International Guy_Copenhagen Read online

  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.

  eISBN: 9781503957541

  Cover design by Letitia Hasser

  Cover photography by Wander Aguiar Photography

  To Susanne Bent Andersen and

  Christina Yhman Kaarsberg.

  You believed in my stories

  and shared your beautiful hearts with me.

  I’ll forever be humbled by your kindness.

  To the rest of the team at Lindhardt and Ringhof.

  I cannot thank you enough for

  bringing me to your beautiful country.

  CONTENTS

  NOTE TO THE READER

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  SKYLER

  If you want...

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY AUDREY CARLAN

  NOTE TO THE READER

  This book, as with any of my tales, is a work of fiction. I have used my imagination with wild abandon and intermingled bits and pieces of real locations in Denmark, as well as places I personally experienced during my time there, to provide the reader with a glorious story.

  The royal family of Denmark, their lineage, and their rich history are beyond enchanting. However, they’re also very specific. Names, royal status, the lines of the monarchy, etc. have all been crafted by me and do not follow the exact current practices of the Danish monarchy.

  1

  Royally screwed. That’s the predominant feeling spiraling through my gut as I flip through page after page of information on the Kaarsberg royals and the heir apparent to the throne of Denmark. The royal monarchy of Denmark is rife with history, but connecting the dots of which prince belongs to who, which princess is supposed to be the next queen, is making a stiff drink necessary.

  I smile, since the flight attendant for Scandinavian Airlines has excellent timing, serving me the blessed gin and tonic I ordered a few minutes ago.

  “Thank you.”

  “Du er velkommen,” she returns, which I’ve since learned is the Danish equivalent of “you’re welcome.”

  My overly competent assistant helpfully provided me with common Danish phrases to study while on the plane, along with an absurd amount of information on Princess Christina Kaarsberg. Apparently there’s a special way you’re supposed to address those of the royal family, and I’m royally going to screw it up, because it’s confusing as hell.

  Why in the world did I agree to this job?

  Simple.

  Money.

  Lots of it.

  Apparently my good friend Sophie gets around. It’s as if she’s International Guy’s fairy godmother. We scored Skyler Paige as a client from her and now a princess from Denmark. Technically, though, it’s the princess’s mother who’s hired us. She is also a princess and the first person I’m meeting with when I arrive in Copenhagen. Of course, it’s all on the hush-hush. No one is to know why I’m there, just that I’m a consultant to the royal family.

  As I understand it, we’ve been hired to help a princess who’s about to wed the next king of Denmark. According to the files Wendy provided, there are a lot of options for Crown Prince Sven to choose from as it pertains to marriage. From my reading, I’ve noted that those in direct line for the throne are no longer required to marry royalty; however, the successor to the Danish throne as the ruling monarch must be a direct descendant of the previous monarch. Princess Kaarsberg is far from being next in line for the throne, so I’m unclear as to the background or the official reason why they need IG’s assistance. Perhaps the mother is trying to create a sure thing for the prince to choose from?

  Uncertain, I go back to the files, flipping to the page that shows Princess Christina. She’s absolutely beautiful. Regal and elegant with striking bone structure and overall features. Her hair is a chestnut brown that falls in waves over her shoulders, with heavy bangs gracefully caressing the skin just above her eyebrows. She has bright-blue eyes that rival the sky on a cloudless day. Her lips are heart shaped, a succulent crimson, and pursed coyly in the image. That cheeky smirk tells its own tale for sure. I’ve fallen for many naughty girls with that look . . . well, fallen into bed with them, that is.

  One thing I notice straightaway is that she doesn’t look the part of a prim and proper princess. No, this woman has a bad-girl streak a mile long, as proven by the tabloid images of her partying hard in some of Copenhagen’s most popular clubs and bars. Unafraid of the limelight, she struts her stuff all over the party scene. There are even a few pictures of her in a minuscule red sequined dress where the hemline barely covers her ass. I gotta admit, her body is spectacular. Large breasts, tiny waist, rounded hips, and shapely legs. She’d make any man fall to his knees and worship that hourglass figure. Surprisingly the one thing I don’t see is her with other men. In none of the pictures does she share space with a man on her arm. For a girl with her looks and appeal, she should have them hanging off her in droves.

  So, what gives?

  Another question I store in the vault for later while I riffle through my laptop bag and pull out the book I picked up on the way to the airport.

  Bared to You by Sylvia Day.

  Just seeing the cover has my skin prickling with desire for the woman I left behind in New York. I sigh and lean back in the cushy first-class seat, thinking about my blonde actress.

  What is she doing right now?

  Is she thinking about me?

  How is she sleeping?

  That last question hits me hard because, since I left her bed in New York three days ago, I haven’t slept for shit. Who would have thought three weeks of sharing a bed with someone would be so life altering, but it is. My mind is constantly going back to her in her tower in the sky. I’ve chickened out and only exchanged texts with my beauty, but I want to hear her voice. Need to.

  I suck back a mouthful of my drink, allowing the gin and tonic to settle my nerves a bit while I close my eyes.

  Her face is all I see. Eyes the color of caramel candy. Pink cheeks. Kiss-swollen lips. Blonde waves spreading out like rays of sunshine over the pillowcase.

  Kiss me, honey, I hear in my head, and tremors of futile anticipation skitter along my psyche.

  I grind my teeth and shake off the overwhelming urge I have to see, speak to, and be near her. Skyler freakin’ Paige. My dream girl, my Peaches, and so much more. Spending three weeks with her was like a child spending three weeks in Disneyland. Only I’m certain I had more fun. Everything about Skyler is fun. Her essence, her humor, the crinkle to her nose, her gorgeous body, the way she tries to avoid gnawing on her nails when she’s nervous. All of that and she gorges on sex, wanting it as much as I do. All of it calls to me. It’s primal. A sensation I’ve not had with any other woman in my life.

  Since I left three days ago, I’ve been trying to wrap my head around how she’s done such a number on me. The only thing I could think of was because she’s Skyler freakin’ Paige. Celebrity goddess. Only that doesn’t fly, because the per
son she is on the big screen is not the person she is at home. Within the confines of her penthouse, she’s the girl next door. Gobbles up PB&Js regularly, walks around barefoot, wears a ton of necklaces and tinkling bracelets with her tank tops and a variety of well-worn jeans. Some are super fitted, and others have seen better days; she rocks them all. Perfectly. Her hair is never done. It’s always in wild, beachy waves or a messy bun. Nothing like the red carpet or the advertisements you see plastered all over the tabloids. And when the People magazine piece comes out, the rest of the world is going to know it too.

  No more perfect Skyler who never eats pizza and wears only name brands. Soon, the world is going to find out what I’ve come to know is true. That Skyler freakin’ Paige has a beautiful soul, a humorous personality, and just as many insecurities as any woman in her midtwenties who wants to be accepted and loved.

  I tap the top of the book I bought, the book Skyler loves and says reminds her of us.

  Us.

  A novel concept for me. Being part of an “us.” I’m not exactly sure what that means other than I want more of her, more of being with her. If that’s what an “us” is, then I’m all for it. The last time I was in a monogamous relationship was back in college.

  Kayla McCormick.

  The bitch.

  The cunt.

  The woman who ruined me for all others.

  I never forgave her for banging my best friend. I can still remember the glint of the diamond I put on her finger, proudly displayed while she took Greg’s cock from behind. Walking in on her—that moment is seared into my brain. Even the bullshit lines he gave me. Blathering on about it being her fault. She coerced him. Seduced him.

  Total loser.

  The line in the sand had been drawn for both of them. Kayla was tossed out of my life alongside my best friend, Greg. Royce and Bo showed their loyalty by kicking the douchecanoe to the curb too. Said no true brother would ever lie down with another man’s woman. To them, it was the worst crime, punishable by removing him from our group, our future plans for International Guy Inc., and our lives for good.

  Kayla wasn’t as hard of a pill for them to swallow. They’d never trusted her, told me from the beginning she was bad news, but I was smitten. Thought she was the end-all, be-all. I was wrong and vowed from that day on to never make that decision again. And I stuck to that. Until Skyler.

  I blow out a long breath and suck back another swallow of my drink. Are we exclusive? Is the “us” she referred to a committed us, or the regular us? We’d both agreed to keep things casual and not apply any labels.

  All I know is that I want to see her again. Does that mean I want to see only her? I guess time will tell. Though the mere flicker of the idea that another man could be putting his dirty paws on her succulent skin right now drives me to toss back the rest of my drink in one go, then lift my arm and make eye contact with the flight attendant to get my drink refreshed.

  Shit. It didn’t dawn on me until now that Skyler might want to spread her wings as it pertains to the opposite sex. I grit my teeth and frown.

  What claim do I have on her? We had three weeks together followed by the agreement that we’d meet up as the desire hit. So far, we’ve exchanged a few texts and she sent me the sexiest damn image ever. I turn over my phone, click on “Photos” to the one I saved that she sent that first night after I left.

  Sleep-tousled hair in wild waves around her makeup-free face. Her lips swollen from the endless kisses I’d given her. She covered her breasts with her arm but pushed them up enough to give me a heaping dose of sexy cleavage. It doesn’t matter that she covered them. I know exactly what they look like. Those rose-tipped globes, the perfect size for each of my hands, are seared into the back of my mind.

  “Wow, lucky guy,” the businessman sitting next to me says, leaning over the space between us to peer at Skyler. “Hey, isn’t that . . .” He shakes his head as if he can’t believe it himself and murmurs, “Never mind.”

  I frown and shoot daggers at him. He looks like a nice enough guy. Thin, fine suit, glasses, slicked-back hair. Probably some bigwig at a company. Then again, I’m kind of some bigwig at a company too, rocking my own suit, though mine is far trendier. I made a point to wear one of my best suits. In fact, it’s the same suit I wore when I took Skyler out to the Italian restaurant. The night my picture appeared alongside hers in countless smut mags, all attempting—to no avail—to figure out who I am.

  The good thing about being unknown rather than famous is that you’re not usually recognizable. I know if I keep seeing Skyler in any regular capacity, my name will likely make it into the press, but being on a beautiful woman’s arm has never hurt my reputation. Besides, I have a policy when it comes to the press.

  Fuck them.

  The man next to me lifts a hand in supplication. “Sorry. I happened to glance over, and when you catch a glimpse of a beautiful woman, it’s not easy to look away.” His eyes are honest and his tone genuine.

  Besides, he’s not wrong.

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Lucky guy to have her waiting for you back home.” He smiles and leans back in his chair. “Wife?”

  I purse my lips and rub at my bottom one with my thumb. “No.”

  His eyebrows rise, and he smiles. “I don’t know about you, but if I had a woman who looked like that warming my bed back home, I’d put the biggest diamond possible on her finger. I mean, you can’t have missed that she’s a dead ringer for that hot actress Skyler Paige.”

  I grin, and a chuckle slips out. “Yeah, she does look like her.”

  “Look like her? Spot on, man.” He holds out a hand. “Lawrence Burn, pharmaceuticals.”

  I shake it. “Parker Ellis, consulting.”

  “Yeah? What kind?”

  “A little of this and a little of that. My partners and I help high-profile clientele with a variety of unorthodox problems.”

  “Such as?” Larry takes a sip of his whiskey neat and turns his body toward mine in a relaxed pose that shows he’s open and interested in the conversation.

  I rub my hands together. “Could be anything. We recently helped a woman, who’d taken over a large family business, learn the art of running a company, being the CEO and looking the part, and taking charge of her life professionally and personally.” I think back to Skyler, mostly because she’s not far from my mind these days. “We’ve assisted an entertainer who’d lost her desire to perform. I found the root of the problem and worked through it with her so that she could go back to doing what she loved most. We also do the standard business and financial consulting, a bit of matchmaking where needed . . . all provided the price is right.” I wink and shrug. “It honestly depends on the problem. More than anything we’re a jack-of-all-trades company. Problem solvers to the extreme.”

  “Sounds like you’ve created an interesting niche for yourself.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “May I have your card?” he asks.

  I raise my eyebrows and chuckle. “You in need of some unique services?”

  He laughs. “Not at this time, but you never know what the future may bring.”

  I pull out my card from my laptop bag and hand it to him. “Indeed.”

  “International Guy, eh?”

  The flight attendant brings my refreshed drink and takes away the empty glass.

  “That’s right.” I sip at my new drink, appreciating the wedge of lime hugging the rim, the citrus bite teasing my taste buds.

  He finishes his drink and gestures at the attendant for another. “Tell me more.”

  The sun is just kissing the horizon as the blacked-out, lush Audi Q5 smoothly comes to a stop in front of Kaarsberg Slot. According to my handy-dandy Danish notes from Wendy, slot means “castle” or “palace.” Exiting the car, I breathe in the full, crisp early-evening air and let it out. A peaceful sensation comes over me as I take in the majestic building and grounds.

  The palace is small in size when comparing it to wh
at the average person thinks a castle might represent. It looks more like a sprawling white estate home one might find smack-dab in the middle of a valley of hills and trees. Denmark’s countryside reminds me a lot of what I’ve seen in the über-rich part of Georgia back in the States. Manicured lawns as far as the eye can see. A bright-white building with a shiny black metal roof and a turret-shaped center with a perfect dome. Vertical rectangular windows are perfectly placed equidistant along the face of the castle, at least a baker’s dozen across and three levels high. Definitely not the biggest palace I’ve seen, especially taking into account my college days when I toured plenty of European castles.

  Chicks dig anything royal. ’Nuff said.

  “I’ll take your things inside through the garage, Mr. Ellis.”

  “I can take them—” I attempt, but he shakes his head, moves to the front of the car, and starts the engine once more. As he does so, the front door opens, and a man—likely the butler—in a bespoke suit complete with tails stands with the door ajar.

  “Her Highness Princess Mary Kaarsberg is expecting you, Mr. Ellis. Please do come in and follow me to the receiving room.” The older gentleman has a thick Danish accent. If I had to guess, I’d place him in his fifties. Has probably worked for the Kaarsberg royal family his entire career too.

  My shoes squeak slightly on the white marble floor as I walk. I cringe but force myself to stay cool, calm, and collected. Sure, this is a bizarre job, but if one really delves deep into the work we do, all of our contracts are unusual. Just add royals to the ever-growing list of clientele we’ve got under our belt.

  “In here, Mr. Ellis. Her Highness has already arrived.” He opens the door and holds his arm out. “Your Highness, may I present Mr. Parker Ellis.”

  A tall, slender, gorgeous woman in a form-fitting yellow A-line dress turns from the window she is standing in front of. Her golden hair gleams in the fading light of the afternoon. “Mr. Ellis. Thank you for coming.”

  “Very pleased to be here in your beautiful country, Your Highness.”