The Prince's Fake Fiancée

by Leah Ashton

  ‘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

  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.