The Prince's Fake Fiancée

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

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.