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!’
