Читать книгу The Prince's Fake Fiancée - Leah Ashton, Leah Ashton - Страница 10

Chapter Three

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.

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!’ she said, looking mildly stunned. ‘Thank you. That’s a very nice thing to say.’

‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘You look like a princess.’

She grinned. ‘I suppose that’s the idea,’ she said. ‘You look very much like a prince, yourself.’

Her gaze flicked over his tuxedo—the crisp white shirt, the black bow tie, the white pocket square.

‘No crown?’ she asked, her eyes sparkling.

‘No,’ he said, firmly. His brother had worn one at his coronation, but Marko never had. But he then surprised himself by adding, ‘Damn uncomfortable things.’

How did this woman do that? He’d spent the whole week knotted up with tension, and yet now he was teasing her?

Jasmine’s lips quirked upwards.

‘Well, I am actually uncomfortable in these shoes.’ She gathered up her skirt so she could poke her heels out from under the fabric.

They were a glittering gold, with a peep-toe front.

‘I didn’t have time to paint my toenails,’ she continued. ‘But these were the best match for the dress out of the collection that Ivan somehow sourced for me. It’s just they pinch a little. I have no idea how he did it so quickly. It was like he had some secret stash of evening shoes in the palace.’

‘Thank you,’ Marko said, suddenly.

She shrugged. ‘It’s okay, I’ve packed a few plasters in my clutch so my feet will survive. I’m always prepared.’

She was deliberately misinterpreting him, and it made him smile.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

She just smiled. She was quick to smile—and it was a gorgeous smile. Natural and wide.

How had he not noticed before?

‘We have somewhere to be,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the schedule.’

She nodded. ‘We need to get moving, or my guys downstairs will get twitchy.’

Almost on cue, a member of Lukas’s staff came up the stairs, his boots a soft thud on the carpet. ‘The King is ready to see you now.’

* * *

They were to meet King Lukas and Queen Petra in the Knight’s Hall.

Located at the base of one of the four circular...towers? Turrets? Jas wasn’t sure, but whatever they were they were large, and round, and located at the four corners of the palace, connected together by long, stone corridors, half clad in dark wood panelling.

Lukas’s attendant had announced their arrival, and then quietly disappeared. No security stood at the opened door before them—at such a secure location, there was no need for it. It was why Prince Marko and herself had no escort, and why Jas’s team were already down in the ballroom.

To be honest, on nights like tonight, in a secure building, with a strict guest list and no current threat, there wasn’t a heck of a lot for security to do. The King’s own staff had the perimeters under control—so all Jasmine and her team would be doing tonight was ensuring that events progressed as scheduled, and to keep an eye out for anything unusual. Effectively, they would’ve just blended into the background—ready if required, but otherwise unobtrusive. The Prince and Felicity would’ve barely noticed they were there.

Jas certainly hadn’t expected to be anywhere near this close to Prince Marko this evening.

She looked up at him, standing so close to her that her shoulder would bump his upper arm if she moved even a little bit.

No. She certainly hadn’t expected to be this close to Marko. Tonight, or ever.

‘You okay?’ he asked, his voice low.

This close, his delicious accent gave her shivers, and she closed her eyes as she took a deep breath.

‘Of course,’ she said.

She wiggled her toes in her new shoes, welcoming the way they rubbed just a little at the back—the slight pain a useful reminder that this was actually happening. She opened her eyes—only to find herself gazing directly into Marko’s blue gaze.

She shivered again.

The sound of a man clearing his throat made Jas jump, and she stepped back abruptly from Marko.

‘You two lovebirds planning on joining us?’

It was, of course, the King.

Marko’s older brother stood in the opened doorway. He was tall—about the same height as Marko, and with similar dark-coloured hair. But Lukas’s hair was longer, and peppered with grey. He wore an identical suit to his brother, but he wore it with an ease that Jasmine only now realised that Marko lacked. Lukas wore his tux as if he wore one every day—and, Jas realised, that probably wasn’t too far off the truth. A king must attend formal events as regularly as Jas had Thai takeaway when she was back home: i.e. a lot.

Jasmine straightened her shoulders and smiled at Lukas. He was easy to smile at—his expression open and welcoming, so different from his more shuttered brother.

And then Marko wrapped his fingers around Jas’s hand—and she had to do everything in her power not to gasp.

Fortunately, Lukas had already turned away, gesturing for them to follow him into the Knight’s Hall.

Marko had never touched her before—if she excluded a brief, firm handshake when they’d first met several days ago. Marko had barely met her eyes back then, and as such the touch had been warm—but utterly unmemorable.

This was nothing like that.

Marko had laced his fingers through hers—an intimate gesture, and fitting, of course, for an engaged couple. But for Jas, the intimacy was shocking, and sent a thrill of sensation up her arm and through her body to finally pool low in her belly.

Jas’s gaze flew upwards, but Marko wasn’t even looking at her. That probably would’ve dumped ice water over her unwanted reaction—but then, he squeezed her hand.

Now, she knew he was just being reassuring. She knew he was holding her hand for show and not any other reason.

And yet...as crazy as this was, as insane as it all was, it was so easy, just for a moment, to desperately wish it were all real.

But—since when had Jas Gallagher believed in fairy tales?

Inside the Knight’s Hall, Jas gently tugged her hand free. She wiggled her toes again, rocking her heels on the parquet floor.

Queen Petra stood near the unlit fireplace, and she turned to greet them. She wore a stunning red gown, and her blonde hair was piled in an elaborate updo, behind a diamond and platinum tiara.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Petra.’

She sounded so normal, as if they’d met at a barbecue, except that she had a fancy accent.

‘I’m Jasmine,’ Jas said. Something terrifically obvious suddenly occurred to her. ‘I’m sorry, am I supposed to curtsey?’

They all laughed. ‘No,’ Marko said. ‘I should’ve explained. When no one’s watching, there’s no need for any pomp and ceremony.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Petra. ‘We’re all really normal, actually.’

‘Hmm...’ was all Jasmine could manage. She was standing in a turret or a tower, with oversized lancet windows, walls full with oil paintings of previous monarchs, and there was a full suit of knight’s armour standing beside one of the armchairs. ‘Normal’ didn’t really explain any of this.

Lukas laughed. ‘Come on, you’ve been with Marko for six months, you must know by now there isn’t anything special about him.’

Marko grinned. ‘No, she’s already pointed out that I don’t have any of your kingliness.’

‘Kingliness?’ Lukas laughed out loud. ‘I like it. I do try my best to be suitably kingly at all times.’

Jasmine silently waited for the floor to open up and swallow her.

Petra saved her. ‘Ignore them,’ she said. ‘Walk with me to the ballroom and tell me all about yourself—I need to know all about the woman who has captured my brother-in-law’s heart.’

Petra headed out of the room, obviously expecting Jas to follow. Jas looked to Marko—but he nodded that she should go.

His smile had fallen away, Jas noticed—as had Lukas’s.

For the first time, Jas remembered how sick the King was.

‘Jasmine?’ Petra prompted, and Jas hurried to catch up.

‘Can you tell me when I’m supposed to curtsey and stuff tonight?’ she asked as they traversed the hallway, skirts rustling in tandem. ‘Marko said it didn’t matter, but it does to me.’

A white lie, but this level of detail hadn’t occurred to her when she’d agreed to this charade.

‘Of course,’ Petra said. ‘I had to learn all this too. It does get easier, I promise. One day it’ll be second nature for you.’

‘I can’t imagine it,’ Jas replied, honestly.

Petra paused when they reached the end of the corridor, standing in the palace’s huge entry foyer. Behind her twin staircases swept upwards to meet at the first-floor landing and the biggest chandelier Jas had ever seen glittered above them, making the marble floor shimmer and sparkle. Around them palace staff bustled busily, with guests due to arrive any moment.

‘Really,’ Petra said. ‘One day I woke up and the palace felt like home.’

Home?

Jas smiled, relieved she could finally be completely honest. ‘I’m sure this place will never feel like home to me.’

After all, in three months’ time she’d be back in her real home, and this palace—and this night—would feel like no more than a dream.