but then added, more seriously, ‘But remember, your engagement might be fake, but no one else knows that. Your security is real. We don’t have any intel that suggests Prince Marko is under threat, but if he was—to any potential bad guys, you are his fiancée, and you will be a princess. So it’s important for your own safety that you follow my instructions tonight, and over the next few months. Okay?’

Felicity nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said.

Jas watched as Felicity straightened her shoulders and adjusted her expression. No longer did even a hint of the actress remain—she was every inch the mysterious fiancée who Marko would be introducing to Vela Ada at tonight’s ball.

The car slid to a stop at the security checkpoint at the palace gate.

Now in range, Jas activated her earpiece. ‘We’re here.’

* * *

Marko sank back into the linen fabric of his couch, and rubbed his temples.

He had a cracking headache, right on top of the fuzzy cloak of fatigue he’d been wearing all week.

Across from him, in separate plush single armchairs, sat his valet, and the head of his new security detail—Jasmine Gallagher. Beyond that pair was a massive window, framed with heavy brocade curtains and so sparkling clean as to appear invisible. Through that—if he looked—he could see the entire east side of the island—a stunning view but also rather useful when the palace had also played the role of military lookout several centuries ago. Built at the island’s highest point, Palace Vela Ada had three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the tiny island nation—of its single undulating city of red-roofed stone houses, of the tiny towns dotted amongst the vineyards and market gardens that spoke of its rich agricultural industry, and of the boats and yachts that bobbed in the ocean and brought in as many tourist dollars now as the fish.

But Marko wasn’t looking at the view, because he didn’t really want to be here at all.

He wanted to be back in Italy, he wanted to be the man who had just been promoted to Pukovnik—Lieutenant Colonel—and who had been thrilled at his progress in strengthening ties between the minuscule Vela Adian army and their allies in neighbouring Croatia and Italy. He also wanted to be the man who—much of the time—managed to ignore the reality of being a prince.

Sure, he was treated differently in the army—but it was subtle, now, after years of his adamant refusal to be coddled and protected or elevated to a rank he hadn’t earned. He’d earned the respect of his peers through hard work and later through tours of duty. He was Lieutenant Colonel Marko Pavlovic first; Prince Marko only really made an appearance at official royal events, and even that was rare, as his brother—King Lukas—seriously had that all in hand.

It was the greatest stroke of luck that Lukas had been born two years before Marko, rather than the other way around, as Lukas had been the perfect king-in-training since birth. He was everything a king should be, leading Vela Ada through the last few years of political unrest as the Vela Adian parliament had been rocked by scandal and corruption.

Now the dust had—almost—settled, but then Lukas had been diagnosed with cancer.

In the week since Lukas had called him, Marko had been in a fog. He was labelling it fatigue, but it was different from that, really. More a heavy weight of uncertainty and fear.

Lukas—and the royal doctor—had assured Marko and the royal family that Lukas’s form of cancer was highly treatable, and that his prospects of making a full recovery were extremely good. He’d also gone to great lengths to stress that Lukas’s cancer was unrelated to the cancer that had killed their father, the late King Josip.

But Marko couldn’t imagine life without his brother. They might be as different as night and day, but there was no one on this planet Marko respected more than Lukas. Nobody.

Marko couldn’t say for sure that was how Lukas felt about him—but that didn’t really matter. Especially not now.

‘I need you to step up for me, Marko,’ Lukas had said. ‘The island can’t cope with any more turmoil. My people need to feel safe, they need to trust our government and know that we—the heads of state—are in control and incorruptible. You need to be—for once in your life—respectful of your position. Respectful of your responsibilities. You can’t run away any longer.’

Marko had bristled—despite his concern for Lukas he was unable to leave that comment unchallenged. ‘No one would ever dare question my commitment to our military,’ he’d said, his tone hard-edged.

‘Your commitment to training all over the world, you mean?’ Lukas had said. ‘Italy, Australia, the US, France...’

His brother had sighed.

‘Look, I’m incredibly proud of what you’ve achieved in your career, and what you’ve done for our defence alliances—but would it have killed you to spend a bit more time in Vela Ada? To actually be visible to your people? To support them in a way that is tangible to them? Especially over the past few years? Instead, all they see of you is photos in glossy magazines. What was the last article on you? Something about top ten royals in their swimwear... I mean, well done on being number one and all...’ Lukas’s tone had been desert dry ‘...but honestly—you were with a different woman in every single photo. How do you think that looks to our people?’

‘It’s none of their business,’ Marko said firmly.

‘That’s the point,’ Lukas had said—for the first time sounding as tired and unwell as he really was. ‘You’re a prince. Their Prince. It is their business that you’d rather spend your time anywhere but here and with a different woman every week.’

The phone had been silent for long moments.

‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’ said Lukas. ‘I know you’re capable of caretaking my role, but perception is the problem. If people don’t believe in you, they won’t feel safe. And I can’t have that. We’ve worked too hard to prosecute Senator Božić and his allies and rid Vela Ada of this scourge. Look, I know the label’s not entirely accurate, but will they believe in the Playboy Prince? Maybe I can still be active, in between treatments. Try and downplay my illness, and don’t mention it’s cancer...’

His brother was talking faster and faster.

‘Stop,’ Marko said. ‘I’m not the Playboy Prince. Not any more.’ He’d paused, trying to work out what he could say to reassure his brother. He hated hearing his usually impeccably calm and measured brother so anxious. He also hated—as he’d always hated—the way his personal life was even relevant to Vela Adians—and that his brother bought into it too. Surely his years of military service outweighed a selection of photos of him with bikini-clad women? But this wasn’t the time for that argument. ‘I’m engaged,’ he blurted out the moment the idea even partially formed in his brain. ‘I wanted to tell you in person. So you needn’t worry. The Playboy Prince is no more.’

‘Really?’ Lukas had been stunned. ‘That’s perfect. I mean—congratulations!’

‘Thank you,’ Marko had said, his lips quirking upwards.

‘Who is she? I didn’t know you were dating anyone.’

Because, of course, he hadn’t been. Marko searched his mind and the room for some titbit about this mystery woman he could share with his brother. On the wall of the small hotel room was an aged map of the world, and his gaze fell to the right-hand corner. ‘She’s Australian,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘I met her six months ago. How about she comes with me to Vela Ada, next week, so you can meet her?’

‘Yes—’ Lukas had said, sounding like himself again. ‘I’ll announce my illness this week and then have a ball a few days later to reassure everyone I’m not about to keel over, and to reposition you as a stable, responsible, engaged caretaker head of state. I like it.’

‘A ball, Lukas? That’s really not my thing—’

‘It is for the next three months, Marko. You’d better get used to it.’

Marko’s gaze slid from the view to the people before him. Ivan sat neatly in his ever-present pinstriped suit, listening intently and studiously taking notes. Beside him, Jasmine—also in a suit—was talking of safe rooms, escape routes and tonight’s schedule.

‘Your Highness,’ she said, her tone suddenly steelier. ‘This is important. I appreciate that Ivan will probably brief you again later, but for your safety—and for the safety of my team and everyone in the palace—you need to pay attention.’

Now his gaze sharpened. Before he’d simply been aware that a woman in a jet-black pantsuit sat across from him, but she was right—he hadn’t been paying attention. He hadn’t even really looked at her. This week had been such a blur of bad news, upturning his life and coordinating his impulsive ‘fiancée’ lie, that he’d simply approved the appointment of Gallagher Personal Protection Services based on the recommendation of Palace Security and thought little more about the woman who headed the company.

Now he properly considered her.

She was quite tall—obvious even when seated thanks to her long, crossed legs and the fact that her shoulders sat almost level with Ivan’s. Her hair was dark, and tied back sleekly from her pale skin, with not one stray strand obscuring the curved line of her cheeks and straight edge of her jaw. Right now, that jaw was firm as she studied him with intense brown eyes.

No, hazel eyes, he corrected as he continued to just look at her, and as the sun that streamed through the window highlighted the flecks of gold in her gaze.

She had great eyes, he realised—large and framed with thick lashes and neat eyebrows as black as her hair. And sharp—as if she missed nothing.

Which would come handy in her job, he supposed.

She hadn’t missed his perusal. He felt her intent gaze as his continued to track its way down her narrow, ski-slope-shaped nose—with the slightest upturned tip. It was a nose that probably veered closer towards large than small—and it sat above lips that were neither large nor small. Pink though, and glossy.

Her chin—like her jaw—was firm. A stubborn chin, most likely—but again, this was probably a trait useful in her profession.

Overall, he’d say she was pretty. Certainly pretty enough that in any other week of his life he would’ve noticed that fact immediately. But he barely remembered what his fake fiancée looked like, and he’d met with her via video conference and face to face nearly a dozen times this week.

His gaze slid back up to hers. Actually, her eyes were definitely more than pretty...beautiful, really—

‘Your Highness, may I assume that you also spend this much time documenting the appearance of your male security personnel?’

Marko blinked. Jasmine’s eyes were hard.

‘My apologies—’ he began.

‘My gender is irrelevant, Your Highness. And I have certainly not been employed for you to look at.’

‘No—of course not—’

Marko couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so flustered. He’d say most people who knew him would assume he never was.

‘But if we can agree that I’m not to be either ignored, or ogled, from now on, I think we can continue with my briefing.’

Marko nodded, not just a little ashamed of his behaviour. She was absolutely right—he’d had a terrible week, but it didn’t excuse what he’d just done.

What was wrong with him?

He needed to pull himself together. He needed to commit to this—to this stupid plan of his—with everything he had.

He needed to do this for Lukas.

And for Vela Ada.

‘I sincerely apologise, Ms Gallagher,’ Marko said, again meeting her gaze squarely. ‘I assure you it won’t happen again.’

She raised an eyebrow, but then she nodded. A neat, controlled movement—like all her movements, he suspected.

He didn’t like that she clearly didn’t believe him. Did Jasmine think he was the Playboy Prince, too? That he was some frivolous, useless heartbreaker who’d abandoned his country and left his brother to deal with all that royalty bother while he flitted around the world enjoying himself?

Probably.

And he wouldn’t be able to talk her around, especially after that rather woeful first impression.

He didn’t bother to analyse why it mattered what the head of his protection team thought of him—he knew, instinctively, it wouldn’t make any difference to the quality of service that Jasmine would provide.

But it did matter.

Maybe because he genuinely wasn’t the man who—as Jasmine had said—ogled his employees. Or maybe it was because if he wanted all of Vela Ada to respect him, he needed to start with the people standing around him.

Or maybe it was just because Jasmine Gallagher had remarkable golden eyes.


Chapter Two (#ua204b3db-8575-5de1-be8f-dc7369f7b720)

AFTER THE BRIEFING, Jasmine excused herself to escape to her room.

She nodded at Simon in the hallway, stationed outside Felicity’s suite, but didn’t meet his gaze. The blush she’d somehow suppressed throughout Marko’s...assessment? Inventory? She didn’t know how to describe it, but her blush was working its way up her neck at a rate of knots. She needed to get to her room before anyone noticed.

Because Jas Gallagher did not blush.

Fortunately, her room was adjacent to Felicity’s, and so only a few doors down from Prince Marko’s. Safe inside, she flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. At the ornately painted ceiling rose and small glittering chandelier, to be specific, because her room was as sumptuous as the Prince’s suite. Just significantly smaller.

Although—in the Pavlovic Palace—small was certainly relative. It was actually about the size of her two-bedroom flat back in Canberra.

Jas squeezed her eyes shut.

Palace. Royalty, she reminded herself.

This job was important. Significant, even. It was highly unusual for an external company to provide personal protection services to immediate members of any royal family. Usually such services for dignitaries would be provided by a country’s government—either the royal’s own government, or, if visiting another nation, by that nation’s own police. When she’d been with the Australian National Police she’d often worked on the shoulder of ambassadors, presidents and prime ministers—simply because laws in Australia prevented visiting protection teams from carrying firearms.

This opportunity—possible only because of the lack of suitably qualified Vela Adian protection personnel, and the expediency that protection services were required—was as rare as it got.

So biting off the head of said actual royal was probably not advisable.

Although obviously she was always going to say something. She would never let a client ignore her like that—and then stare at her like that—without comment. It wasn’t acceptable behaviour. Personal protection didn’t work without respect—of her, of her team, of her directions. It was non-negotiable.

But still—had she had to draw attention to the fact she was a woman? It was something she—as she’d told the Prince—considered irrelevant. And hence, it was not a topic she ever engaged in.

Despite contrary advice, she’d always been very visible as the head of her company. There were no surprises to anyone who hired Gallagher Personal Protection Services that the person in charge was a woman. It was a self-selecting strategy—if someone was too closed minded to realise that Gallagher was awesome at what it did, just because she didn’t have broad shoulders and a... Well, then that was definitely their issue. Not hers.

She wasn’t about to defend or justify or do anything else to explain herself, because of course to tell anyone that being female wasn’t an issue because of x, y and z implied that she entertained their concerns. And she did not.

Actions spoke louder than words. She’d learnt that the hard way after—

Jas dug her fingernails into her palms. No. It had been months since she’d thought about what had happened, and she wasn’t about to start now. What mattered now was she hated that she’d brought up her gender to the Prince. Why would she do that?

Because he’d made her feel so female...

Ugh.

What was it about Prince Marko? Despite what she’d told Felicity, she had noticed how unbelievably gorgeous he was the few brief times they’d met. Because he was gorgeous in person in a way that was surprising, and almost overwhelming, despite her being familiar with his looks because...well, if you’d ever picked up a women’s magazine, anywhere in the world, you’d heard of the Playboy Prince.

In person, his looks were just more intense: he was taller, broader, and his blue eyes more piercing than she ever could’ve imagined.

And despite looking like a man who’d received upsetting news about his brother—with the olive skin of his jaw dusted with stubble, his eyes tinged red, and the occasional grey hair in his army buzz-cut dark hair—such dishevelment just made him even more appealing to her: raw, and real.

And for some reason that real prince—after barely glancing at her for almost the entirety of their business arrangement—had decided to stare at her today.

And if she’d thought his looks intense before—being on the receiving end of his concentrated attention was something else entirely.

The instant he’d really looked at her, her blood had run hot and her belly had heated. She’d sat perfectly still as his eyes had travelled across her face—and she was certain she’d briefly stopped breathing as he’d caught her gaze. As she’d begun to feel herself get lost within it...

But then he’d moved on: his gaze like a touch along her nose, her bare lips, and her skin that seemed so pale amongst Mediterranean complexions.

How long had he stared at her?

It had felt like an age—but maybe it was no time at all?

Maybe—and, God, she cringed at her choice of words now—it hadn’t been an ogle at all?

It would make more sense if it hadn’t been, really. She knew she wasn’t unattractive, but she was no Felicity. Her nose was a little too big, her hair nondescript and her figure was more athletic than voluptuous.

But she didn’t really believe that. He might not have planned to do it—but she knew when a man was checking her out.

Jas’s eyes snapped open, and she studied the way the setting sun reflected off the crystal beads of the chandelier above her.

Not that it mattered if Marko had checked her out.

What mattered was that she’d spoken without thinking first. She could’ve made her point in a myriad other ways without drawing attention to the two things she wanted Prince Marko to forget about completely: that she was a woman, and that he’d been appreciating that fact.

A sharp knock on her door snapped Jas out of her self-recrimination.

She sat up, and straightened her shoulders.

She was being ridiculous. What was done was done.

From now on, she would simply revert to being as impeccably professional as she always—usually—was.

Besides, she seriously doubted that the Prince was likely to check her out again—today was surely a blip?—which would make things easier.

Another insistent knock on her door, and Jas was on her feet. A moment later, she opened the door. It was Simon, and Jas blinked, surprised. It was several hours before they would be accompanying Marko and Felicity to the ball.

Simon spoke in a low, urgent tone. ‘We have a problem.’

* * *

Felicity sat curled up in a brocade wingback chair beside her room’s windows—but she’d closed the heavy curtains and blocked the setting sun. The room was lit only by a single bedside lamp, its glow revealing Felicity’s evening gown, laid across the bed in a cascade of emerald silk.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Felicity said brokenly, and Jas ran to her side, dropping to her knees beside the chair.

‘Don’t be,’ she said, gripping the other woman’s hand. ‘Of course you need to go home.’

Felicity had just received news that her mother and father had been hospitalised with serious injuries following a terrible car accident. Fortunately neither parent was in a critical condition, but there was no question that Felicity needed to be back in Australia to support her family right now—and not in Vela Ada.

‘What is Marko going to do, though? He needs a fiancée. I feel terrible, I—’

‘Don’t stress about it. You just worry about getting home. Can I help pack your things for you?’

Felicity nodded as Jas got back to her feet.

‘I’m sure the Prince will sort something out—’ Jas began.

‘I certainly will,’ a deep voice said from behind her. Jas turned to see Ivan and Marko framed in the doorway.

‘Your car is ready to take you to the airport,’ he said as he approached Felicity. He also dropped to his haunches so he was at Felicity’s level. ‘I’m sincerely sorry to hear about your parents’ accident. I’ll make sure you get home as quickly as possible.’

He stood, and offered his hand to help Felicity up. The blonde woman took it gratefully, and then headed for the door.

‘My things—’ she began.

‘I’ve got it under control,’ Jas reassured her. ‘I’ll get it all sorted and send it down to the car.’

And then Felicity—and Ivan—were gone.

Somehow, Jas had ended up alone in a room with Prince Marko.

She sent him a tight smile, assuming he’d leave in a moment, and busied herself with locating Felicity’s suitcase.

She jumped when he spoke just as she opened one of the built-in cupboards. It seemed he hadn’t, in fact, gone anywhere.

‘This is not ideal.’

Jas couldn’t help but grin at that understatement. She knew exactly how much planning had gone into tonight.

‘I assumed you would just announce that your fiancée had a family emergency,’ Jas said. It was, after all, the only option he had.

Suitcase found, Jas grabbed it and turned—to find the Prince sitting on the edge of Felicity’s expansive bed.

The image of Prince Marko in—well, on—a bed had her momentarily transfixed.

It was the most innocent of poses—he literally just sat on it, fully clothed in suit trousers, and a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck.

He wasn’t even looking at Jas, his attention, instead, on the dress that lay beside him. The fingers of one hand were absently twisting a fold of the delicate fabric.

And yet being alone in a room with the only man she could remember ever having...unsettled her—distracted her—the way he had just by looking at her was disconcerting.

Despite her personal pep talk only minutes ago, Jas certainly felt less than purely professional right now. She was spending far too long admiring how the breadth of his shoulders was emphasised by the cut of his shirt, and how its slim fit and the musculature it skimmed reminded Jas of his military day job. Again, she had the sense of something raw and hard in Prince Marko, a world away from the perfect Playboy Prince that she had imagined.

‘That won’t work,’ the Prince said, now looking at Jasmine.

The intensity of his gaze—or maybe that was just how he looked at everybody—once again knocked Jas off balance. She looked down, reminding herself of the empty suitcase in her hands, which she was gripping so hard her knuckles had turned white.

‘Oh?’ Jasmine said, not really following—instead refocusing her attention on her task. She needed to get this bag packed for Felicity, not worry about princes and beds.

‘No,’ said Marko, ‘I need a tangible princess-to-be, someone for the people of Vela Ada to fall in love with. Unfortunately I don’t have what my brother has, that innate—’

‘Kingliness?’ Jas prompted as she skirted the end of the bed to lay the suitcase beside the evening gown, and as far from Marko as she could manage. She had considered laying it on one of the couches, or on the floor, instead—before she’d told herself she was again being ridiculous.

Marko laughed out loud, the sound deep and rich and filling the room.

Jas’s head jerked upwards as she only belatedly realised what she’d actually said. What was it about this man that made her speak before she thought? ‘Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, that was a stupid thing for me to say—’

But he shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s perfect. It’s exactly why I’m doing this. Vela Ada needs a king right now—but as Lukas isn’t available, it’s on me. But I’m not—how did you put it?—kingly enough and I know it. Put me in a war zone and I know what I’m doing. Put me in front of the population of Vela Ada...and I hate it. I hate the scrutiny of my personal life. I hate how carefully every word and sentence needs to be constructed. I hate balls and cutting ribbons at the opening of things and having to always be gracious and polite and shake everybody’s hand...and everyone knows it.’ Marko rubbed his temples, his gaze again on the fabric of the dress. ‘No one’s going to believe I suddenly have all this kingliness in me, unless they believe I’ve actually changed. That I’m no longer the Playboy Prince.’

And that was why he needed an actual, real-life, in-person fiancée.

She got that now. But...

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked, confused. Her hands had stilled on the zip of the suitcase, packing once again forgotten.

He didn’t know her. Why would he reveal so much personal stuff to the head of his security detail? She and her team had only known enough of Marko’s plan to allow them to protect the Prince and Felicity effectively. Nothing more.

She watched as Marko pushed himself to his feet and then carefully lifted the emerald dress so that it hung from his fingertips before him. It was a stunning dress, with delicate cap sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and a slim gold belt at the waist. Beneath that, it fell in a full skirt to the floor, in waves of heavy, shimmering fabric.

A crazy possibility—the craziest possibility—tickled at the edge of Jas’s subconscious.

‘Do you think this would fit you?’ Prince Marko asked.

* * *

‘Pardon me?’

Jasmine’s eyes were wide in the shadowy lamplight.

But there was no need for Marko to spell it out—he knew Jasmine understood what he’d meant.

‘It’s the obvious solution,’ he said. It had been obvious to him the moment he’d walked into Felicity’s room and seen Jasmine there. ‘I need a fiancée tonight and no offence to Ivan, but you’re the only one who knows about any of this who will look good in this dress.’

He gave the dress a little shake for emphasis.

‘I’m not an actress, Your Highness,’ Jasmine said carefully, her shocked expression now completely erased. Instead she looked very calm, as if she intended to talk him out of this using common sense.

Of course, this whole idea was nonsensical right from the beginning—Marko knew that. But his impulsiveness was only equalled by his stubbornness—and his commitment to supporting his brother through his illness.

‘That doesn’t matter,’ Marko said patiently. ‘You’ll be expected to be a little nervous at your first public event—it will be endearing. And, please, call me Marko.’

Jasmine shook her head, ignoring him. ‘Haven’t you shown a photo of Felicity to your brother? Told people she’s blonde? And even today—we arrived in daylight and I’m sure a few palace staff would’ve seen her?’

Marko shrugged. ‘She was my guest. Or your guest, even—easily explained. And fortunately I’ve told my brother very little. I don’t like lying to him.’

Jasmine raised her eyebrows at that contradiction, but Marko wasn’t about to explain. It was true though, he had told Lukas very little—partly for the reason he’d told Jasmine, but also because the week had been such a blur. Ivan had become responsible for the details.

‘This is ridiculous. I’m a bodyguard, not a princess. No one’s going to believe it.’

‘Of course they will,’ Marko said firmly. ‘If I introduce you as my fiancée, then you’re my fiancée.’

Jasmine was looking down again, fiddling restlessly with the zip of the suitcase. ‘But,’ she said. And now she met his gaze, back to the no-nonsense Jasmine he was already familiar with. ‘Let’s face it, I don’t look anything like one of your girlfriends.’

‘I’m not having a discussion about the appearance of the women you, or anyone else, thinks I date, Jasmine.’ He knew there was an edge to his tone, but it was unavoidable. ‘All I will say is that I enjoy the company of many types of women. I can see nothing unbelievable about me dating you.’

He was surprised to see Jasmine’s lips quirk upwards. ‘Many types...’ she repeated.

Marko narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, many,’ he agreed. ‘I like the company of women. I’m not going to apologise for it.’

Not nearly as many women as Jasmine, or everyone else, seemed to think. But he wasn’t about to explain himself to her.

He could see Jasmine thinking. ‘Why not make up a reason why your fiancée is absent tonight, and then find a new actress? You found Felicity quickly. I’m sure you can do it again.’

Marko shook his head. ‘No. Tonight is important. Vela Ada just found out their King is seriously ill. Tonight is the night they need to meet my new fiancée.’

Jasmine chewed her lip, and he knew she was scrambling for a reason to get out of this. ‘And this fiancée would be me. Jasmine Gallagher, right? No fake name?’

Marko nodded. The press would be onto this—as with Felicity, it would’ve been too high risk to create a false identity, with the consequences of being found out catastrophic. So, it was the relationship that was fake, nothing more.

‘So—assuming everyone does believe that I am princess material, it’ll mean that my friends and family will think I’ve been hiding this from them for six months.’

‘You can say it was at my request,’ he said. ‘They’ll understand.’

‘But that would be a lie,’ Jasmine said. ‘I would be lying, not only to everyone in Vela Ada, but to everyone I know.’

‘Yes,’ Marko agreed. ‘Unfortunately that would be the case.’

Jasmine gave a little huff of frustration. ‘That’s not a small thing.’

‘It’s not,’ he acknowledged. ‘But for me, for the King, and for Vela Ada, the benefits far outweigh a small untruth.’

Jasmine raised an eyebrow. ‘And for me?’

‘You get to be a princess for a while?’ he said, a little hopefully.

‘Try again,’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘I’ll triple the fee I’m paying you for protection services.’

He watched as her mouth dropped open.

But quick as a flash her lips were arranged in a straight line again. ‘I’d argue that doing this could be detrimental to my business.’

‘Yet you’ve been seeing me for six months with no impact on the quality of services you provide.’

Again, Jasmine raised an eyebrow. ‘Ha-ha,’ she said, as flat as a pancake.

‘I have contacts,’ Marko said—more seriously now. ‘Through the military, and through diplomatic relationships. I promise you that your company will have more work at the end of this, not less.’

She nodded. ‘But what about me, personally? I love what I do, not just managing my company. Who will want a princess as their bodyguard?’

‘Well,’ he said practically, ‘in three months’ time, you won’t be a princess. And three months after that, everyone would’ve forgotten who you are.’

‘Ouch,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘It’s true. And to help that along, I’ll make sure to date someone famous on the rebound. Draw the attention away from you.’

Her expression was sceptical. ‘So you’ll enter into another fake relationship after this one?’

Marko grinned. ‘No. I’ll just ask a good friend of mine who I date occasionally if she’d mind being photographed with me. She has a film out later this year, so I’m sure she won’t mind. It’s never been her that’s been concerned about discretion.’

‘You casually date a movie star?’ But she held up her hand before he could respond. ‘No, wait. Of course you do. You’re a prince. Royalty. Celebrities. They go together. Can’t you see that I don’t fit into your world?’

‘Right now, all that I really care about is if you’ll fit into this dress.’

Jasmine’s gaze dropped to the dress he still held.

Long moments passed as he watched Jasmine make her decision—and for the first time he seriously considered what he’d do if she said no.

And honestly, why wouldn’t she say no? All of her concerns were valid, except, of course, her belief that a relationship between them was unbelievable.

He’d thought her pretty before, during the briefing. He found her even more attractive now—in the soft, warm lamplight. She was right—she probably wasn’t exactly his type, in that she was more quietly pretty. Not like Felicity, who everyone noticed the moment she stepped into a room. But Jasmine...he liked how she looked at him so directly, and he really liked how she’d challenged him during the briefing, and how she’d questioned him now. She treated him like an equal—exactly as she should, but how so very few people did. It was, again, one of the many things about his royal title that sat so uncomfortably on his shoulders. He wasn’t special simply due to the fortune of his birth. He didn’t ask, or expect, to be treated differently from anybody else.

‘Yes,’ Jasmine said, suddenly. ‘I’ll do it.’

Marko’s gaze caught hers as he exhaled in relief. ‘Hvala...thank you,’ he said. ‘You have no idea how much this means to me.’

She smiled, and he saw understanding in those lovely hazel eyes. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I think I do.’


Chapter Three (#ua204b3db-8575-5de1-be8f-dc7369f7b720)

THE DRESS DIDN’T FIT.

Well, more accurately, it didn’t fit yet.

Jas sat on the closed lid of the toilet within her—literally—palatial bathroom, having quickly moved her belongings from her previous smaller room into Felicity’s suite.

On her lap was the dress, and in her hands—her nail scissors.

It was sacrilege, really, to be hacking away at the lining of a clearly obscenely expensive dress, but she had no other option. Two stylists—for her hair and make-up—were arriving any minute, so she needed to make this dress fit now.

It did occur to her that palaces probably had things like royal tailors, or assistants who could dash into the town to buy her more event-appropriate underwear (she wore a well-worn nude strapless bra that was usually beneath nothing more glamorous than a vest top and a pair of cotton knickers printed with purple violets) but she hadn’t thought to ask the Prince—no, Marko—about them before he’d left the suite looking all relieved and gorgeous.

And so she carefully cut through the figure-hugging dark emerald lining that had been designed to fit a figure with far slimmer hips than hers.

Lining removed, she tried the dress on again.

This time—it made it over her hips. The waist, thank God, fitted perfectly, and the bodice...well...nothing that a few tissues shoved inside her bra wouldn’t fix.

Jas straightened her shoulders as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror. It was, honestly, the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn. Its skirt—thankfully made up of enough layers that the lack of lining seemed to make no difference—made lovely swishing sounds as she moved, the silk unbelievably luxurious against her skin. And the gold—and she was pretty sure it was actually gold—belt glittered underneath the bathroom lights.

She nodded at herself in the mirror. Done. Now, shoes.

She gathered up the heavy fabric of the skirt and headed into the bedroom. On the bureau near the door was a white box labelled with a high-end shoe brand, and inside was a stunning pair of gold heels—that she immediately realised were a size too small.

Why hadn’t she checked earlier?

Maybe because she didn’t know what the hell she was doing?

Jas met her own gaze in the mirror above the spindly table.

What have I got myself into?

There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by Simon’s voice—as he was now, ridiculously, her bodyguard. ‘Hair and make-up are here,’ he said.

‘Just a minute!’ she said.

Then she scanned the room, wondering if maybe palaces were like hotels—and there would be a phone line directly through to a concierge who could go find her some shoes.

Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t.

Again, she met her gaze in the mirror, and again, she straightened her shoulders.

She took a deep breath.

She’d agreed to do this. She’d agreed to do this because she was about to earn her company’s entire income from last year in three months—and...because her myriad concerns with saying yes hadn’t seemed so compelling when contrasted with the desperation in Prince Marko’s gaze.

It hadn’t been overt, but she’d seen it. Flashing in and out so briefly before he’d gathered himself again.

Desperation...and also...vulnerability. A vulnerability she’d somehow known he’d hated to reveal. But then—he didn’t want to be doing any of this, did he? He didn’t want to be desperately asking a total stranger to help him, because he’d much rather his brother was healthy and he didn’t have to worry about royal balls and acting kingly. Prince Marko wasn’t doing this for himself.

He was asking her to do this crazy, ridiculous thing for his brother, and for Vela Ada.

That was why he’d needed her to say yes.

And in the end that was what it had come down to.

Because he’d needed her, she’d said yes. A man she barely knew.

It was nuts. Completely out of character for her to be so impulsive.

And yet she’d done it.

For the next three months, she was Prince Marko of Vela Ada’s fiancée.

It might not entirely make sense to her—but she was committed now.

And as such—she was committed to sorting out a pair of sparkly shoes.

She opened the door. Outside stood two very stylish-looking women, and Simon.

‘Simon, can you please notify Ivan that I require a pair of gold heels in size nine, with a three-inch heel?’

To Simon’s credit, he nodded as if this were a perfectly normal request from his boss.

Then she turned to the stylists. ‘Ladies, I’ll just change into a robe and be right with you.’

‘No problem,’ said the older lady, with an American accent, ‘Your High—’ She paused, then blushed. ‘Oh! That probably isn’t right yet, is it? What should we call you?’

‘Just Jas, is fine,’ said Jasmine. ‘I’m certainly not royalty.’

‘Not yet,’ said the woman with a grin.

Your Highness.

Oh, wow. Oh, God.

What had she done?

* * *

Marko gripped the carved balustrade tightly, his gaze aimed unseeing at the stairs that would lead him to the ballroom two floors below him. He rocked slightly on his heels on the plush carpet, only peripherally aware of the muffled sounds of the string quartet warming up in the distance.

This was both the best, and worst, idea he’d ever had.

As a method to calm his brother during a very stressful time, inventing a fake fiancée was genius. But in every other way it was far from brilliant.

His plan had felt complicated enough when he’d had a trained actress on board. Now...

Now it felt messy.

Now he’d somehow talked Jasmine Gallagher into something he knew she couldn’t possibly comprehend. Yes, she’d alluded to the fact she’d be lying to her family, and yes, she was concerned for her business—but she had no idea what it actually meant to be under public scrutiny every moment of the day.

It was life in a fish bowl: a life that he had determinedly escaped. And now Marko had led another woman straight into it, and a woman who—unlike Felicity—didn’t welcome the opportunity for a higher profile.

And so he felt bad about that.

But not bad enough to call it off.

Inside his tuxedo jacket, he had a contract for Jasmine that would minimise some of the messiness of the situation with clear expectations and details of his generous remuneration. It was, after all, just a business arrangement. An unusual one, but nothing more—

‘Marko?’

He turned at Jasmine’s voice, soft—but clear—across the empty landing.

He opened his mouth to say something—but instantly forgot what.

She looked...stunning.

Suddenly, his previous assessments of Jasmine as pretty, or attractive, seemed embarrassingly inadequate.

As did his inability to even notice her until today. He must have been temporarily blind—or his libido temporarily in hibernation—for Marko to have been so oblivious of Jasmine Gallagher.

He swallowed as she shifted her weight, still a good five metres or so away from him—a wide expanse of carpet between them.

The dress was gorgeous. He’d known that—had been involved tangentially in selecting it if you could count Ivan asking him to approve the designer Felicity had chosen—but on Jasmine it was something else. Her skin—so pale—contrasted against the deep emerald fabric, and her hair—so dark—rolled into a lush smooth arrangement at her nape was a sharp contrast to the severely scraped-back ponytail she’d sported earlier today. Her eyes—still lovely—seemed even larger, and her lips—in ruby red—were lush and glossy.

He watched as she shuffled on the spot again, and then deliberately straightened her shoulders. ‘Please say something,’ she said, catching his gaze with a piercing look. ‘Do I look okay? I feel like the biggest fraud.’

Marko covered the distance between them in a moment, and now he stood close enough that she needed to tilt her chin upwards.

‘Lijep,’ he said. ‘Tako lijepo.’

Jasmine swallowed. ‘Pardon me?’ she asked.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, having not even realised he hadn’t been speaking English. ‘So beautiful.’

‘Oh!’ she said, looking mildly stunned. ‘Thank you. That’s a very nice thing to say.’

‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘You look like a princess.’

She grinned. ‘I suppose that’s the idea,’ she said. ‘You look very much like a prince, yourself.’

Her gaze flicked over his tuxedo—the crisp white shirt, the black bow tie, the white pocket square.

‘No crown?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling.

‘No,’ he said, firmly. His brother had worn one at his coronation, but Marko never had. But he then surprised himself by adding, ‘Damn uncomfortable things.’

How did this woman do that? He’d spent the whole week knotted up with tension, and yet now he was teasing her?

Jasmine’s lips quirked upwards.

‘Well, I am actually uncomfortable in these shoes.’ She gathered up her skirt so she could poke her heels out from under the fabric.

They were a glittering gold, with a peep-toe front.

‘I didn’t have time to paint my toenails,’ she continued. ‘But these were the best match for the dress out of the collection that Ivan somehow sourced for me. It’s just they pinch a little. I have no idea how he did it so quickly. It was like he had some secret stash of evening shoes in the palace.’

‘Thank you,’ Marko said, suddenly.

She shrugged. ‘It’s okay, I’ve packed a few plasters in my clutch so my feet will survive. I’m always prepared.’

She was deliberately misinterpreting him, and it made him smile.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

She just smiled. She was quick to smile—and it was a gorgeous smile. Natural and wide.

How had he not noticed before?

‘We have somewhere to be,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the schedule.’

She nodded. ‘We need to get moving, or my guys downstairs will get twitchy.’

Almost on cue, a member of Lukas’s staff came up the stairs, his boots a soft thud on the carpet. ‘The King is ready to see you now.’

* * *

They were to meet King Lukas and Queen Petra in the Knight’s Hall.

Located at the base of one of the four circular...towers? Turrets? Jas wasn’t sure, but whatever they were they were large, and round, and located at the four corners of the palace, connected together by long, stone corridors, half clad in dark wood panelling.

Lukas’s attendant had announced their arrival, and then quietly disappeared. No security stood at the opened door before them—at such a secure location, there was no need for it. It was why Prince Marko and herself had no escort, and why Jas’s team were already down in the ballroom.

To be honest, on nights like tonight, in a secure building, with a strict guest list and no current threat, there wasn’t a heck of a lot for security to do. The King’s own staff had the perimeters under control—so all Jasmine and her team would be doing tonight was ensuring that events progressed as scheduled, and to keep an eye out for anything unusual. Effectively, they would’ve just blended into the background—ready if required, but otherwise unobtrusive. The Prince and Felicity would’ve barely noticed they were there.

Jas certainly hadn’t expected to be anywhere near this close to Prince Marko this evening.

She looked up at him, standing so close to her that her shoulder would bump his upper arm if she moved even a little bit.

No. She certainly hadn’t expected to be this close to Marko. Tonight, or ever.

‘You okay?’ he asked, his voice low.

This close, his delicious accent gave her shivers, and she closed her eyes as she took a deep breath.

‘Of course,’ she said.

She wiggled her toes in her new shoes, welcoming the way they rubbed just a little at the back—the slight pain a useful reminder that this was actually happening. She opened her eyes—only to find herself gazing directly into Marko’s blue gaze.

She shivered again.

The sound of a man clearing his throat made Jas jump, and she stepped back abruptly from Marko.

‘You two lovebirds planning on joining us?’

It was, of course, the King.

Marko’s older brother stood in the opened doorway. He was tall—about the same height as Marko, and with similar dark-coloured hair. But Lukas’s hair was longer, and peppered with grey. He wore an identical suit to his brother, but he wore it with an ease that Jasmine only now realised that Marko lacked. Lukas wore his tux as if he wore one every day—and, Jas realised, that probably wasn’t too far off the truth. A king must attend formal events as regularly as Jas had Thai takeaway when she was back home: i.e. a lot.

Jasmine straightened her shoulders and smiled at Lukas. He was easy to smile at—his expression open and welcoming, so different from his more shuttered brother.

And then Marko wrapped his fingers around Jas’s hand—and she had to do everything in her power not to gasp.

Fortunately, Lukas had already turned away, gesturing for them to follow him into the Knight’s Hall.

Marko had never touched her before—if she excluded a brief, firm handshake when they’d first met several days ago. Marko had barely met her eyes back then, and as such the touch had been warm—but utterly unmemorable.

This was nothing like that.

Marko had laced his fingers through hers—an intimate gesture, and fitting, of course, for an engaged couple. But for Jas, the intimacy was shocking, and sent a thrill of sensation up her arm and through her body to finally pool low in her belly.

Jas’s gaze flew upwards, but Marko wasn’t even looking at her. That probably would’ve dumped ice water over her unwanted reaction—but then, he squeezed her hand.

Now, she knew he was just being reassuring. She knew he was holding her hand for show and not any other reason.

And yet...as crazy as this was, as insane as it all was, it was so easy, just for a moment, to desperately wish it were all real.

But—since when had Jas Gallagher believed in fairy tales?

Inside the Knight’s Hall, Jas gently tugged her hand free. She wiggled her toes again, rocking her heels on the parquet floor.

Queen Petra stood near the unlit fireplace, and she turned to greet them. She wore a stunning red gown, and her blonde hair was piled in an elaborate updo, behind a diamond and platinum tiara.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Petra.’

She sounded so normal, as if they’d met at a barbecue, except that she had a fancy accent.

‘I’m Jasmine,’ Jas said. Something terrifically obvious suddenly occurred to her. ‘I’m sorry, am I supposed to curtsey?’

They all laughed. ‘No,’ Marko said. ‘I should’ve explained. When no one’s watching, there’s no need for any pomp and ceremony.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Petra. ‘We’re all really normal, actually.’

‘Hmm...’ was all Jasmine could manage. She was standing in a turret or a tower, with oversized lancet windows, walls full with oil paintings of previous monarchs, and there was a full suit of knight’s armour standing beside one of the armchairs. ‘Normal’ didn’t really explain any of this.

Lukas laughed. ‘Come on, you’ve been with Marko for six months, you must know by now there isn’t anything special about him.’

Marko grinned. ‘No, she’s already pointed out that I don’t have any of your kingliness.’

‘Kingliness?’ Lukas laughed out loud. ‘I like it. I do try my best to be suitably kingly at all times.’

Jasmine silently waited for the floor to open up and swallow her.

Petra saved her. ‘Ignore them,’ she said. ‘Walk with me to the ballroom and tell me all about yourself—I need to know all about the woman who has captured my brother-in-law’s heart.’

Petra headed out of the room, obviously expecting Jas to follow. Jas looked to Marko—but he nodded that she should go.

His smile had fallen away, Jas noticed—as had Lukas’s.

For the first time, Jas remembered how sick the King was.

‘Jasmine?’ Petra prompted, and Jas hurried to catch up.

‘Can you tell me when I’m supposed to curtsey and stuff tonight?’ she asked as they traversed the hallway, skirts rustling in tandem. ‘Marko said it didn’t matter, but it does to me.’

A white lie, but this level of detail hadn’t occurred to her when she’d agreed to this charade.

‘Of course,’ Petra said. ‘I had to learn all this too. It does get easier, I promise. One day it’ll be second nature for you.’

‘I can’t imagine it,’ Jas replied, honestly.

Petra paused when they reached the end of the corridor, standing in the palace’s huge entry foyer. Behind her twin staircases swept upwards to meet at the first-floor landing and the biggest chandelier Jas had ever seen glittered above them, making the marble floor shimmer and sparkle. Around them palace staff bustled busily, with guests due to arrive any moment.

‘Really,’ Petra said. ‘One day I woke up and the palace felt like home.’

Home?

Jas smiled, relieved she could finally be completely honest. ‘I’m sure this place will never feel like home to me.’

After all, in three months’ time she’d be back in her real home, and this palace—and this night—would feel like no more than a dream.


Chapter Four (#ua204b3db-8575-5de1-be8f-dc7369f7b720)

IT WAS GOING WELL, Marko thought.

For a prince pretending to be engaged and a bodyguard pretending to be in love with him.

His lips curved upwards as he settled back into his chair and absently swirled his champagne.

Actually—that was unfair. Jasmine was doing remarkably well, considering there had been no time to really tell her anything.

He observed her as she spoke to one of the ministers of the Vela Ada parliament, her head tilted as she listened intently to whatever the other woman was saying. The pair stood only a short distance away, between the as yet empty dance floor and one of the many round tables that seated a mix of the most prominent and influential citizens of Vela Ada—from politicians, to philanthropists to entrepreneurs.

Although he’d stood beside Jasmine as they’d greeted the guests with his brother and Petra, and also sat beside her at dinner—they’d barely spoken.

Petra seemed thrilled to have someone else to discuss the realities of adjusting from civilian to royal life with, and had happily taken Jasmine under her wing. And, of course, pretty much everyone wanted to know about his mysterious fiancée, and so there had been a constant stream of interested guests wishing to introduce themselves. At first, Marko had stood nearby, ready to answer or deflect any tricky questions—but there was no need. Jasmine improvised like the actress she said she wasn’t—smoothly redirecting conversation to topics other than the details of their supposed relationship, or answering with laughter and ambiguity, allowing guests to fill in the blanks however they saw fit.

With Jasmine doing so well, it had left Marko free to have his own conversations. Which he had: with a retired army general, a prominent business owner, a former Olympian. They were all nice people, and the conversations were pleasant enough—but it didn’t take long for him to be over it. In fact, he’d been over it from the moment he’d stood in that reception line, greeting hundreds of people in a blur of handshakes and a cheek-aching smile.

He’d excused himself and headed for his table—then downed his champagne in one gulp.

A waiter immediately refilled his drink—but he resisted downing that one too. Someone was always watching at these events, and the last thing he needed was another Playboy Prince non-scandal to disappoint his brother and pretty much everyone else who knew him.

He didn’t want to be here.

He really didn’t want to be here.

What he’d much rather be doing was hanging out with Lukas. To do anything with him—maybe play pool at the table his brother had in his library. Or watch a movie and drink beer. Or just have something nice to eat. Stuff they hadn’t done together in longer than he could remember.

And something he wanted to do, with the person he wanted to spend time with—and not in public, and not with the weight of expectation and obligation weighing heavily upon him.

But instead he was here, at a ball, to make other people feel better about Lukas’s illness, when he certainly wasn’t feeling any better about it. Talking to Lukas, or to the royal doctor, had done nothing to ease the spiky ball of worry, concern and fear that had lodged itself in Marko’s belly.

If he lost him...

Marko clenched his jaw.

No. He wouldn’t even consider it. He couldn’t.

His gaze travelled back to Jasmine—searching for a distraction. Maybe she sensed his gaze, as she turned towards him.

She began to smile—but then stopped. Her brow furrowed.

In concern?

He swore under his breath.

He looked away—focusing his attention on his fingers as they gripped the stem of his glass, absently spinning the glass from side to side.

He tensed as Jasmine slid into the chair beside him. He did not want to have a conversation about whatever Jasmine had thought she’d seen in his face. Not with a woman he barely knew. Not with anyone.

‘Only a few minutes before the speeches,’ she said quietly.

He turned in his seat to look at her.

She looked—totally normal. No more furrowed brow. No questions in her gaze.

He felt his shoulders relax. What was wrong with him?

He was jumping at shadows.

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ he said, happy to talk about anything. ‘Palace staff will let us know where we need to be.’

‘It’s still my job,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘I can’t switch it off. I’m keeping an eye on my team, too, although it’s weird to not be able to talk to them. I feel naked without my earpiece at a formal event.’

Naked was probably not the best word Jasmine could’ve chosen. Or possibly it was the best, as Marko was now extremely effectively distracted from his unwanted thoughts of Lukas, and royal duty and...

Tako lijepo.

God, she was hot in that dress—all pale skin and soft curves.

He caught Jasmine’s gaze again as his crept back up to her face. She narrowed her eyes.

Marko cleared his throat.

This is a business arrangement, he reminded himself.

‘Is that why you’re so good at talking to everyone?’ Marko asked, focusing on not—once again—ogling Jasmine, as she’d so accurately accused him of earlier that day. Could it really have only been today? ‘You’ve attended lots of events like this one?’

Jasmine nodded. ‘On the other side, of course,’ she said. ‘I’ve been in the background—or at times right on the shoulder—of all sorts of conversations. And I’ve spoken to all sorts of people too. Some VIPs are chatty in the car, or bored when they’re waiting for someone or something, and often I’m the only person available to talk to. I guess maybe I’ve picked up a few bits and pieces, although this is a bit different from a quick chat to a pop star who’s nervous before a performance, or talking to a visiting ambassador about kangaroos.’ She reached for her own champagne. ‘I’m glad you think I’m doing a good job. I just feel like I’m doing lots of smiling and rambling about not much at all.’

‘That’s all I do,’ Marko said. ‘Smile, talk about something benign, then nod at someone else’s benign conversation while trying to look interested. Welcome to a royal event.’

She nodded. ‘Everyone’s been very nice to me. And some of the people I’ve spoken to are really interesting. But it’s not,’ Jasmine said in a low voice, leaning closer as if to confide in him, ‘quite as exciting as I expected.’

Marko laughed out loud. ‘No. Being royal is a job. With really great food and wine, but just a job, nonetheless.’

A palace attendant tapped on Marko’s shoulder and murmured in his ear.

He stood, and reached for Jasmine’s hand.

‘Looks like we’re up,’ he said.

It was time for Marko to formally introduce Jasmine to Vela Ada.

* * *

Jas hadn’t thought to put her champagne glass down before following Marko to the small stage at one end of the ballroom, and so now she stood beside the King and Queen, with Marko, feeling somewhat as if she were about to give a speech at a really, really fancy wedding.

Although—thankfully—she wasn’t scheduled to actually say anything. Her role tonight was to stand beside Marko and look like the loving fiancée she supposedly was.

The loving fiancée part wasn’t all that hard. It was all too easy to stand, oh, so close to him—close enough to feel his body heat, and to smell whatever delicious fragrance he wore—something crisp and woody.

And to look up at him—to imagine she was in love with him—was easy, too. He still held her hand—and he squeezed it occasionally, sending shivers of sensation rioting throughout her body.

He did so now, and glanced downwards to hold her gaze. His gaze was reassuring, a you’ve got this message. There was nothing more—not a hint of what she’d seen before: both an unexpected rawness of emotion she’d glimpsed as he’d been watching her from a distance, but also a different type of rawness later—that heat, that wanting.

She’d tried to shut it down—she’d glared at him, channelling her affront of earlier that day. But as it had been during the briefing, she hadn’t really had her heart behind it.

In fact, her heart had been beating at a million miles an hour.

Now she squeezed his hand back. I’m fine.

But she wasn’t—not really.

Partly, she was uncomfortable simply standing here—while she’d been at many important events in her career, she’d never been the subject of such concentrated attention. Standing beside someone important on a stage, in her black suit, was not the same as wearing a ball gown with a room full of dignitaries staring at her.

She felt terribly awkward in her tight shoes and with her superfluous champagne glass, and it was a constant battle not to fidget.

But she didn’t, of course. She was a professional. She could do this.

Lukas was speaking now, in the Vela Ada dialect—and as Jas knew only very few words of the Slavic language, she could only guess at what he was saying.

His voice revealed none of his illness, although this close she could see how lean he was beneath his suit, and the hint of dark beneath his eyes.

Petra stood beside him, looking composed and lovely. And she was lovely, and had been all evening to Jas—checking in with her, whispering little hints and words of encouragement. Earlier she’d even given her a crash course in curtseying—although with the only other royals in attendance being the late King Josip’s brother and his wife, as Lukas and Marko’s mother had retired from public life following her husband’s death, she’d only had to worry about it briefly—and in the end it hadn’t been that hard at all.

But it was Petra that she was feeling most uncomfortable about—more so than feeling awkward in front of hundreds of guests. Here was a woman dealing bravely with her husband’s cancer diagnosis, and Jas was—lying to her.

Marko leant down to murmur in her ear, his breath a tickle against her skin. ‘Here we go.’

Lukas gestured for Marko to step forward, and Jas stepped up right beside him.

‘And now,’ Lukas said, in English now, ‘I’d like to introduce the woman who will be accompanying Prince Marko as he takes on my royal commitments over the next three months—and who I am looking forward to welcoming into the Pavlovic family: his fiancée, Jasmine Gallagher.’

The ballroom filled with polite applause, and Jasmine just smiled and tried not to look awkward.

Marko then began to speak—again, in Slavic, and as he spoke—and he spoke well—Jasmine took the opportunity to simply watch him.

He stood tall, and powerfully—his shoulders back, his stance firm—and there was definitely no fidgeting involved. He looked fantastic in his suit, but it did nothing to hide the strength of the man, the solid contour of his biceps and the width of his shoulders evident beneath the expensive fabric. His buzz-cut hair only further enhanced the impression of a man constructed of hard edges—there was no softness to this prince.

She’d noted before that he wore his suit less comfortably than his brother, and she still thought that true. There was a tension to Marko’s posture, as if he was out of his native habitat. He’d said earlier that a royal title was just another job, and although she didn’t think it was that simple—there were some big perks to being a royal!—she understood his sentiment. And so—knowing he was a highly ranked military officer—she supposed it was army fatigues rather than a tuxedo that was his uniform of choice?

And yet, despite his incongruity in a tuxedo, and despite the tension she sensed in him—and also whatever it was she’d glimpsed in his gaze earlier—he now commanded the ballroom. His ability to do so wasn’t unexpected—since she’d met Marko it had been impossible to ignore his magnetism—but before she’d met him, she wouldn’t have expected it.

She had thought her company had been hired to protect a playboy prince—and the Playboy Prince she had expected was nothing like Marko at all.

Of course she’d seen the photos of Marko in women’s magazines. And of course she’d looked him up on the Internet again when she’d first been approached to work for him. And the photos and articles were all the same: about a man who had eschewed a royal life to flit across Europe—and who had seemingly never been photographed with the same woman twice. There he’d been, on the list of World’s Most Eligible Bachelors or the World’s Hottest Royals or whatever.

None of this had mattered to her, as it had no impact on the job she’d been hired to do.

But she’d been curious.

Even the whole fake fiancée ruse hadn’t really given her pause—she and her team had just signed the water-tight confidentiality agreement and been done with it. It wasn’t her job to judge the decisions of the rich and famous—no matter how odd or misguided they appeared to her.

Of course, it had given her pause when Marko had asked her to take Felicity’s place.

Suddenly Marko’s lie would be affecting her. And now Marko’s lie was her lie. She was no longer a bystander—she was part of this.

Ever since her impulsive decision to be Marko’s fake fiancée, the weight of that lie had only grown heavier the more real it had become.

And standing here right now, in front of hundreds of people as a man you barely knew announced you to his country as something you weren’t...well, lies didn’t get much bigger than that.

What have I done?

Were the pleas of a man who made her blood run hot enough of a reason to do something so far outside her moral compass?

His reasons at the time had seemed so compelling, the lie so harmless...

But now...

Jas’s gaze flicked from Marko back to Lukas.

As she watched he stepped back from where he’d stood beside Marko.





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