International Guy: Copenhagen (International Guy Series Book 3) Page 7

  “And why isn’t this information public knowledge?” I ask.

  The princess sighs. “Probably because my daughter is excellent at keeping secrets. She doesn’t share this information with anyone. I was told by the crown prince some time ago about my daughter’s extracurricular activities.”

  “And yet you focus on how she may be tarnishing the Kaarsberg name by going out and having a good time like any normal woman in her twenties.”

  The princess stands abruptly. “Mr. Ellis. My daughter is not normal, she’s royalty. Everything she does is fodder for the media. Her activities at night are unbecoming and have caught the press’s attention. The images of her have been atrocious. Now tell me, what have you done to help solve this problem?”

  “Has the princess been out since I arrived?” I smile.

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Exactly. It takes time, and I’ve only been here a few days, though Christina knows I’m watching, waiting in the wings. Since my arrival, the princess hasn’t been out in a few days, which, from what I understand, is a nice break in her activities.”

  She purses her lips and cocks a brow. “True. Please see to this new behavior becoming a more permanent one.”

  I shake my head and attempt to not fire off what I really want to say, because it’s liable to get me fired, and I want to help Christina.

  “Look. Something’s going on with Princess Christina. I’ve spoken to both Sven and Elizabeth. Sven will marry no other. He’s madly in love with Christina.”

  “Yes, I am aware of his affections.”

  “And yet you’ve encouraged Elizabeth to step into the role of queen by marrying her dead fiancé’s brother.”

  Princess Mary’s jaw clenches, and her face turns a dark shade of pink. “Elizabeth has been groomed to be queen her entire life. It makes perfect sense that she would serve in that role. Unfortunately, after repeated attempts at getting Sven to see good reason, he continues to deny this fact. Which is why you have been called in, Mr. Ellis.”

  I grip the back of the chair tight enough my knuckles turn white. “Christina is under the impression that her sister would make a better queen—”

  “She would,” Mary says flatly with absolutely no remorse.

  I suck in a full breath, once more trying to calm my ire. “I imagine if you’re told all your life that your sister should be queen, that you’d make a terrible one, and all of a sudden, that moment arises where you are put into a position to serve in that capacity, you’d turn it down.”

  “Then it seems you have your work cut out for you, Mr. Ellis. I suggest you get to it.” She dismisses me the same way she would shoo a fly away.

  “Thank you, Princess,” I grind out through my teeth, then turn on my heel and walk out in search of Henrik.

  “Monday through Wednesday, Princess Christina is at the Rigshospitalet . . .” He says the Danish word so fast I can barely hear it.

  “The main hospital,” he reiterates for my benefit in English. “Monday she’s usually in the cancer ward. She spends time with women and men who are currently battling cancer or children who need some playtime. Tuesday she sits with the people in the dialysis center, reading, chatting, and joking around with the regulars. Wednesday she helps in labor and delivery. Whatever they need. Whether it’s holding a mother’s hand, helping a nurse, rocking the babies, or just being a calm voice for the patients who may have lost a child. They look to her as a royal, a princess, and she makes them feel better. All of them.”

  I breathe deeply, taking in all the information as Henrik drives me to the hospital.

  “And Thursday and Friday?”

  “Thursdays she’s at a nursing home.”

  I snort. “And Friday? What does Saint Christina do on Friday?”

  He grins. “She usually does her homeless shelter visits. Drops off food she buys. Helps with things they need.”

  I grin and pull out my phone to call Wendy’s cell phone, knowing it’s too early to call her at work, but I need to get her on my request right away.

  “Mr. Ellis. To what does my woman owe this early-morning summons?” The man who answers Wendy’s phone is direct, clear, and concise. Sir Mick, I presume silently.

  “May I speak with her?”

  “She’s a little tied up right now. How may we help you?” There’s a speck of humor in his tone, but not much. This guy is all business.

  Tied up.

  Knowing it’s very early there, around six a.m., and her lifestyle choice, I squirm in the leather seat thinking about just how much I’d love to see Skyler tied to her bed. At my mercy.

  Goddamn, the things I’d do to her sexy-as-fuck body.

  My temperature rises, and a mist of sweat breaks out at my hairline as my mind supplies me with flashes of Skyler in all kinds of filthy poses.

  I clear my throat. “I need her to book a flight for Bo first thing this morning to meet me here in Copenhagen. I need him out here as soon as possible. Along with his camera equipment, including the long lenses for capturing photos from afar.”

  “Pumpkin . . . you need to book a flight for Mr. Montgomery . . .” He repeats what I said as if she’s sitting right next to him. Apparently my assessment that she is physically tied up was not a reach. “Consider your request handled, Mr. Ellis. Was there anything else?”

  “Uh, no. Just tell her thank you.”

  “I shall. Goodbye.”

  “Bye.” I hang up and cringe.

  Strange fellow. Rather formal too, which is a complete contrast to Wendy. She’s a free bird, funky and open. Her mate, however, is her exact opposite.

  Seems as though my red-headed little tech vixen is blossoming like a flower. I can’t wait to razz her about not being able to take my call. That was one of the requirements of the job. Calls at all hours. Not that we’d abuse that stipulation. Though he didn’t tell me not to call, just made me speak through him. Again, weird.

  Henrik stops the car in front of the hospital while I shake off the thoughts of my assistant and her unique relationship.

  “Oncology?” I confirm with him.

  “Ja.” He says “yes” in Danish. “And it will be onkologi.” He says the word in his native tongue and spells it. It sounds similar enough for me to figure out, but when I repeat it, it sounds like I’m saying “on-co-low-key.” He nods as if it’s correct, so I repeat it a few times in my head and under my breath so that I don’t screw it up, and set about entering the hospital.

  Right away I see an information desk and thank the good Lord above the woman speaks perfect English. Not only that, she’s young and impressionable. A few flirty smiles, and I’ve got the sweet aide escorting me to the oncology department.

  While she walks ahead of me down the long corridors, I check out her ass. It’s high and bubbly. I’d give it a solid eight out of ten.

  The woman spins around fast on her sneakers, her blonde ponytail swinging with her. She wraps her hand around the lock of hair and twirls it around her fingers. “Um, this is oncology, and that’s where volunteers go to check in.” She points at a desk in the center of the floor.

  I lay my hand on her elbow, lean toward her ear, and whisper, “Tak.”

  Her body trembles visibly. “You’re welcome.” She giggles.

  I squeeze her arm briefly and head toward the desk before I hear her call out.

  “Parker?”

  “Yes?” I glance at her.

  She’s resting one foot behind her, wiggling her heel back and forth, still twirling her fingers through her ponytail, only faster now. “Um, if you want to . . . uh, you know, see the sights while you’re in town, I’d be happy to show you around.”

  The girl is young. Much younger than me. Probably twenty to my kissing thirty. In the past, I never thought a woman’s age mattered much, as long as they were eighteen or over. The closer I get to thirty, the less I believe in that logic. I prefer my women a bit older, closer to my own age, with a little more life experience under their belts.

&n
bsp; “I’m mostly here on business, but if I find I need a tour guide”—I wink—“I’ll be sure to call the information desk at the hospital.”

  She smiles wide and stands up straighter. The fidgeting gone, a happy, confident girl remains.

  “Okay!” She bounces away, a definite pep in her step.

  “What are you doing here?” A growly, sultry tone speaks from just behind me.

  When I turn around I come face-to-face with Christina. “Why hello, Princess. I do believe the question is: What are you doing here? Volunteering? Helping out those in need?” I rub my hands together between us. “Doesn’t exactly fit your party-girl reputation, now does it?”

  Her eyes practically shoot bullets as she stares me down. “I knew you were going to be a problem.”

  I chuckle. “A problem? I’ve been called a lot of things, but that is a first. I kind of like it.” I grin.

  “Ugh. You tire me.” She spins around and heads toward the volunteer desk. A pretty black woman greets her in Danish, then says a slew of things I don’t understand before handing her a lined yellow notepad. On it I can see names and room numbers.

  “So, what’s this?” I point to the notepad and follow her.

  “Patients who need to be seen,” she responds tersely.

  “But you’re not a doctor.” I nudge her arm playfully, wanting her to admit what she’s doing.

  She groans, stops at the first room on the list, and faces me. “Look, Mr. Ellis, these people don’t need to be involved in this.” She points to herself and then me. “Most of them are really sick and don’t have anyone to be here for them. Please don’t bring my home life into my work. These patients need me.”

  Her blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears, which is a pretty powerful emotion that hits me right where it should. In the gut with a one-two punch. “Mind if I observe?”

  She breathes in loudly before letting it out slowly. “Fine. Just don’t get in the way.”

  “You got it.” I cross my heart, and she rolls her eyes.

  “I know I’m going to regret this,” she mumbles, and opens the door. “Hello, Mr. Jepsen. What are today’s football stats? I’m dying to hear if Copenhagen took Vestsjalland.”

  I’m surprised to hear her speak in English, but the patient responds clearly with the same.

  “Who’s the young fella you’ve got there?” Mr. Jepsen nods over her toward me.

  “Him . . .” She makes a face like I stink. “New volunteer.”

  He nods, then coughs deeply, so much so it’s as though his lungs are about to come out of his throat. She pats him on the back and runs her hand up and down, handing him a cloth from the end table.

  “Try to breathe shallowly. Nice and easy.” She caters to Mr. Jepsen while I stand in the background, watching her just be there for him.

  Christina is absolutely wonderful with him, and the gratitude is written in every small smile, hand touch, and word of devotion he gives her.

  We visit a handful of more patients, each one worse than the last. When we visit an elderly woman who’s all alone and, according to the doctors, about to take her last breath, Christina grabs the woman’s hand, sits by her side, and sings a song to her. A quiet melody in Danish that reminds me of “Noel,” an American Christmas song.

  Feeling as though I’m intruding, I leave the room and stand outside the open door, giving them space. After thirty minutes, I see the doctor and nurse go in and Christina come out, tears falling down her cheeks.

  “Is she . . . ,” I ask, my throat dry and scratchy as the words fail me.

  She nods. “Gone. Yes.”

  “Christina . . . I’m sorry. Did you know her well?”

  She shakes her head with a sad expression. “No. I’d visited her a few times, none of which she could speak for.”

  “I see.” I let the silence build between us as I follow her through the corridors, to the elevators, and out of the hospital. Henrik must have seen us come out, because within two minutes the car is idling in front of us. Sneaky devil.

  Before we get into the car, I grab Christina’s hand and squeeze it. “What you did for her, not a lot of people would do. Being there when someone dies is very selfless.” She doesn’t say a word, but the tears fill her eyes once more. “Is there anything I can do?”

  She puts her hand on the car and looks at me. “Yeah, you can get me drunk.”

  “For more media playtime?” I press.

  The princess firms her lips and lifts her chin. “No. For me. Us. For Beatrice.”

  “Was that the woman’s name?”

  “Yes, it was.” Her throat sounds scratchy when she answers, and it hurts my heart.

  Needing to change the mood, I grin wildly and open the door for her. “All right. For Beatrice it is.” I fold my body into the Audi. “Henrik, take us to an out-of-the-way, hole-in-the-wall pub the princess hasn’t been seen frequenting in the media.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silence fills the car as we ride to City Pub. The bar isn’t too far from the hospital, which is good. The need to toss a few back is pounding a beat inside my chest. The grief coming off Christina in waves is palpable, and I need to help her relieve it.

  We’re seated in a booth in the far back, at my request. The place is practically dead. Only a couple of locals sitting on stools at the long bar. The pub is small, dark, and perfect for escaping after the day we’ve had.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” I state the second we sit down, needing to break the heaviness between us.

  She shrugs and pushes back her long hair.

  The bartender gets our orders himself, and he’s quick about bringing us both a pint and a shot.

  I lift a shot of Jameson, and we clink the glasses. “To Beatrice. May she rest in peace.”

  “To Beatrice,” she repeats, and we both shoot it back fast.

  I back my shot up with a sip of the beer. It’s icy cold and tasty as fuck.

  “So, Princess, now that we’re here, alone, why don’t you talk to me about why you do what you do?”

  “You mean the partying?”

  A snort-laugh spills from my lips. “No, the volunteering. Henrik says you volunteer every day of the week . . . in secret.”

  She frowns and sips her beer. “It’s really no one’s business what I do during the day. My family has plenty of money, which means I have plenty of money in my trust. I’ve graduated from university, and there’s nothing I want to spend my time doing for a job. And I like volunteering.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the people I visit need me. No one else needs me.” She twiddles with the rim of her glass before glancing away and sips back more of her beer. She raises the empty shot glass to the bartender. “I think we’re going to need a few more of these.”

  “Oh boy.” I laugh.

  “What, you afraid of messing up your reputation . . . or mine?”

  “Yours is already soured, Princess. Besides, I’ve got Henrik on paparazzi patrol. If he even suspects the media is here, he’s going to ring me and drive around back. No bad press tonight, sweetheart. Sorry.” I mock frown.

  The bartender sets down two more shots for both of us.

  She grins wide. “Then drink up, mister.”

  “Good lord, I’m going to be in trouble,” I mutter, and toss back the second shot of the evening.

  7

  Sweet mother of all things holy, my head is pounding! I groan and roll over in bed, the cloud of blankets covering me as I nuzzle into her warm neck.

  “Mmm, Peaches,” I murmur against the soft skin my nose is pressed against. I wrap my arm around her waist and plaster my body to her back, allowing the fissures of my headache to dissipate as I start to fall back asleep.

  I inhale deeply, expecting her peaches-and-cream scent to coat my senses and lull me back to a happier place. Instead, I’m assaulted by the flowery fragrance entering my sinuses. Right before I open my eyes to investigate the difference, the warm body turns around in my arms an
d mumbles.

  “Morning, Sven . . .” She sighs, her breath warm against my cheek.

  That voice.

  Not Skyler.

  And I sure as shit am not Sven.

  “Princess?” I croak, my eyes flying open, the morning sun sending a spike straight through my retinas. My temples fire off a stabbing beat against my skull as I desperately try to figure out what’s happened.

  We both look at one another, our faces only about six inches apart. Slowly, as if we’re afraid to move too fast, we ease away from each other.

  “Oh no . . . ,” she whispers.

  “What the fuck,” I state, and sit up, my head screaming in revolt at such a speedy move.

  The blanket falls away from both of our chests, and I’m relieved beyond measure that we’re both still wearing the clothes from last night. She’s got the same black V-necked, long-sleeved shirt on, and I’m in my undershirt.

  I look around and realize that I’m in my assigned room, but what is she doing here?

  Flashes of last night begin to slam into my psyche, like one of those plastic View-Master toys where you insert the circular wheel of film into the viewing mechanism and use your thumb or finger to pull down the lever to see the new image spin into place.

  Drinking ourselves silly on Jameson.

  Leaving the bar laughing.

  Henrik driving us back to the castle while we played a twisted version of slug bug, which included screaming at the top of our lungs every time we saw a BMW. Which was a lot.

  Henrik dropping us at the front door.

  The two of us trying to be quiet as we walked to my bedroom, bumping into walls and laughing hysterically.

  Making it to my room and the bed . . .

  Then it all went black.

  “What am I doing in your bed?” She slides out of the covers, thankfully wearing her leggings still.

  I do the same and notice I’m still in my dress slacks. Thank God. I run my hands over my tired face and shake my head. “Not sure. It gets a little blurry after we entered the house. The good news is we’re still in our clothes, which means we didn’t do the nasty.”

  “The nasty?” She places her hands on her hips. “You’d be so lucky to get me into your bed. I see the way you look at me.”