The Swedish Prince (Royal Romance 1)

* * *

Viktor

(The Moose)

(Mr. Johan Andersson)

(Mr. Sverige)

(Mr. Swedish Driver’s License)

(Mr. Sex God)

I swear you called me that once.

* * *

I fold up the paper, slide it into an envelope that I keep in a stack in my desk drawer, then I drink.

* * *

***

* * *

A week later and Magnus has come to visit.

I haven’t really had time to prepare.

You see when Crown Prince Magnus of Norway shows up in Stockholm, I usually need a few days to put together an itinerary. This is not a man who is happy sitting in my study with me and talking by the fire with a few snifters or cognac or perhaps aquavit. Believe me, I like to go out but for Magnus it’s a requirement. Royal policy, as he often calls it.

He’s staying with me. The driver drops him off right at my front door.

When I jog down the stairs to greet him, he’s got a bottle of aquavit in one hand and has his arm around my butler, Bodi.

“Viktor!” Magnus exclaims. “You’re here!”

I pause at the bottom of the stairs and raise my brow, trying to figure out if he’s drunk or not. The flight from Oslo is short and he would have bought that at Duty Free. Booze in Sweden is a lot cheaper than the booze in Norway, not that it matters for Norwegian royalty.

“How much of that have you had?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “Not enough. Man, you have stuffy butlers here in Sweden. I think your old boy here needs to get laid.”

The funny thing is that Bodi is not old by any means. He’s forty-five with a shock of red hair and is extremely good at putting people in their place. And by that, I mean he uses his fist a lot. Not on me, but they do say red hair is indicative of temper.

I swear Bodi’s face goes rage red to match his hair, so I just shake my head and say, “I’ve got it from here, thank you.”

He nods, glares at Magnus, and then walks away.

“What’s he mad about, that we keep kicking your ass at downhill?”

He means skiing and more specifically the Olympics and trials.

“He used to be in the military,” I explain. “Which means he’s used to putting drunk asses like yourself in their place.”

“I’m not drunk,” he says again with a heavy sigh. “And you were in the military too, don’t forget.”

“And I also know how to put drunk asses in their place.”

He grins at me. “I heard what happened.”

“What?” I frown. This is never a good start to a sentence.

“Oh you know. Little birds talk don’t they. You never told me that the reason you were sent to America was because you punched your guard in the face.”

Oh yes. Poor Gustav.

I give him a tepid smile. “We all have our moments.”

“And we shall have some more.” He pats his monogrammed suitcase. “Let me get settled first.”

“Louis Vuitton?” I muse as I look at the suitcase, trying not to laugh. “Since when do you wear designer anything? You’re usually found in, well…”

“Usually nothing, right?” He starts lugging it up the stairs to the second floor. “A girl I was seeing has stock in the company. Or her family does. Long story short, she was pretty hot, but the free suitcase was the better end of the deal.” He pauses. “Same room as last time? I thought you would have put in an elevator by now, my god you’re a terrible prince, aren’t you? No wild demands or anything.”

I follow him up the stairs and would offer to help him with the suitcase, but Magnus is a big guy and can more than take care of himself. Not as tall as me but about six-foot-two and absolutely shredded as they say in America. He has to be for all the crazy sports shit that he does.

He busts into the guest bedroom and tosses the suitcase on the bed with one hand, still holding onto the bottle with the other. He then pushes his shaggy dark hair off his face and holds out the bottle for me.

“Skal, Viktor,” he says, his wild eyes imploring me to do a shot straight out of the bottle.

So I do.

I haven’t had aquavit in a while and for a moment it reminds me of my date with Maggie.

Fucking Maggie.

I can barely get through the days without her haunting me.

“What?” Magnus frowns, taking the bottle back like he’s been personally insulted by whatever look I have on my face.

“Nothing.”

He shakes his head, has another glug from the bottle. “You are the worst liar, Viktor.”

“What?”

“This is the second time I’ve seen you since you got back from America and you still have that mopey stupid look on your face.”

I instinctively run my hand over my features and then try to give him a blank look. “Better?”

“No.” He sighs and looks around the bedroom with the ornate poster bed and gold threaded bedding and the cherry wood details. “Christ, it looks like set decoration from a bad play, doesn’t it? Where’s the Scandinavian charm?”

“There is no charm in this place,” I tell him. “And don’t forget, all of Swedish royalty originally came from France.”

“Those fuckers. So what do you have planned? If it doesn’t involve pussy, then I’m going to be very disappointed.”

“So crude. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”

“Yes. She did. These are her manners. Crude as fuck. All hail Queen Crude.” He heads over to his suitcase, opens it and pulls out a dress shirt. “Okay, so let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Where? I can tell you didn’t plan anything, so I say we just go to a club and find some women.”

“You know we can’t just do that.”

“You don’t know the right clubs.”

Apparently I don’t. Even though it’s just past dinner, I get dressed into a black dress shirt and jeans, something more club-friendly I suppose, and we arrange for a limo to take us to some fancy place downtown.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says with a sigh. “There’s a back entrance and I’ve used it many times before.”

“I bet you have.”

He just grins at me.

“Besides, you know we’re never alone,” he adds. “We have guards tailing the both of us constantly. They won’t let people within a foot of our blindingly masculine radius. I’m sure in the end they’ll end up closing down our section and we can just pull a few hot girls from the floor and a few bottles of champagne and that’s the end of it.”

He’s right too. He knows Stockholm’s nightlife better than I do. If anyone lives by the philosophy of there’s no cow on the ice, it’s Magnus.

Except once we do get in the dark club with the thumping bass and the smell of drugs, and once our guards have gone around and confiscated every phone from those who wish to stay in the area, the conversation turns serious.

Well as serious as it can get considering Magnus just brought over a tall blonde for himself and a curvy brunette for me.

While the girls chat to each other about who knows what beside us, sipping champagne, giggling and stealing adoring glances, Magnus turns to me and says, “So you have to get over her. Tonight you shall start. I get Betty, you get Veronica.”

“Her?” I repeat, having some champagne and buying time because somehow, I know he’s talking about Maggie.

“Yes, her. The girl. From California. The one you called me about and never mentioned again.”

“Why do you think I’m not over her? Or that I got under her? All I told you was that I felt bad for lying.”

“No,” he laughs. “No, no, no. I told you that you should feel bad for lying to her. Whatever happened to the article anyway?”

“She didn’t write it.”

“I see.”

“She interviewed me…and we…it got serious for a few days. But she never ended up doing it.”

“Lucky for you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” I admit. “It would have brought her money. It would have taken care of her for a bit. But she ended up with my car, so…”

“So, you wanted to take care of her. Do you still?”

I glance at him and for once he’s earnest. “I do. But I know she can take of herself.”

“Of course they can take care of themselves,” he says and then he tips his head toward the girls who are giggling very loudly about something. “Maybe they can’t. But most women can. It’s all about wanting to provide, my friend, and when you get that urge to provide then I think that means something.”

“That I’ve entered caveman mode?” I sigh and tap my fingers against the champagne glass, wishing I wasn’t here, where this music—and Magnus—are doing my head in. “Whatever it means, she’s there and I’m here.”

“Then invite her over. Get her ass in your royal palace. Or is it get your royal palace in her ass?”

I roll my eyes. “I tried.”

“Try harder.”

I give him a steady look because he has no idea. “It’s not that easy. She can’t just up and leave her life all because I want her here.”

“It’s as easy as you make it. Right? So go make it easy.”

“I don’t even know if she wants to talk to me anymore. I haven’t really gotten any responses from the last letters I sent.”

He blinks at me for a moment, his dark, arched brows slowly coming together.

“You’ve been writing her letters?”

“Yes.”

“Like you live in the fucking 1500s?”

I pause. “Yes.”

“And you’re wondering why she hasn’t been getting back to you?”

I’m not sure what he’s getting at. “Yes.”

“You are a bigger idiot than I thought, Viktor,” he says. “Fucking moose is right. Big dumb moose.”