The Italian Billionaire's New Year Bride

‘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 course not—’

Marko couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so flustered. He’d say most people who knew him would assume he never was.

‘But if we can agree that I’m not to be either ignored, or ogled, from now on, I think we can continue with my briefing.’

Marko nodded, not just a little ashamed of his behaviour. She was absolutely right—he’d had a terrible week, but it didn’t excuse what he’d just done.

What was wrong with him?

He needed to pull himself together. He needed to commit to this—to this stupid plan of his—with everything he had.

He needed to do this for Lukas.

And for Vela Ada.

‘I sincerely apologise, Ms Gallagher,’ Marko said, again meeting her gaze squarely. ‘I assure you it won’t happen again.’

She raised an eyebrow, but then she nodded. A neat, controlled movement—like all her movements, he suspected.

He didn’t like that she clearly didn’t believe him. Did Jasmine think he was the Playboy Prince, too? That he was some frivolous, useless heartbreaker who’d abandoned his country and left his brother to deal with all that royalty bother while he flitted around the world enjoying himself?

Probably.

And he wouldn’t be able to talk her around, especially after that rather woeful first impression.

He didn’t bother to analyse why it mattered what the head of his protection team thought of him—he knew, instinctively, it wouldn’t make any difference to the quality of service that Jasmine would provide.

But it did matter.

Maybe because he genuinely wasn’t the man who—as Jasmine had said—ogled his employees. Or maybe it was because if he wanted all of Vela Ada to respect him, he needed to start with the people standing around him.

Or maybe it was just because Jasmine Gallagher had remarkable golden eyes.