An Excerpt from The Copenhagen Star

Publication date to be announced

The first thing Charlie noticed as she walked into the foyer of the building was that for a newspaper, it seemed awfully quiet. During her time at the Baltimore Sun, she had never once entered the building without nearly being trampled by the people scurrying back and forth. But there seemed to be a definite lack of both noise and interns at The Star.

There was no one at the front desk.

She left her bags behind reception, then made her way toward what she hoped would be the offices. She was expecting a cubicle farm, again because of her experience at the Sun, but the main room was a large, open space decorated with long tables and ergonomically correct work stations. She thought it all looked like an ad for IKEA. She shook her head, reminding herself that she was now in the home of IKEA.

"You're in Denmark, Charlie, you should expect Danish furniture."

"Makes sense to me."

She spun on her heel to find an incredibly tall, very pretty blonde woman standing behind her. Suddenly, she couldn't remember even her most basic Danish.

"Charlie Dorsett," she said, hoping her grimace would pass as a smile, as she stuck out her hand.

The woman laughed, her bright blue eyes widening.

"Vaere rolig, Ms. Dorsett. Det er ikke mig, der bider--det er Nikolai."

Charlie translated slowly in her head. No. She couldn't have that right. Could she? Nikolai is the one who bites, not me. What?

The tall woman turned to call out over her shoulder, and several people appeared from behind another door. Charlie guessed she'd interrupted an editorial meeting.

She was quickly introduced to several people whom she gathered were reporters for the paper. The sports editor, Lars Larsen, stared at her for a long moment.

"Men...du er en kvinder." He said, finally.
"Yes," Charlie laughed. "The last time I checked, I was most definitely a woman."

"But Nikolai never hires women...at least not pretty women." He answered in flawless English.

"I take exception to that remark." The tall woman spoke, also in English, which made Charlie feel even more out of place, rather than comfortable.

"You don't count, Greta. You're Nikolai's sister."

Charlie swallowed hard. What was she doing here, then, since the paper clearly had reporters who probably were better skilled in her native language than she could ever hope to be.

A crash sounded from behind a closed door, slicing through the teasing banter.

"Here we go again," Lars said.

Before Charlie had a chance to ask what was happening, the door opened. The red-haired woman who stalked out toward the assembled journalists was absolutely stunning. Impeccably dressed in clothes that Charlie was sure she'd seen on the Fashion Channel's Paris runways feature, the woman was nothing short of impressive. She raked her cool, green eyes over the group and curled her lip in an expression of complete dismissal.

"Out of my way," she hissed as she pushed past.

"With pleasure," Charlie said, making an outrageous show of bowing to allow the lady to pass. She heard giggles from some of the reporters.

The woman stopped and turned her cold stare on full, but Charlie wasn't about to be intimidated by the Goddess--not when her luck was running this high.

"You won't last a day," the woman pronounced, then swept a shawl, which probably cost more than Charlie earned the previous year, over her shoulder and glided out the door.

Silence was left in the red-haired woman's wake. Charlie looked around the room, still feeling disoriented, but refusing to take the prediction too seriously. Finally, she found her courage and smiled. "Who was that?" she asked.

"That was my wife."

She spun again. Framed in the doorway of the office from which the flame-haired beauty had sailed, stood the most gorgeous man Charlie had ever seen. His blonde hair was the color of fine gold, and his eyes looked hauntingly familiar. She took a quick glance at Greta and was immediately struck by the resemblance. The man moved from the doorway to stand in front of her. He seemed as tall as some of the spires she'd seen in the city--at least a foot above her five feet, seven inches. Her voice failed her as her throat went dry.

She now knew what the term sexy walk meant.

This had to be Nikolai Stjerne, and he certainly seemed as severe as his surname suggested. But instead of a distinguished, aging publisher, Charlie was faced with a tall, muscled, very fit man in his prime. She doubted he was a day over thirty-seven at the outside, and he was probably younger. No, he was not at all what she was expecting, but she had an idea that she had now seen the inspiration for all those Viking warriors on the covers of romance novels.

"Who are you?" he asked, in Danish.

"Charlie Dorsett," she said, shocked that the quiver she felt in her stomach didn't sound in her voice. "I believe you're expecting me?"

He frowned, his face turning colder than the storm outside.

"Katya was wrong. You won't last an hour."