The Prince's Fake Fiancée. Leah Ashton
JASMINE GALLAGHER SAT in the back seat of a sleek, dark sedan, silently observing the passing countryside behind windows tinted almost black.
The road hugged the very edge of the island of Vela Ada, almost touching the perfect blue of the Adriatic Sea. It was late afternoon, and the ocean glittered beneath the glorious summer sun, the azure surface interrupted only by the occasional tall-masted boat with sails in blinding white.
Jasmine’s car was the third of three identical vehicles. Leading the small convoy were two of Jas’s team: Scott—who was ex–Special Forces—and Heather—who, like Jas, was ex-Australian National Police. Next in line was what was called the ‘principal’s’ car—the person that Gallagher Personal Protection Services had been tasked with protecting. In Jas’s career she had provided close personal protection services—what most people outside the industry would call a ‘bodyguard’—to a wide range of people: prime ministers, ambassadors, religious leaders, CEOs, celebrities—but this job was a first for her, and a first for her company.
From today—and for the next three months—she was looking after a prince.
Jasmine smiled. Royalty.
This was the opportunity of a lifetime for a girl who’d grown up in public housing on the outskirts of Canberra. And further confirmation that those naysayers who told her a woman couldn’t be the face of a protection services company were clueless.
Not that Jasmine had ever doubted herself.
The dense forest that faced the harbour thinned as the convoy approached the city. At a predetermined landmark—a distinctive cast-iron lamp just over a kilometre from the palace—Jas picked up her phone.
‘We’re approaching,’ she said.
As Jasmine ended the call the woman seated beside her shifted in her seat.
‘Can you quiz me again?’ she asked, her voice just slightly high-pitched. Jas met the gaze of their driver, Simon—a retired SAS Commando—in the rear-view mirror, and knew he was smiling. Felicity had been asking for help with her script and backstory ever since they’d picked her up from Dubrovnik airport, and then over the several hours it had taken to drive and then ferry to Vela Ada.
‘You’ve got this,’ Jasmine reassured her. ‘But we can run through it one more time if you like.’
Felicity nodded. ‘Thank you. I know I’m being ridiculous. I know, I know this, it’s just...’ she paused, pushing her long, perfectly curled blonde hair behind her ears ‘...this isn’t a normal acting job, is it? And Marko... I mean, you’ve met him, right? Prince Marko...? He’s pretty distracting.’
Jasmine laughed. ‘I can’t say I personally feel that way, but guess I can imagine why that would be.’
If you were the type to find tall, dark, broad-shouldered Mediterranean princes distracting. Which Jasmine was not. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by something as irrelevant as attractiveness in her job.
‘Oh, come on,’ Felicity said, narrowing her eyes. ‘You’re not that much older than me, and you’re not dead, so don’t pretend you haven’t noticed he’s totally hot. And that accent. Honestly, he could read a dictionary and make it sound sexy. Why don’t Aussie guys sound like that?’
She flopped back into her leather seat, and now Simon—also Australian—was quietly laughing as the car slowed to a crawl to navigate the narrow cobblestone streets of the city.
‘So, I met Marko in Rome six months ago, during a break, while he completed a secondment with the Italian Army and while I was on holiday. It was terrifically romantic...’
Jasmine nodded as Felicity spoke. Jasmine had, of course, been briefed on this rather unusual arrangement—although she didn’t know every detail that Felicity was running through now. But she wasn’t worried—Felicity was whip-smart, and very well prepared. Ivan—the Prince’s valet—had told her of Felicity’s exceptional improvisation skills as well, so she was clearly an excellent choice. Plus she certainly looked the part—even now, just slightly anxious, the blonde woman oozed class and polish.
The perfect princess. Or rather, princess-to-be.
‘And he took me on a picnic to propose—at the Pavlovic Estate.’ Felicity paused. ‘I mean, can you imagine if that actually happened? If Prince Marko actually proposed to me for real?’ She sighed, and closed her eyes as if imagining the moment herself. ‘Princess Felicity!’ She shrugged. ‘Oh, well, best enjoy it while it lasts. And do my best to make it believable that Europe’s most notorious playboy would actually settle down.’
‘You’ve got this,’ Jas repeated, but then added, more seriously, ‘But remember, your engagement might be fake, but no one else knows that. Your security is real. We don’t have any intel that suggests Prince Marko is under threat, but if he was—to any potential bad guys, you are his fiancée, and you will be a princess. So it’s important for your own safety that you follow my instructions tonight, and over the next few months. Okay?’
Felicity nodded. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Jas watched as Felicity straightened her shoulders and adjusted her expression. No longer did even a hint of the actress remain—she was every inch the mysterious fiancée who Marko would be introducing to Vela Ada at tonight’s ball.
The car slid to a stop at the security checkpoint at the palace gate.
Now in range, Jas activated her earpiece. ‘We’re here.’
* * *
Marko sank back into the linen fabric of his couch, and rubbed his temples.
He had a cracking headache, right on top of the fuzzy cloak of fatigue he’d been wearing all week.
Across from him, in separate plush single armchairs, sat his valet, and the head of his new security detail—Jasmine Gallagher. Beyond that pair was a massive window, framed with heavy brocade curtains and so sparkling clean as to appear invisible. Through that—if he looked—he could see the entire east side of the island—a stunning view but also rather useful when the palace had also played the role of military lookout several centuries ago. Built at the island’s highest point, Palace Vela Ada had three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the tiny island nation—of its single undulating city of red-roofed stone houses, of the tiny towns dotted amongst the vineyards and market gardens that spoke of its rich agricultural industry, and of the boats and yachts that bobbed in the ocean and brought in as many tourist dollars now as the fish.
But Marko wasn’t looking at the view, because he didn’t really want to be here at all.
He wanted to be back in Italy, he wanted to be the man who had just been promoted to Pukovnik—Lieutenant Colonel—and who had been thrilled at his progress in strengthening ties between the minuscule Vela Adian army and their allies in neighbouring Croatia and Italy. He also wanted to be the man who—much of the time—managed to ignore the reality of being a prince.
Sure, he was treated differently in the army—but it was subtle, now, after years of his adamant refusal to be coddled and protected or elevated to a rank he hadn’t earned. He’d earned the respect of his peers through hard work and later through tours of duty. He was Lieutenant Colonel Marko Pavlovic first; Prince Marko only really made an appearance at official royal events, and even that was rare, as his brother—King Lukas—seriously had that all in hand.
It was the greatest stroke of luck that Lukas had been born two years before Marko, rather than the other way around, as Lukas had been the perfect king-in-training