International Guy_Paris, New York, Copenhagen Read online

  “Then what’s the problem?” I lean forward and place my elbows on my knees, my fingers steepled so that I can rest my chin on them.

  “I’m not certain. The crown prince’s father, the king, became very ill this past year, and a short few months ago, Sven lost his older brother, the heir apparent, in a horrendous riding accident. With his passing, Crown Prince Sven became next in line for the throne. Since that time, Christina has been acting strangely. Going out at all hours of the night. Appearing in tabloids wearing next to nothing. Disgracing the Kaarsberg royal family name.” She practically sneers, but she’s holding herself back, based on how tight her mouth purses. “How much do you know about the Danish monarchy, Mr. Ellis?”

  I sigh. “I’m afraid very little, ma’am.”

  She nods curtly. “I see. Then I shall update you on the most important facets. There are four branches of the dynastic royal family; King Frederik is the head of the ruling branch. Only a direct descendant from his branch can assume the throne. After Enok passed, Sven became the heir apparent, the crown prince. In the last three generations, the spouse of the ruling monarch has been from families other than the dynastic branches. Sven marrying a woman from one of the dynastic branches will provide a link between the dynastic branches and ties to the throne itself, which will have immense historical implications for the monarchy.”

  “So, the crown prince becomes king, and when he marries your daughter, she will become the queen of Denmark. What’s the problem? Besides your daughter taking a wild turn the last few months?”

  “My daughter has stated emphatically that she does not wish to be queen.”

  I open my mouth, but my throat suddenly feels as dry as the desert.

  “She wants the crown prince to let her go and marry her sister, Elizabeth.”

  My head jolts back as if it has a mind of its own. “Let me get this straight. Your daughter wants to pawn off the future king to her sister?” I laugh heartily before realizing I’m the only one laughing.

  The princess narrows her eyes and shoots daggers through her icy gaze. I’m guessing she didn’t like my response. A prickle of sweat hits my hairline as I realize I need to be more careful, and definitely more professional, with this woman.

  “If you are quite finished . . . ,” she scolds.

  “Yes, I’m sorry, Your Highness. Please continue.” I clear my throat, embarrassment coating my tone.

  “Princess Elizabeth would gladly accept the honor of marrying the crown prince. He’s quite handsome, known to be fair, and kind.” Her lips flatten, and a muscle in her cheek flickers. “Unfortunately, the crown prince wants Christina. No other woman will do. And that’s where you come in . . .”

  I frown as her blue eyes gleam with intelligence, her gaze meeting mine. We stare at one another for a few moments, almost as if we’re fighting a battle. A battle which she wins, hands down, as I look away then back at the princess, who hasn’t moved a muscle.

  “You need to tame my daughter’s wicked ways, prepare her to marry the crown prince, and convince her to accept her rightful place as the next queen of Denmark.”

  Mic. Drop.

  2

  Tame a freakin’ princess. In order to tame one, I have to find her first!

  “Easier said than done,” I grumble as I pull the handle of the door to the last bar on the list of places Wendy says the princess frequents. She did a round of funky poaching on our wild royal, tracked her credit cards as well as social feeds and tabloid sightings to provide me a list of her local haunts to visit.

  Jolene is a small bar that boasts a chill atmosphere, cold beer, a young crowd, and music by way of DJs spinning the latest tunes or a live band. Tonight, it’s a DJ. The entire place is an eerie red, making it difficult to place faces and hair coloring as I walk through the throngs of patrons. Finding a brunette with blue eyes and blue blood is not going to be easy. And that’s if she’s even here.

  Frustrated, tired, and hungry as hell, I make my way to the bar and order up a cold one.

  “Rough night?” a stick-thin woman wearing tight jeans and a tank says as she places a pale lager in front of me. Her black hair is cut into a homely-looking bob that does nothing to add to her features. I scan her form. At least six feet tall, super thin, with legs for days. The woman is going to need to find a basketball player in order to match her height and slight build. Still, she has a great smile and big doe eyes.

  I swallow a long pull of the cool lager, ending with an audible “Ah.” After taking the seven-and-a-half-hour flight, chatting with the elder Princess Kaarsberg, and spending the last few hours searching bars and clubs for a wandering royal with no success . . . I’m beat. Positively dragging ass.

  “You could say that. Hey, does this place have food available?”

  She nods. “Only bar fare, I’m afraid.”

  My mouth waters at the mere mention of food. “Anything. Burger. Steak. I’ll take what I can get, as long as it’s no longer mooing.” My stomach growls, but you can’t hear it over the sounds of the DJ playing.

  “We have a burger, but it’s not going to taste American.” She frowns.

  I grin. “I’m an equal-opportunity burger lover. All nationalities’ versions are tasty.” I wink at her, and she smiles and shakes her head. “If not the burger, what do you recommend?”

  She purses her lips. “If you want to go classic Danish, step outside of your American tastes, I’d suggest the frikadeller smørrebrød. To you, it would be considered an open-faced meatball sandwich. It’s rye bread slathered with butter, then topped with homemade meatballs and cheese—”

  I hold up my hand. “’Nuff said. You had me at meatballs and cheese. Order it up. I’m starved.”

  “You got it.” She’s already moving to the back, where I can see a kitchen.

  Sipping my beer, I look around, watching the young bodies gyrating on the small dance floor. Other people are sitting around tables, screaming over the sound of the music. As I watch the crowd, I stop on a lone figure sashaying my way. Tall. Curves for days. Dark hair in waves around her face. Her skin-tight dress cuts across her bouncing breasts in a square tank style. The hem barely hits midthigh, which normally would have “the beast” noticing in a hot second flat. Only there’s something extremely familiar about this girl.

  As she walks up toward the bar where I’m sitting, one of the spinning lights passes over her face. Big blue eyes, brown hair, heart-shaped lips in a natural, come-hither pout.

  Fuck me.

  The bombshell who just walked up to the bar right next to where I’m sitting, two men in suits trailing behind her looking positively menacing and watchful, is my fucking target.

  Princess Christina.

  She gives me the side-eye and smiles tightly. “Hey. Can I sit here?”

  I lick my lips and hold out my hand, gesturing to the chair. “Be my guest.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She pops onto the stool and crosses those long legs, giving me a wide expanse of naked, toned thigh.

  Damn. I get why the crown prince would be gaga over the princess. She’s lush.

  I swallow and clear my throat before holding out my hand in greeting. “Parker.”

  She cocks an eyebrow and huffs before taking the bait and putting her hand in mine. “Christina.”

  “Pretty name for a pretty woman,” I say, letting my gut do the talking.

  She inhales and half rolls her eyes, glancing away before I can catch the full blow-off. I wait for it, knowing it’s coming. I can almost see her brain working.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  “I’ll bet you tell all the girls that?” Her tone is bored with an edge of condescension.

  “Now what would make you think that?” I give her my best cocky smile. The one that works on all the single ladies.

  “Unbelievable,” she says under her breath, but I can still hear it. “Probably because I’ve heard that line . . . oh . . . about a hundred times.”

&n
bsp; I take a pull from my lager but let her continue.

  She runs her hand through her long tresses. It probably doesn’t dawn on her how sexy that move is to a man. If she’s trying not to be sexy, she’s failing miserably.

  “Men all want one thing. Maybe I just came out and wanted a beer.”

  I snort. “Really? If that was the case, why are you wearing a micromini with a pair of fuck-me shoes sky high?”

  She quirks her head toward me and leans an elbow to the bar, a coy smile in place. “Maaaaybeeee I just wanted to look nice . . . for myself.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, Princess, you aren’t fooling me, or any other hot-blooded male in here. You’re asking for attention, and you’re getting it. What I want to know is why?”

  Her features twist into an expression of disgust. “So you know who I am. Big deal. Everyone here does.” She flips her hair off her shoulder and sits up straighter.

  The bartender sets down my food, and my stomach rumbles. My mouth waters at the aroma of the meaty goodness. I unroll my utensils, lay the napkin over my lap, and prepare to tuck in. “I know more about you than you think, Christina,” I declare, before cutting into my sandwich, making sure there’s plenty of meatball, cheese, and bread in the bite before I stuff the entire lot into my mouth.

  Taste explosion. Fireworks in my mouth. The spices, meat, cheese, and sauce are the bomb! I can’t chew and swallow fast enough in order to get another bite in.

  “You don’t know anything about me. Besides, based on your accent, you’re American. Probably a businessman looking for a good-time girl. Well . . . Parker, I’m not her. Besides, I’m taken.” She raises her chin with an air of pretentiousness.

  I raise my eyebrows and look her dead in the face. “Really? Based on the tabloids I read, you are free as a bird. Though there were whispers of you being considered for a royal match. Is that no longer true?”

  Her lips tighten. “My sister will wed a royal.”

  “Is that right? Princess Elizabeth?”

  She clenches her teeth and responds through them. “Yes,” she says, like it’s almost painful to spit out.

  “Hmm, you see, when I met with your mother, Princess Mary, earlier, that is not exactly the story she told. From what I understand, Crown Prince Sven wants you.” I twirl my finger in front of her in a circle, mimicking zeroing in on a target.

  She narrows her eyes until they are only tiny little slits.

  “Who are you? Why are you talking to my mother?” She sits up straight and leans in closer.

  I just cut into my sandwich and stuff in another bite. Man, the food is delicious. I raise up my glass in thanks to the bartender for the recommendation while chewing away. She smiles wide and continues assisting another customer.

  “Answer me,” Christina growls.

  Once I finish chewing and wash the food down with tasty lager, I turn toward her, opening my thighs and getting more comfortable.

  “Your mother hired me. I’m a consultant from the States.” I pull a card out of my inside jacket pocket and hand it to her.

  She squints and repeats what she reads. “Parker Ellis, CEO, International Guy Inc.”

  “That’s me.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  I shrug. “A bit of everything. For now? Today? This case? I’ve been hired by your mother to get you to marry the prince.”

  Her body jolts back. “You’re kidding?”

  I shake my head, dip into my food with my fork, and hold the bite up. “’Fraid not, Princess.” I take the bite and chew while she sits silently.

  Christina turns toward the bar and lifts her hand. “I’m going to need a couple of shots of Jameson,” she hollers out to the bartender, who nods and hops to it.

  Irish whiskey? I like it.

  “I’ll have one of those too!” I add to the order. “Add them to my tab.”

  She frowns. “I don’t need you paying for my drinks.”

  I grin. “Well, since I just dropped a bomb on you, I figure I owe you one.”

  “So it wasn’t a coincidence, you being here tonight. How did you find me?”

  I tilt my head. “Princess, do you really think you’re that hard to find?”

  She pouts. “I guess not. Being in the public eye has its disadvantages. There’s nowhere you can go that’s your own.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I’d say if I had a big-ass castle like the crown prince does, I’ll bet there are plenty of rooms you could be alone in.”

  She sighs and rubs at her forehead. The bartender puts two shots in front of her and one in front of me. The princess grabs the first without even looking at me and shoots it back. A woman with an agenda, and that agenda is to get sloshed.

  “Hey . . . I was going to make some type of backhanded toast.” I chuckle.

  Christina smiles briefly and turns toward me with her remaining shot. “Go on . . . I’m waiting.”

  I lift the shot and stare straight into her pretty blue eyes. “To owning your future.”

  She closes her eyes briefly and slams the shot back.

  Right as she’s about to say something, one of the men in suits comes up to her and whispers in her ear.

  “Did they get a photo of her being the perfect little princess at dinner with Mother and Father this evening?” she asks, ignoring my presence altogether.

  The suit nods.

  “Excellent. And they’re here now?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Perfect. Showtime.” She smiles, stands up, and runs her hands down her dress, pulling the hem even higher than it should go. Definitely closing in on indecent. Then she leans forward, jiggles her big breasts, and tugs at the square edge so that her tits are practically popping out of the garment.

  “What the fuck?” I grate through my teeth.

  “Gotta go.” She fluffs her hair and turns on her heel. On instinct, I grab her wrist.

  One of the suits immediately places a firm grip on my shoulder. “Let her go, man. I can kill you where you stand, and I have the authority to do so.” His words are direct and scary as hell, because I believe he can and will follow through on his threat.

  I swallow and let her go. “Just wait a minute . . .”

  She turns and looks over her shoulder. “Can’t. The paparazzi’s here and need a good show.”

  I frown. “But . . .”

  She wiggles her fingers my way. “Bye, Parker.”

  The princess walks away, and I’d chase her down, but honestly, the shot, beer, and a belly full of protein and carbs, alongside a heaping dose of jet lag, have made me lethargic. I feel glued to my stool.

  “What the hell just happened?” I shake my head and turn back to the bartender, who’s standing right in front of me watching the princess sashay through the crowd.

  “I wish she wouldn’t do that,” she murmurs.

  “Do what?” I lean forward to hear what she has to say over the loud music.

  “The song and dance.” She waves her hand in the air up and down. “That whole thing. Showing her goods off for the paparazzi.” She shrugs.

  “What do you mean by song and dance?” I ask, trying to wrap my tired brain around her words.

  She places her hand on the bar and shakes her head. “Pretend she’s a train wreck.”

  “Why would she do that?” I ask, realizing the woman’s mind is clearly working far better than my own.

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  I frown. “Not to me, no.”

  She sighs. “To get negative attention. It makes her look bad. And I’ll just bet tomorrow there will be some slutty, drunken-looking photo of Christina side by side with a perfectly poised one of her sister, Princess Elizabeth. The people have it all wrong. She’s never drunk. I’ve known her for years. That’s the first time I’ve even seen her take more than one shot.” The woman wipes the bar but keeps talking. “She’s playing a game, but I don’t know what it is. Anyway, here’s your tab. You look like you’re about to do a face-plant in
to the rest of your plate.”

  I nod and hand over my credit card. “This is true. Can you call a cab for me?”

  “Sure.”

  While she does so, I sip the rest of my lager and think about what she said and the princess’s actions right before she left. It was as if she was waiting for the press to arrive so she could do her dog and pony show. Pulled down her top to show more cleavage, and hiked up her hem to look indecent. But why?

  The question racks my brain as I make my way out of the bar. The cold air has me buttoning up my suit jacket and wishing I’d grabbed my coat.

  The taxi arrives, and I give them the address of the Kaarsberg Slot.

  “You sure? That’s a royal castle.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’m working for them.”

  “Guess we’ll have to see about that at the guard shack.”

  “It will be fine. I promise.”

  He shrugs as my phone buzzes.

  I pull it out of my jacket and look at the screen. Before I left, Wendy added Google Alerts on Christina Kaarsberg so that I’d stay abreast of any news that occurred. I click on the first link from a celebrity rag.

  “Princess Wars” the headline says, showing a picture of Princess Christina looking like the bombshell that she is, leaving this very bar only twenty minutes ago. Her boobs are practically falling out of her dress, the hem so short you can almost see the edge of her ass. Even with the debauched pictures, she’s blowing a kiss at the camera as though she loves the attention. A bold blue font is slanted over the picture, saying Party Girl. The picture next to hers is one of her sister, Princess Elizabeth, standing outside of a hotel restaurant. Her hand is delicately placed in the crook of her father’s arm, her mother standing on the other side. Princess Elizabeth is smiling, wearing a perfectly fitted white dress, hem down to her knees, simple nude heels, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a classic low ponytail. She’s the epitome of Danish class. She looks more like an angel to her sister’s devilish bombshell. The caption above her head says Sweet Girl.

  Then there’s a place below the pictures for voting on who the crown prince should pick as his queen.