International Guy: Paris, New York, Copenhagen (International Guy Volumes Book 1) Read online

  ALSO BY AUDREY CARLAN

  International Guy Series

  Paris: International Guy Book 1

  New York: International Guy Book 2

  Copenhagen: International Guy Book 3

  Calendar Girl Series

  January

  February

  March

  April

  May

  June

  July

  August

  September

  October

  November

  December

  Trinity Series

  Body

  Mind

  Soul

  Life

  Fate

  Falling Series

  Angel Falling

  London Falling

  Justice Falling

  Lotus House Series

  Resisting Roots

  Sacred Serenity

  Divine Desire

  Limitless Love

  Silent Sins

  Intimate Intuition

  Enlightened End

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Audrey Carlan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503903180

  ISBN-10: 1503903184

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar Photography

  CONTENTS

  PARIS: INTERNATIONAL GUY BOOK 1

  DEDICATION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  SKYLER

  NEW YORK: INTERNATIONAL GUY BOOK 2

  DEDICATION

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  SKYLER

  COPENHAGEN: INTERNATIONAL GUY BOOK 3

  DEDICATION

  NOTE TO THE READER

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  SKYLER

  If you want . . .

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PARIS: INTERNATIONAL GUY BOOK 1

  To the team at Hugo & Cie, but most especially Hugues de Saint Vincent, the proud New Romance leader, and my beautiful and gracious editor, Benita Rolland.

  I’ll never be able to thank you for gifting me the beauty of Paris.

  It is by far my favorite city in the world.

  This one is for you.

  Je vous adore tous les deux.

  Avec tout mon amour.

  1

  I love women. Young. Old. Tall or short. From the nerdy, bookish types to the sultry bombshells—I’m not picky. Give me thin lengthy figures or curvy with something to grab on to . . . name it and I’ve touched, talked to, kissed, and fucked all varieties. Philosophers say everyone on earth has a gift, something unique to them. My gift . . . I understand women. Parker Ellis is my name, and I am one lucky son of a bitch.

  Still, putting your gift to work for you is the ultimate prize. Working day in and day out at a job you genuinely love isn’t the norm. Quite the opposite. I’ve made it my life’s goal to never work a day in my life that I’m not doing something I love. And I adore women. All women.

  I’ve found that women are complex creatures, not easily figured out, and no two are alike. Which is the reason I created International Guy Inc. in the first place. There are an endless number of women in the world needing a confident, strong, detail-oriented type of man’s help. A man like me.

  I call myself the Dream Maker.

  You want something outta life and have the money to back that dream? Let’s discuss it. For the right price, anything is possible, and I’m the guy who’s going to help you get it.

  At International Guy, we cater to the client’s needs. No request is too demanding or too strange. As long as it’s not illegal . . . we’re in.

  Let’s start with my team. They say it takes a village to raise a child; well for International Guy, it takes me and two others. Bogart “Bo” Montgomery and Royce Sterling. I’ve known these gentlemen since freshman year at Harvard, and we’ve been the trifecta of badassery ever since.

  I knew early on in my formative years that I wanted to make something of myself. My father taught me if I wanted to be big in business and have more than we had, I’d better do well in school. He was a bartender and my mother a librarian; I definitely wanted more. It’s not as though I wanted for a lot in the way of love or support from my mother and father. I grew up right, was well fed, had clothes on my back and shoes on my feet, but we weren’t rolling in the dough either. Extras were few and far between.

  I grew up just outside of Boston proper, where the Red Sox reigned supreme and the Patriots could do no wrong. Our house was made of brick and was warm and tiny. Minuscule. Two bedrooms. My brother and I shared a room our entire lives. Ma said it made us closer. Not sure that was true, because the second my big bro graduated high school, he enlisted. He’s been career military ever since. We’re as close as two brothers can be while a continent away.

  Unlike the relationship I have with Bo and Royce. Those two guys I’d lay down my life for and vice versa. Our bond was born of hard work, solidarity, and true friendship. In our case, the trick to having lifelong friends is wanting the same things, at the same time.

  Women.

  Money.

  Power.

  There’s a set of rules the three of us have in our friendship and in our business: We never lose sight of one another’s best interests, honesty first, and never fuck the same woman. Ever.

  We’re going on five years in business and closing more high-profile clientele every day. Our business model is simple. Divide and conquer. Come together when needed. If a particular client has something specific that suits me or my partners’ expertise, we send out the right man for the job.

  For example, Bo is our resident Lovemaker. Not only do most clients fall ass-over-tits in love with him, he helps them find love. His expertise in wooing the opposite sex is unmatched. Royce and I can hold our own, but nothing compares to Bogart. He’s got his skills on lock. If a client needs to up her sex appeal, we call in Bo. If she needs arm candy to impress someone or seal a business deal . . . the same. Bo’s a chameleon; he can be whatever a woman needs.

  Then there’s Royce, the Moneymaker. Everything that man touches turns to gold. He sees things in numbers, financial climate changes, the stock market, global enterprise, and everything in between as though he’s reading his ABC’s. Roy has made us all very rich men at a very young age. He’s the main reason we were able to build our business so quickly while being less than a decade out of college. If a client has money problems, concerns about shifts in the tide of their business model, we send in Roy.

>   Me? I’m a little bit of all three rolled into one. Except I’m the only one who can read women. Figure out what makes them tick, their true need behind the request for our services. A woman may call to have us act in a love-coach capacity, but in reality, she already has a man she’s interested in and needs something to happen. It could be helping her make herself visible to the one she admires. Perhaps catch his eye. Or she could have confidence issues. Then again, she may just need help finding a man. Getting to the heart of what a woman truly wants is my job.

  When Bo, Royce, and I set out to start a business after we completed our degrees at Harvard together, we all anted up. At the time, my contribution was the business plan, concept, and theme. The three of us agreed that gave me 1 extra percent over my buddies. That means I own 34 percent to their 33 apiece. Which makes me the boss. I run the day-to-day operations and travel almost as much as they do; I’m the initial contact for every client. Over the past five years, we’ve become a well-oiled machine. There isn’t anything like being master of your own destiny, and the three of us have found that in International Guy.

  The neon-green lights pointing down from each awning surrounding my pops’s bar give the sidewalk an eerie, plasma-type glow as I walk around the building to the front. I’ve asked him time and time again to change the lighting, but he’s dead set on it. Says it gives the place intrigue. Lucky’s doesn’t need intrigue. It’s been around for fifty years with a solid local following in the neighborhood. From telltale businessmen who come in suits and ties to the local blue collars wearing their Red Sox caps. This place is a home away from home for me and has been since I was old enough to walk. Growing up, Pops brought me here every day after school. He’d have me sit my ass on a stool and he’d spend the afternoon telling me about life while I did my homework until Mom got off work.

  Once I was capable of helping out, he had me washing glasses, cleaning tabletops, sweeping sidewalks, and taking out the trash to chip in. I never minded helping out, especially since he’d knock me a bit of spending money that I’d blow on one skirt or another.

  Besides his family, this bar means everything to my father. Which is why it was the first thing I purchased when International Guy started showing a profit. The day I had enough money to buy out the original owner of Lucky’s and sign it over to my father will go down as one of the happiest moments of my life. I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. My pops has always been a proud man, but not one day in my life did he seem more proud of me than the day I handed over the deed, free and clear, to his dream.

  His pride had nothing to do with what I’d given him either. It was because I’d done what I set out to do. I graduated high school valedictorian and baseball star, continued on with a full scholarship to Harvard, got my bachelor’s degree with honors, and built my business, then used the good I had to give back. To my pops. The man I look up to and will look up to until the day one of us takes our last breath. He could have said no and turned me down, but he took what was given to him with honor and love. That’s the man he taught me to be.

  Now, me and the guys end our cases at Lucky’s over cold pints and peanuts, or on an especially good day, a heavy dose of vodka and fish and chips. Depends on the day and the case. Tonight, I’m bringing them the big dog, which is why I scheduled the meet here. The most lucrative client we’ve had yet. This job will pay for a month’s worth of client services and more in one agreement. However, it comes with a price of its own. Full access. Not something we’re used to offering.

  I shiver as I tug on the wrought iron–spindle handle and pull back the thick wooden door to Lucky’s. The place is already hopping, and it’s only seven on a Tuesday night. I scan the room, taking in the dark-mahogany beams, high-back booths along the side wall with stained-glass separators, and the variety of rounds in the center. During the general evening hours, Lucky’s serves a small variety of pub grub, which works well when knocking back a few brews or watching the Red Sox or the Pats play.

  Pops is at the bar, his ever-present flannel shirt on, blue this time with a white thermal underneath. A towel hangs over his shoulder. He lifts his head as I walk in, a grin plastered to his face. At fifty-five, he looks damn good for his age. Sprinkles of salt and pepper lick at the edges of his hairline. A bright-white smile beams at me, the same one that’s kept customers coming back for some of my dad’s sage wisdom. Bartenders are often used as therapists. Dad has always joked that he chose the wrong profession.

  I wave and head over to the back table where my guys always sit. Since Pops took over ownership of the bar, he’s kept one table open at all times for family members only. It’s where Pops takes a load off, or Mom sits and reads when she wants to be near him but not in his way. And it’s where me and my “brothers from other mothers” sit to decompress after a long week or a hard case.

  “Yo, Park, how’s it hanging, brother?” Bo calls out as I approach. He’s wearing his favorite black leather jacket over a fitted tee and dark jeans with a pair of motorcycle boots.

  “To my knees, how do you think?” I shoot back.

  Royce stands, his chocolate skin shining in the overhead lighting. He holds out a hand, a black onyx cuff link peeking out from the sleeve of his tailored suit. “Brother.” His smile is wide and bright white.

  I shake his hand and clap him on the back in greeting.

  Just as I sit, Pops comes over and sets down a pint. “Sculpin IPA from Ballast Point, out of San Diego. Bringing in something new for the boys to try. Not local but damn good, if you ask me. Let me know how it goes.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Pops.”

  “You got it. Boys? Another?” He gestures to the guys’ drinks.

  “I’m good, Pops.” Bo sips on his still-half-full beer.

  “Thanks. I’ll take another whiskey neat, sir,” Royce responds.

  Pops offers a chin lift before moving on to his other tables.

  “So who’s this hush-hush big client you wanted to meet about?” Bo asks, getting right down to it.

  I take a swallow of the chilled beer, letting the citrus notes roll over my tongue. I lick my lips and sigh, releasing the rush of the day and feeling the comfort of home settle deep in my bones. “Got a call from an heiress today.”

  Bo spins his bottle around in a circle. “Say what?”

  “Took a call earlier today from Sophie Rolland.”

  Royce whistles sharply. “Damn. The Sophie Rolland?”

  I nod and suck back more of the crisp IPA.

  “Who the hell is Sophie Rolland?” Bo scowls. The guy has a harsh edge that drives the ladies wild, but it can be tiresome for the rest of us if he isn’t kept in the loop.

  Royce cocks a sharp black eyebrow and focuses on our partner. “Sophie Rolland is the heir to the Rolland Group empire. They own the largest perfume company in all of France. Worth billions last I read. I’d need to do a little current research to confirm exact numbers.”

  “And how does this affect us?” Bo jumps in.

  “Rolland Senior died suddenly from a heart attack,” I state flatly. I didn’t know the man, so I’m not altogether saddened by the news.

  “No?” Royce’s eyes widen, and he lifts his whiskey up toward the ceiling. “Salud,” he murmurs, and tosses the rest back in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs with the effort. “Ho-lee smokes.”

  There’s my baller. I shake my head and grin. “Yep.”

  “What am I missing? Someone care to clue a guy in?” Bo grumbles, getting visibly irritated with us.

  “Sophie Rolland is the new woman in charge.” I sip my beer, waiting for him to catch up.

  “And she doesn’t know her perfumes from a flower and her asshole?” Bo guesses.

  Roy and I burst out laughing.

  “Not exactly. Apparently, scent is her thing. Family trait passed down. The art of being a CEO, running a business, and looking the part . . . now that she fails at beautifully.” I raise my glass toward Roy, and he smiles.

  “I see. And who be
st to do the job of getting her ready to take the helm of the company after her father’s passing?” Royce offers smartly.

  “Ah, now I’m with you.” Bo grins.

  Pops puts down a new drink for Royce and another bottle for Bo, obviously thinking ahead. “How’s the IPA?”

  “Great. Fresh taste, crisp. I like it. Think it will do well here.”

  Pops slaps the table. “That’s what I’m talking about! Thanks, son.” He hustles off to serve other patrons.

  “What’s the bid?” Bo asks.

  The bid is what we refer to as the amount the client initially offers for our services. They come in with a first number, which we usually consider and up it where appropriate. This one came in high right from the start.

  “Quarter to a half mil, depending on how long she needs us.” I throw this out there casually, though my insides are moving at the speed of light with nervous energy. “She also pays for everything: flights, meals, any outside consultants, makeover, etc.”

  Both men go dead silent. We can hear one another breathe in the small booth.

  Royce being Royce speaks first. “Who you thinking of sending in? What’s the need?”

  “For that kind of money out the gate, we all go in. You work with her on finances and company intel when the time comes. Bo will work his magic on her wardrobe and sex appeal. I’ll go in for confidence and business savvy.”

  Bo plucks at the short brown hairs of his goatee-mustache combo. His hair is currently cropped short at the sides and layered on top, whereas my sandy-brown hair has long, loose layers that I comb back with a little gel. Women are always complimenting me on my hair, and I love the way they hold on to it, tugging at the roots while I go down on them.

  I swallow more beer, waiting for his thoughts. Bo pulls out his phone and types in something. He squints and swipes at the screen. “Yeah, girl’s pretty, but a plain Jane. Most of the pics of her are when she was younger, a teenager. Says here she’s only twenty-four, just out of college.”

  “Yeah, and not only is she grieving for the one and only parent she grew up with, but she’s now got the burden of taking over the company.” I glance over his shoulder, taking in the image of our client. She’s long and lean, standing by her father’s side at a press conference. She’s wearing a simple black dress, no makeup, and her hair is parted down the middle, straight and flat on both sides of her face. Underneath all that plainness is a knockout. I’m certain of it, and from the way Bo is tilting his head and assessing her the way he does his models for his photos, he knows it too. Together, we’ll find a way to bring it out of her.