The Prince's Fake Fiancée

Palace. Royalty, she reminded herself.

This job was important. Significant, even. It was highly unusual for an external company to provide personal protection services to immediate members of any royal family. Usually such services for dignitaries would be provided by a country’s government—either the royal’s own government, or, if visiting another nation, by that nation’s own police. When she’d been with the Australian National Police she’d often worked on the shoulder of ambassadors, presidents and prime ministers—simply because laws in Australia prevented visiting protection teams from carrying firearms.

This opportunity—possible only because of the lack of suitably qualified Vela Adian protection personnel, and the expediency that protection services were required—was as rare as it got.

So biting off the head of said actual royal was probably not advisable.

Although obviously she was always going to say something. She would never let a client ignore her like that—and then stare at her like that—without comment. It wasn’t acceptable behaviour. Personal protection didn’t work without respect—of her, of her team, of her directions. It was non-negotiable.

But still—had she had to draw attention to the fact she was a woman? It was something she—as she’d told the Prince—considered irrelevant. And hence, it was not a topic she ever engaged in.

Despite contrary advice, she’d always been very visible as the head of her company. There were no surprises to anyone who hired Gallagher Personal Protection Services that the person in charge was a woman. It was a self-selecting strategy—if someone was too closed minded to realise that Gallagher was awesome at what it did, just because she didn’t have broad shoulders and a... Well, then that was definitely their issue. Not hers.

She wasn’t about to defend or justify or do anything else to explain herself, because of course to tell anyone that being female wasn’t an issue because of x, y and z implied that she entertained their concerns. And she did not.

Actions spoke louder than words. She’d learnt that the hard way after—

Jas dug her fingernails into her palms. No. It had been months since she’d thought about what had happened, and she wasn’t about to start now. What mattered now was she hated that she’d brought up her gender to the Prince. Why would she do that?

Because he’d made her feel so female...

Ugh.

What was it about Prince Marko? Despite what she’d told Felicity, she had noticed how unbelievably gorgeous he was the few brief times they’d met. Because he was gorgeous in person in a way that was surprising, and almost overwhelming, despite her being familiar with his looks because...well, if you’d ever picked up a women’s magazine, anywhere in the world, you’d heard of the Playboy Prince.

In person, his looks were just more intense: he was taller, broader, and his blue eyes more piercing than she ever could’ve imagined.

And despite looking like a man who’d received upsetting news about his brother—with the olive skin of his jaw dusted with stubble, his eyes tinged red, and the occasional grey hair in his army buzz-cut dark hair—such dishevelment just made him even more appealing to her: raw, and real.

And for some reason that real prince—after barely glancing at her for almost the entirety of their business arrangement—had decided to stare at her today.

And if she’d thought his looks intense before—being on the receiving end of his concentrated attention was something else entirely.

The instant he’d really looked at her, her blood had run hot and her belly had heated. She’d sat perfectly still as his eyes had travelled across her face—and she was certain she’d briefly stopped breathing as he’d caught her gaze. As she’d begun to feel herself get lost within it...

But then he’d moved on: his gaze like a touch along her nose, her bare lips, and her skin that seemed so pale amongst Mediterranean complexions.

How long had he stared at her?

It had felt like an age—but maybe it was no time at all?

Maybe—and, God, she cringed at her choice of words now—it hadn’t been an ogle at all?

It would make more sense if it hadn’t been, really. She knew she wasn’t unattractive, but she was no Felicity. Her nose was a little too big, her hair nondescript and her figure was more athletic than voluptuous.

But she didn’t really believe that. He might not have planned to do it—but she knew when a man was checking her out.

Jas’s eyes snapped open, and she studied the way the setting sun reflected off the crystal beads of the chandelier above her.

Not that it mattered if Marko had checked her out.

What mattered was that she’d spoken without thinking first. She could’ve made her point in a myriad other ways without drawing attention to the two things she wanted Prince Marko to forget about completely: that she was a woman, and that he’d been appreciating that fact.

A sharp knock on her door snapped Jas out of her self-recrimination.

She sat up, and straightened her shoulders.

She was being ridiculous. What was done was done.

From now on, she would simply revert to being as impeccably professional as she always—usually—was.

Besides, she seriously doubted that the Prince was likely to check her out again—today was surely a blip?—which would make things easier.

Another insistent knock on her door, and Jas was on her feet. A moment later, she opened the door. It was Simon, and Jas blinked, surprised. It was several hours before they would be accompanying Marko and Felicity to the ball.

Simon spoke in a low, urgent tone. ‘We have a problem.’

* * *

Felicity sat curled up in a brocade wingback chair beside her room’s windows—but she’d closed the heavy curtains and blocked the setting sun. The room was lit only by a single bedside lamp, its glow revealing Felicity’s evening gown, laid across the bed in a cascade of emerald silk.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Felicity said brokenly, and Jas ran to her side, dropping to her knees beside the chair.

‘Don’t be,’ she said, gripping the other woman’s hand. ‘Of course you need to go home.’

Felicity had just received news that her mother and father had been hospitalised with serious injuries following a terrible car accident. Fortunately neither parent was in a critical condition, but there was no question that Felicity needed to be back in Australia to support her family right now—and not in Vela Ada.

‘What is Marko going to do, though? He needs a fiancée. I feel terrible, I—’

‘Don’t stress about it. You just worry about getting home. Can I help pack your things for you?’

Felicity nodded as Jas got back to her feet.

‘I’m sure the Prince will sort something out—’ Jas began.

‘I certainly will,’ a deep voice said from behind her. Jas turned to see Ivan and Marko framed in the doorway.

‘Your car is ready to take you to the airport,’ he said as he approached Felicity. He also dropped to his haunches so he was at Felicity’s level. ‘I’m sincerely sorry to hear about your parents’ accident. I’ll make sure you get home as quickly as possible.’

He stood, and offered his hand to help Felicity up. The blonde woman took it gratefully, and then headed for the door.

‘My things—’ she began.

‘I’ve got it under control,’ Jas reassured her. ‘I’ll get it all sorted and send it down to the car.’

And then Felicity—and Ivan—were gone.

Somehow, Jas had ended up alone in a room with Prince Marko.