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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.
