The Prince's Fake Fiancée Page 3

  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

  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.’