Secret Heir

ONE

Pixie

“I’ve definitely arrived in the land of Vikings.”

I sucked in a nervous breath of air as I stepped through the doors of the Copenhagen Royal Academy. Beautiful tall, blond people with jawlines carved in marble mingled, champagne flutes in hand.

A waiter in a tuxedo nodded at me, offering a glass of champagne. Even though I’d never had it, my nerves were on alert, so I scooped it up gratefully.

I’d just taken my first sip when I noticed a charcoal three-piece-suit hanging off the broadest set of shoulders I’d ever seen. I took another sip of my champagne and pondered him thoughtfully. A rugged jawline paired with fine features and a delicious five o’clock shadow made him standout, even in a room of beautiful people. His hair was the color of warm honey and tousled in that just-had-sex sort of way.

His eyes were so intense that when they finally met mine, the air left my lungs.

Striking green orbs assessed me so intently I thought I might actually have a stroke. My stomach swam with the look, something dangerous lingering that was almost irresistible. After a few agonizingly long seconds, one thick eyebrow arched perfectly at me as if in question. My chest felt like a vice had locked around it, my mind suddenly forgetting the ability to even breathe.

One side of his gorgeous grin twisted, chin ratcheting up a few inches as he seemed to nod—at me—from his place across the room.

Before a barrage of fireworks could split my ribcage wide, I turned back to the front of the room where a woman stood behind a microphone and read from a sheet of notes about the latest archaeological discoveries at a small village north of the city. I sipped again, frowning when I realized I’d absentmindedly sipped the entire thing while eye-flirting with Mr. Tall and Gorgeous.

Prickles of awareness climbed across my skin when I thought of his eye lingering on mine.

I’d only been in this country for a weekend. Fresh off a flight from Boston and I’d crashed in my new student apartment for the last forty-eight hours catching up from the jet lag. I was in Copenhagen for the next year as I studied ancient civilizations and human dynamics in a pre-modern world.

I loved my work. I was in my third year of a Bachelors in Humanities and I already had my graduate thesis topic in mind. Women in Viking Culture. Copenhagen—all of Scandinavia in fact—was a trip I’d been dreaming of since the times when I sat in front of the television watching Conan the Barbarian with my brother on Saturday mornings. There was something about the brutal strength that thrilled me, even then.

And now I was here, in the flesh, eye-fucking a true-blue, in-the-flesh Viking.

Sort of.

The woman at the podium cleared her throat before she continued to speak in Danish. My translation skills were spotty at best, but in the year I would spend in this country I had a feeling I’d pick up the language in no time.

Another waiter passed again, this time offering another champagne glass with a tiny black ribbon tied to the stem. I thanked him in Danish, taking the drink gratefully and flipping over the small card.

The name Rome Madsen was written in a clean white font with a phone number beneath it. I frowned, wondering what it meant and why. None of the other champagne glasses were tied with a card, but maybe I was missing something. Or maybe I had won some sort of raffle—did they do raffles in Denmark? I felt like a fish out of water, nerves leaving me on edge and ready to bolt back to the safety of my tiny one bedroom studio overlooking the canal.

I sipped my glass of champagne, thoughts still playing with the mysterious stranger across the room and acting as if he hadn’t just swept the air from my lungs without a single word.

Surely, he was making eyes at someone else.

Without a doubt.

I’d literally just imagined that entire scenario.

And still I would shamelessly be replaying it in my mind every night for the next week. At minimum.

“Do you always make a habit of ignoring kind gestures?” A throaty voice rumbled through my insides a few moments later.

I jumped with shock as champagne splashed over the side of my glass and landed on the stranger’s dark suit. My eyes followed the lapel up to that ruggedly handsome face I imagined I’d locked eyes with earlier.

“Holy crap, I’m so sorry.” I fished through my clutch looking for a tissue to clean the mess.

“Stop.” His gaze met mine. Lingering on my lips, slicing through my veins.

This man had me flustered.

“I’ve got it. Really.” He squeezed my arm, eyes flashing with amusement. My heart quickened and my palms tingled. He looked down and back up again, inspecting me, making me feel vulnerable and raw under his gaze. “I’m Rome.”