CHAPTER ONE

      PRINCESS ASTRID OF Hammersvik backed into the palace cinema room balancing her phone, a stack of DVDs, a couple of magazines, a bulging make-up bag, a can of soda, a packet of gum and a giant-sized bag of sweets on top of the coffee-table books that had arrived in the post that morning.

      ‘Didn’t anyone think to put the light on in here?’ Muttering beneath her breath, she found the switch on the wall and through a series of elaborate manoeuvres managed to flip it on with the back of her head.

      ‘Turn that light out!’ a voice yelled out, startling her and nearly causing her to spill the precarious pile of items in her arms.

      ‘What the?’ Creeping forward, she took a closer look at the enormous slumbering form currently stretched out on one of the lavish leather daybeds arranged in front of the screen.

      ‘I don’t take orders,’ she informed the magnificent intruder. ‘I give them.’

      Ha! The truth was the Royal Council had insisted she must instruct, demand, command and generally be what Astrid considered downright rude so people didn’t think she was weak. With so many unscrupulous pretenders to the throne only too eager to unseat her, it was imperative that she maintain a strong facade. She’d play along for now, but as soon as she had dealt with the troublemakers, she intended to win the respect of her people through fair treatment to all. She loved her country and would do everything she could to keep it safe.

      But if she was going to test those royal wings on anyone...

      ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?’ a deep male voice grumbled as she defiantly turned on all the lights.

      ‘Who the hell are you?’ Astrid could take most things in her stride, even a man who looked like a Viking and who had just proved that he could swear like one too.

      She lurched back as the giant sprang up. He towered over her. His shoulders blocked out the light. His impressive torso was clad in a workmanlike jumper in an indeterminate shade of green, and his bottom half was snugly ensconced in a pair of jeans that left little doubt that...

      He had very big feet indeed.

      In his favour, the well-packed jeans were clean, though extremely worn in certain places. This must be the tutor she had sent for. He was a little unconventional, but academics could be eccentric beasts.

      Dragging her gaze up his muscled body, she took in the steel-grey eyes, currently narrowed in a merciless appraisal that made her wish she hadn’t scraped her hair back in an unflattering ponytail and had thought to put on her make-up before coming in to watch the film. The firm mouth was seriously unamused, but it was also seriously sexy, and when he angled his chin to grind his jaw in a fair approximation of a man on the brink of meltdown, she caught sight of the most excellent straight white teeth. His stubble was dense and sharp, and his hair was way too long, thick and wild, but she had always fancied a bit of rough. Gently bred princesses could turn out that way.

      ‘You must be Princess Astrid.’

      ‘How did you guess? May I?’ She eased past him, trying not to touch his muscled torso. Having successfully negotiated a man built for action—and who knows what else—she somehow managed to land the photographic reference books safely on the coffee table in front of the sofa with a crash before flopping down and spraying her tutorial survival kit all around her on the cushions at her side.

      ‘Begin.’ she said, making a waving gesture with her hand.

      Mountain Man remained motionless.

      ‘I’ve brought some films of my own just in case you didn’t think to bring any with you. I’m a very visual person,’ she said, letting her eyes roam slowly over his frame before raising them to his chiselled face and arching an eyebrow to let him know the double meaning was intended.

      There had been a lot of lectures since Astrid had agreed to accept the throne. She had so much to learn about her country, especially the icy world in the far-north territories, which hardly anyone visited. This talk, entitled “Beyond the Arctic Circle,” was supposed to give her the insight she craved. After this there was just one more—very important—task on her to-do list, and that was a tricky one. She had a vague notion of sorting it out at the fertility clinic. She’d been shocked when the Royal Council had insisted she must have an heir, and within a year if possible. ‘We can’t be left in this sort of mess again,’ the worried councillors had explained.

      And the current situation really was a mess. The late king had left no heirs, which had led to all sorts of people claiming the throne. Astrid had a genuine claim as a distant relative who lived in what was politely termed gentile poverty—which in reality translated into a bedsit, a kettle and the landlady’s cat. Regardless, the Royal Council insisted that she had the best claim.

      It was when they had said ‘Illegitimate, legitimate, it really doesn’t matter what kind of heir you give us’ that she had baulked. Didn’t matter? How could they say that something as important as a child didn’t matter? It would damn well matter to her. But that was a problem for another day.

      Today her goals were to get through this lecture with the hunky tutor and—hopefully—get her mind off his body and onto his body of work.

      He was still standing there staring at her with a somewhat confused