The Prince's Fake Fiancée. Leah Ashton
cancer.
In the week since Lukas had called him, Marko had been in a fog. He was labelling it fatigue, but it was different from that, really. More a heavy weight of uncertainty and fear.
Lukas—and the royal doctor—had assured Marko and the royal family that Lukas’s form of cancer was highly treatable, and that his prospects of making a full recovery were extremely good. He’d also gone to great lengths to stress that Lukas’s cancer was unrelated to the cancer that had killed their father, the late King Josip.
But Marko couldn’t imagine life without his brother. They might be as different as night and day, but there was no one on this planet Marko respected more than Lukas. Nobody.
Marko couldn’t say for sure that was how Lukas felt about him—but that didn’t really matter. Especially not now.
‘I need you to step up for me, Marko,’ Lukas had said. ‘The island can’t cope with any more turmoil. My people need to feel safe, they need to trust our government and know that we—the heads of state—are in control and incorruptible. You need to be—for once in your life—respectful of your position. Respectful of your responsibilities. You can’t run away any longer.’
Marko had bristled—despite his concern for Lukas he was unable to leave that comment unchallenged. ‘No one would ever dare question my commitment to our military,’ he’d said, his tone hard-edged.
‘Your commitment to training all over the world, you mean?’ Lukas had said. ‘Italy, Australia, the US, France...’
His brother had sighed.
‘Look, I’m incredibly proud of what you’ve achieved in your career, and what you’ve done for our defence alliances—but would it have killed you to spend a bit more time in Vela Ada? To actually be visible to your people? To support them in a way that is tangible to them? Especially over the past few years? Instead, all they see of you is photos in glossy magazines. What was the last article on you? Something about top ten royals in their swimwear... I mean, well done on being number one and all...’ Lukas’s tone had been desert dry ‘...but honestly—you were with a different woman in every single photo. How do you think that looks to our people?’
‘It’s none of their business,’ Marko said firmly.
‘That’s the point,’ Lukas had said—for the first time sounding as tired and unwell as he really was. ‘You’re a prince. Their Prince. It is their business that you’d rather spend your time anywhere but here and with a different woman every week.’
The phone had been silent for long moments.
‘This isn’t going to work, is it?’ said Lukas. ‘I know you’re capable of caretaking my role, but perception is the problem. If people don’t believe in you, they won’t feel safe. And I can’t have that. We’ve worked too hard to prosecute Senator Božić and his allies and rid Vela Ada of this scourge. Look, I know the label’s not entirely accurate, but will they believe in the Playboy Prince? Maybe I can still be active, in between treatments. Try and downplay my illness, and don’t mention it’s cancer...’
His brother was talking faster and faster.
‘Stop,’ Marko said. ‘I’m not the Playboy Prince. Not any more.’ He’d paused, trying to work out what he could say to reassure his brother. He hated hearing his usually impeccably calm and measured brother so anxious. He also hated—as he’d always hated—the way his personal life was even relevant to Vela Adians—and that his brother bought into it too. Surely his years of military service outweighed a selection of photos of him with bikini-clad women? But this wasn’t the time for that argument. ‘I’m engaged,’ he blurted out the moment the idea even partially formed in his brain. ‘I wanted to tell you in person. So you needn’t worry. The Playboy Prince is no more.’
‘Really?’ Lukas had been stunned. ‘That’s perfect. I mean—congratulations!’
‘Thank you,’ Marko had said, his lips quirking upwards.
‘Who is she? I didn’t know you were dating anyone.’
Because, of course, he hadn’t been. Marko searched his mind and the room for some titbit about this mystery woman he could share with his brother. On the wall of the small hotel room was an aged map of the world, and his gaze fell to the right-hand corner. ‘She’s Australian,’ he said, thinking fast. ‘I met her six months ago. How about she comes with me to Vela Ada, next week, so you can meet her?’
‘Yes—’ Lukas had said, sounding like himself again. ‘I’ll announce my illness this week and then have a ball a few days later to reassure everyone I’m not about to keel over, and to reposition you as a stable, responsible, engaged caretaker head of state. I like it.’
‘A ball, Lukas? That’s really not my thing—’
‘It is for the next three months, Marko. You’d better get used to it.’
Marko’s gaze slid from the view to the people before him. Ivan sat neatly in his ever-present pinstriped suit, listening intently and studiously taking notes. Beside him, Jasmine—also in a suit—was talking of safe rooms, escape routes and tonight’s schedule.
‘Your Highness,’ she said, her tone suddenly steelier. ‘This is important. I appreciate that Ivan will probably brief you again later, but for your safety—and for the safety of my team and everyone in the palace—you need to pay attention.’
Now his gaze sharpened. Before he’d simply been aware that a woman in a jet-black pantsuit sat across from him, but she was right—he hadn’t been paying attention. He hadn’t even really looked at her. This week had been such a blur of bad news, upturning his life and coordinating his impulsive ‘fiancée’ lie, that he’d simply approved the appointment of Gallagher Personal Protection Services based on the recommendation of Palace Security and thought little more about the woman who headed the company.
Now he properly considered her.
She was quite tall—obvious even when seated thanks to her long, crossed legs and the fact that her shoulders sat almost level with Ivan’s. Her hair was dark, and tied back sleekly from her pale skin, with not one stray strand obscuring the curved line of her cheeks and straight edge of her jaw. Right now, that jaw was firm as she studied him with intense brown eyes.
No, hazel eyes, he corrected as he continued to just look at her, and as the sun that streamed through the window highlighted the flecks of gold in her gaze.
She had great eyes, he realised—large and framed with thick lashes and neat eyebrows as black as her hair. And sharp—as if she missed nothing.
Which would come handy in her job, he supposed.
She hadn’t missed his perusal. He felt her intent gaze as his continued to track its way down her narrow, ski-slope-shaped nose—with the slightest upturned tip. It was a nose that probably veered closer towards large than small—and it sat above lips that were neither large nor small. Pink though, and glossy.
Her chin—like her jaw—was firm. A stubborn chin, most likely—but again, this was probably a trait useful in her profession.
Overall, he’d say she was pretty. Certainly pretty enough that in any other week of his life he would’ve noticed that fact immediately. But he barely remembered what his fake fiancée looked like, and he’d met with her via video conference and face to face nearly a dozen times this week.
His gaze slid back up to hers. Actually, her eyes were definitely more than pretty...beautiful, really—
‘Your Highness, may I assume that you also spend this much time documenting the appearance of your male security personnel?’
Marko blinked. Jasmine’s eyes were hard.
‘My apologies—’ he began.
‘My gender is irrelevant, Your Highness. And I have certainly not been employed for you to look at.’
‘No—of