Falling

Book 2: High Stakes

by Simona Ahrnstedt

Genres: Sagas; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A gripping, glittering novel of scandal and suspense that ranges from Sweden to New York City to Africa, from the bestselling author of All In . . .

Alexander de la Grip is known in the tabloids and gossip blogs as a rich, decadent, jet-setting playboy who spends most of his days recovering from the night before. With a string of beautiful conquests, he seems to care about nothing and no one. Isobel Sørensen has treated patients in refugee camps and war zones, and is about to depart Sweden for a pediatric hospital in Chad. Devoted to her humanitarian work, she cares almost too deeply. Especially when she learns that Alexander is withholding desperately needed funds from her aid foundation.

Is it because she's the only woman who ever told him to go to hell?

As the two push each other's boundaries to the breaking point, the truth turns out to be much more complicated. Pain, love, trust, betrayal. Which will triumph when safety is nothing but an empty word?

Praise for All In

"A compelling story that has heat and heart." —New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown

"Sexy, smart, and completely unputdownable. Breathtaking, from start to finish." —New York Times bestselling author Tessa Dare

"I've been searching for this feeling all year: this book left me absolutely breathless." —New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

Release date: July 25, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

The child hid behind a small bush. It was the rainy season, and the leaves, lush and green, were covered with insects. The child, his small frame shaking with fear, crouched on the red soil. The jeep and the men had come out of nowhere. Violent, brutal men, pouring out of the car, shouting, creating clouds of ruddy dust. The boy could only stare at the unfolding scene. The angry men had guns. They were waving them and yelling at the woman. And then they took her.

She fought, because she was a strong woman, but she had no chance against them. She screamed when they threw her into the car. It took off in a big cloud of dust and sand. Then there was silence. Not even the insects made a sound.

The boy stayed behind the bush for a long time.

He had nowhere to go. The woman had been the only one who cared for him.

Now there was no one.

As Alexander De la Grip, Swedish count, international playboy, most eligible man under thirty (according to gossip rags), and no-good lazy-ass (according to his father), slowly came to life, he had absolutely no idea where he was.

He blinked, trying to assess his surroundings. It was early morning, at least judging by the light that came through a window at the other side of the room. He was naked and in a strange bed, which in itself was nothing out of the ordinary. But where he was—on which continent, in which country or city—well, that was all a blur.

Not that this was unusual either.

He made a quick assessment of his state of being.

He was hungover, obviously, but not brutally so. He seemed to have all his limbs and nothing ached. Splendid.

He reached for his cell on the unfamiliar nightstand. It was only eight in the morning; he usually slept much longer. But he felt okay despite the early hour. That was the plus side of regular drinking and partying—you built up a tolerance. Even though, as the previous night started to come back to him, he did remember a lot of drinking before winding up here.

Wherever here was.

Alexander racked his brain, vaguely recalling champagne, vodka, music, women—plenty of it all. He scratched his stubble. At some point there had also been a cab drive through Stockholm. Yes! Stockholm. Sweden. Home.

He turned his head. A young woman was sleeping soundly beside him. Her long hair was spread out on the pillow, her smooth skin lightly tanned. Alexander’s gaze lingered on her bare back. Yes, her he remembered, he thought with a grin. She’d been pretty last night, when they’d started to flirt at the fourth or maybe fifth bar he visited. Sexy and energetic. Impressively determined, almost missile-like when she had spotted him. She had a lisp, too, and in his drunken state he’d found that sexy as hell. In all honesty, she was a bit too young for him, if he’d had those kinds of scruples, which he didn’t. Twentyish, wide-eyed and giggly. The occasional flash of ruthlessness in her pretty eyes. He had been too drunk to care about that yesterday, when they were flirting, and later fucking, but he remembered it now. Not that ruthlessness bothered him too much.

Few things did.

He climbed out of bed.

Her name was something super Swedish. Linda, or Jenny maybe, and she was . . . Alexander frowned as he searched for his scattered clothes. A journalist? No. He pulled on his underwear and his pants, and started to look for his shirt, leather jacket, and shoes. Student? Model? Nope, that wasn’t it either. Something that involved more than long legs and an eating disorder.

He shoved his cell into his pocket, pulled the blanket up over her back, and headed for the door. He opened it soundlessly and was soon out on the street, getting his bearings. Right, she lived in Södermalm, the hipster, boho part of Stockholm. He put on his sunglasses. Young men with beards and MacBooks crowded the streets. Parents with children in brightly colored clothes, and pale, young women with skinny dogs. He kind of liked Södermalm. He bought a coffee at a deli, then hailed a cab. As he hopped into it his cell phone rang.

Looking at the screen, he felt the familiar sense of unease when he saw the caller: his mother. He rejected the call. They would meet soon enough; no need to suffer more than necessary.

The next time his phone rang, Romeo Rozzi’s name flashed on the display. Alexander answered the call from his best friend with a cheerful “Talk to me, baby,” while the capitol passed outside the window. Spring had arrived in Stockholm, the morning traffic wasn’t too bad, and Alexander could feel the last of the previous night’s indulgences being driven out by the coffee.

“I just wanted to check if you were okay,” said Romeo. If it was eight in the morning in Sweden, it was two a.m. in New York. But Romeo, hard-working, world-renowned chef, never went to bed before dawn.

“And why wouldn’t I be okay?” Alexander asked, then finished the last of the strong black coffee. You couldn’t get coffee like this in New York.

Deep sigh. Clattering in the background. “Don’t you remember?” Romeo asked, his voice that of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“That’s right. I called you, didn’t I?” He didn’t remember why, though. It was a double-edged sword, this drinking-to-forget business.

“You were pretty wasted,” Romeo said, his voice filled with disapproval.

“But being drunk is one of my best states.”

Romeo sighed loudly on the other end of the line. “I Googled the girl.”

“Why on earth would you do that?” asked Alexander.

“She’s a blogger and Instagrammer,” Romeo said, ignoring his question. “I checked her out. She has a huge following, publishes gossip and vulgar pictures. You said you were going to give her something to write about. Did you? Did you sleep with her?”

Linda. That was her name. Lusty Linda. Alexander pieced together the remaining fragments of a rather uninhibited night, remembering Linda’s probing questions, wincing a little when some of the things they had tried out flashed before his eyes.

“I guess I did,” he replied, forcing cheer into his voice and at the same time trying to work out whether he really cared if he was hung out to dry by yet another fame-hungry Instagram account, or anywhere else for that matter. He was used to it. He was prey, no matter what he did.

Another deep sigh from Romeo. “Do you take anything seriously?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m dead serious about my partying.”

“You know what I mean.”

Alexander fell silent, because he did know what Romeo meant.

The past six months he’d partied harder than ever. Sometimes it actually felt like he was trying to gift the tabloids and social media with gossip. Not that he would ever admit to it.

“Alessandro. I worry about you,” Romeo continued.

“I’m a grown man and you worry too much,” he said lightly. Alexander considered that maybe this time he really was headed off the rails with the drinking and the partying and the women. But staying sober probably meant going crazy. He didn’t care much for going crazy. He glanced outside the car. Taxicabs, people, bikes passed by. Street after street after street. Alexander caught sight of glittering water.

“I’m almost home. Can I give you a call later?” he said, not sure he could keep up his show of bravado too much longer. Romeo was a nag and a mother hen. But he was Alexander’s best friend and he cared. Stupid thing that. Caring.

“Just tell me how it feels to be back in Sweden,” said Romeo.

Alexander looked at his watch. Almost nine. “I think I’m still drunk, I need a shave, I have a meeting with my bankers today, and I’m jet-lagged as hell, so it feels like I need a drink.” Not to mention he was going to have to meet his mom this weekend. He almost groaned.

“Yes, well, be careful with that. Being a drunk is not a good look on anyone.”

“Fuck off.”

“Yeah, yeah. By the way, that Swedish prince of yours, Carl Philip. Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him,” Alexander said dispassionately.

“He’s hot. I’d love to cook for him. Among other things.”

Alexander snorted. “If I see His Royal Highness, I’ll let him know,” he said. He disconnected at the same time that the taxi pulled up outside Hotel Diplomat, where he always stayed when he was in town. He looked up at the pristine white façade. No matter how hard he tried, and he did try, he couldn’t drink away the fact that he was back in Stockholm to do the one thing he hated most of all. To face his demons. Or, at least, to meet his family.

Fuck.

Isobel Sørensen chained her bike, unclipped her helmet, pulled the heavy doors open, and hurried up the old marble stairs. Wiping sweat off her forehead she opened the door with the brass sign that read MEDPAX. In the reception area, with its dark mahogany furniture, framed prizes, and twenty-year-old magazine clippings on the walls, she was greeted by two oil paintings in golden frames: one of Isobel’s mother, the other of her grandfather, the founders of Medpax.

A door at the back opened, and Leila Dibah, the general secretary of the foundation, stuck her head out.

“Sorry I’m late,” Isobel said, lifting her hand in a greeting. “Work was chaos.”

“You’re not late,” Leila said with that slight accent that betrayed her Persian origins. Fifty-two-year old Leila was a clinical psychologist, and Isobel had always thought that she had the perfect eyes for her profession. Focused, unreadable, unwavering. Leila opened the door to Medpax’s only conference room. “Let’s sit here,” she said, and let Isobel in. They sat at the table, Leila in front of stacks of papers and binders. Isobel reached for a decanter with water and a glass. She hadn’t drunk anything since lunch.

“How’s work?” asked Leila as Isobel poured a second glass of water.

“At the clinic?” Isobel shrugged and downed the water. She’d seen twenty-two patients today. That was nothing. When she was out in the field she could treat over a hundred patients a day. Malnourished, wounded, dying patients. Nobody starved to death before her eyes at the clinic. No one died from simple treatable diseases or infections. Nothing unbearable happened. “It’s hectic but okay,” she said.

Leila searched her face. “You work too much,” she stated.

“No, I don’t.” Isobel worked at the clinic, and here at Medpax when she had time, and she was a fully committed field doctor for Doctors Without Borders. But life wasn’t supposed to be easy; she just did what she had to do to pull her weight.

Leila sighed. “I just got a phone call. Sven can’t go to Chad.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

During its golden years, Medpax, a small but renowned humanitarian aid organization, had run three pediatric hospitals in Africa. One in Chad, one in the Congo, and one in Cameroon. As the years went by, two of the hospitals were taken over by the authorities in their respective countries, and now they had only the hospital in Chad left. Day to day, it was run by medical personnel from Chad, assorted volunteers, and field-workers from other aid organizations, but Medpax was the driving force behind it. Sven was a surgeon and had been scheduled to go there at the end of the month.

“But why?” Isobel asked. No one from Medpax had been in Chad since the previous fall; the plan was for Sven to head down there, assess what changes needed to be implemented in the future, and create a formal course of action. This was a huge setback. Someone from Medpax had to go there. Sven would have been perfect.

“His wife doesn’t want him to,” Leila said.

“You’re kidding.”

“She gave him an ultimatum. Sven says he has got to give his marriage priority.”

“I see.” The cynical side of Isobel wondered why Sven—infamous for having slept with virtually every female nurse he’d ever met—suddenly thought he needed to give his marriage priority, but she said nothing. Going out into the field had to be an individual’s own choice.

Leila nodded. “But it was actually because of something else I asked you here.” She took out one of the binders, opened it, and placed it in front of Isobel. “I wanted to show you this. We have a problem with one of our donors. A serious financial problem.”

Isobel looked at the neat rows, trying to decipher them. “It seems to be a foundation of some kind,” she said after a while.

Leila bowed her head affirmatively. “They’ve given loads of money in the past, but the donations suddenly stopped.”

Medpax lived off its donors.

“But are we really so dependent on them? One single donor?” Isobel asked.

“We are now. We lost quite a few of our donors before I started, as you know.”

Isobel nodded. It was an understatement. They had bled.

“And since then, several of our applications have been rejected, and we haven’t managed to make up the shortfall yet.”

Leila had joined Medpax a couple of years ago. Medpax finances had been in bad shape at that time. With the force of a Persian conqueror she had managed to salvage what she could when she joined the organization, but the fact was that her predecessor, Blanche Sørensen, had become increasingly less successful at maintaining the important relationships with the organization’s donors.

Isobel knew, of course, that none of this was her fault, but she still squirmed at Leila’s words. Blanche was, after all, her mother.

“We can’t afford to lose them. I don’t really know why the donations have stopped. No one at the foundation has bothered to return my calls, though I’ve left several messages.”

Isobel studied the documents. The name of the foundation told her nothing, but the address was one of Stockholm’s most exclusive streets, so maybe the trustees simply didn’t think it was worth their while to return calls from anyone at a tiny humanitarian organization.

“When exactly did they stop?” Isobel asked, still trying to understand the figures.

“Just before Christmas.”

Isobel had been in Liberia then. She’d gone there with Doctors Without Borders to fight an Ebola outbreak. Seen more dead bodies, ravaged communities, and traumatized medical staff than she could bear to think about. She had worked in refugee camps, war zones, and the aftermath of natural disasters since she was in her teens. Her first summer job had been as a volunteer. She had seen it all. But still. Liberia . . . It had been weeks before she managed to get past the worst of the nightmares.

“You should have said something. Maybe I could have helped.”

“Asking for help really isn’t my strong suit.”

Isobel snorted at the understatement. “What’s his or her name?”

“Who?”

Isobel nodded at the binder. “Whoever’s behind the foundation?”

“Here,” said Leila, pointing at a name. “A man. Alexander De la Grip.”

The name went through her like a jolt. She sat up. “You’re joking,” she said.

Leila looked up. “You know him?”

Isobel had lost count of how many lists she’d seen Alexander De la Grip’s name on.

Best-Dressed Bachelors in the World.

Richest Swedes under Thirty.

World’s Most Handsome Men.

Or how many gossip rags he had appeared in. Not because she actively looked for his name, but because Alexander De la Grip and his escapades were like an ongoing, everlasting, disgusting serial in the media.

“We’ve met,” she said calmly, but was shocked to her core.

She and Alexander De la Grip had met, by chance, last summer. He had flirted with her, and she had told him to go to hell.

Literally.

Several times.

She wanted to smack her forehead on the table. Every time Alexander De la Grip had ever spoken to her, in that deep aristocratic voice of his, she had been nothing but rude in return. She wasn’t proud of it; she usually was much smoother than that. She was a field doctor, for Christ’s sake—she could take annoying men in stride. But it was as though Alexander’s entire being had irritated her back then. The drunken eyes, the diva-like existence, the way women fawned over him. Was he really that easily insulted, that petty? Stupid question; of course he was. Alexander De la Grip’s ego was probably more fragile than a compromised immune system. She had snubbed him, and in revenge he had cut off the money to Medpax. It was the simplest and therefore most plausible explanation.

Leila studied her with piercing black eyes over the rim of her glasses. “Could we talk to him? Get him to change his mind? Maybe over a lunch?”

Isobel toyed with the papers. “I guess we could try,” she reluctantly replied. There was nothing unusual about meeting potential donors over lunch, dinner, or sometimes even breakfast. She had done it many times before, knew she was good at it and that people were impressed by her and her heritage. That was one of her roles at Medpax. But the thought of sucking up to that spoiled, privileged jet-setter. . . Well, it was all her own fault. Pride goeth before a fall, and so on.

“Could you take care of it?” Leila asked.

Isobel regained her composure, gave Leila an unruffled look, and simply said, “Sure.”

“Good. Because if we don’t find more money soon, we’re done. We’ll have to close Medpax down before summer.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Leila did have a tendency toward the melodramatic; surely things couldn’t be that bad.

But Leila gestured at the papers before them. “Feel free to double-check, though I’ve already done it. Without money, there won’t be any more aid work. It’s simple math.”

Isobel groaned.

They sat in silence.

“You look tired,” Leila finally said. “How are you sleeping?”

Isobel gave her a dubious look. “I hope you’re not doing a psychological assessment.”

Leila didn’t miss a beat. “Do you need one?”

Isobel looked out the windows. There were smells and images from Liberia she still couldn’t shut out. But she had been back for three months now. It was getting better and life was, on the whole, back to normal.

“I stopped taking the sleeping pills. I bicycle a lot; I’m fine,” she said evasively. It was basically the truth.

“We really need someone down at the pediatric hospital right now—you know that as well as I do,” Leila eventually said.

“I’m not a pediatrician,” she protested, but without too much conviction. It was a ludicrous objection, and they both knew it. With what Isobel could do, the experience she had, there wasn’t a field hospital on earth that wouldn’t benefit from having her on staff. And she had been there before. She knew the hospital, knew the staff. Even knew some of the young patients who turned up over and over. For a moment she pictured solemn, dark eyes in a small, hungry face. Was he still alive?

“I hate to ask. I know you have a lot on your plate, and I know you need to recharge, but could you at least think about it?”

“Okay.”

“And while you’re thinking about Chad, you may as well think about Skåne, too.”

Crap. Isobel had managed to forget all about that spectacle. Medpax was involved in a big charity event somewhere in the southern Swedish countryside. Rich people, business representatives, politicians, and assorted members of the upper class would gather there in a beautiful castle. They would mingle, drink too much wine, eat stupidly expensive food, and with any luck, be convinced to donate lots of money.

“Isn’t it enough that I butter up De la Grip?”

“But everyone likes you, Isobel. Third-generation Medpax, dazzling conscience of the world and all that. Plus, you’re a young woman. That always sells. Just think how much money we can bring in if you go.”

“Isn’t this emotional blackmail?”

“Absolutely,” Leila agreed. She tapped a column of figures with her index finger. “But if you don’t sort things out with Alexander De la Grip, it’ll just be like putting a Band-Aid on an open wound anyway. We need to build up a buffer, bring in regular amounts.”

In other words, she was expected to fawn over one of the world’s most immoral men before she traveled down to Skåne to suck up to even more rich people. Now she really did feel ill.

“Can you handle it, Isobel?”

“Yes.”

She could, because, for the most part, she could manage almost anything. Though it did cross her mind that she might have preferred to stay in Liberia, battling Ebola, after all.

Alexander hid a huge yawn behind his hand.

He was brain-numbingly hungover.

Well, technically, he might still be drunk.

He took a deep breath. The last days and nights of vodka, cocktails, and champagne combined with jet lag had, eventually, overcome him. Jesus. He hadn’t felt like this since he was thirteen and an older friend had shown him the best way to empty his parents’ liquor cabinet.

He shifted uneasily in his desk chair. He was dressed in a suit, but he hadn’t managed to find a tie, never mind do up shirt buttons; he’d opted for a T-shirt beneath his jacket instead. The faces of the four middle-aged men watching him from the other side of the conference table were filled with distaste.

He laid a hand on the desktop, hoping the cool surface would help stabilize him.

“Should we start?” he asked, swallowing down a wave of nausea.

One of the men took out a folder and the others followed suit. Soon, the table in front of Alexander was covered in Important Papers. These were his bankers and lawyers, the men who took care of the Swedish side of his considerable fortune. They were important, highly respected members of the Old Guard, and judging by their expressions, they didn’t appreciate Alexander’s having demanded they come to his foundation’s spacious offices. An hour earlier he had sent a text ordering them to gather here, rather than his visiting them individually as they had originally planned. In his current condition, Alexander wouldn’t have made it. Christ, he had barely even made it this far, and the foundation was practically within crawling distance of his hotel.

Now they were here, looking as if they had swallowed anything from lemons to flies. But Alexander couldn’t have cared less if he disrupted their schedules.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the fees I pay you are somewhere between scandalous and astronomical, right?” he said coolly.

“I beg your pardon?” said the one to the left. Alexander didn’t remember his name.

“I just thought we might dial down the hostility a little. Maybe fake a smile or two even?”

The men shifted nervously in their seats, and he decided to fire them all if they didn’t comply. After all, bankers were a dime a dozen.

The men exchanged uncertain glances. Then lips relaxed, brows smoothed out, teeth shone.

Alexander shook his head, couldn’t bring himself to care when it really came down to it. “Let’s just get this over with.”

There was a knock at the door, and a woman brought a tray into the room. Coffee, thank God. She poured the contents of the silver pot into delicate cups and set down a plate of round mint chocolates in colorful foil wrappers—Alexander hated them. Did anyone actually ever eat them? He picked up a cup while the men took out their pens and started to arrange the piles of paper into some kind of order. Alexander drank his coffee and looked gloomily at the stacks of documents he was clearly expected to sign. The tallest of the piles was almost four inches.

“We need your signature on these,” one of the men said, with a gesture toward the Important Papers. “I’m afraid I have to insist,” he added, as though he knew that Alexander was on the verge of getting up, going out through the doorway, and never coming back.

He didn’t really know why he hated this so much. Back in New York he was in complete control of his affairs. Maybe it was because these men, with their accusing looks, reminded him of his father. Maybe he just couldn’t bear anything relating to Swedish finance. He’d needed to get some distance from Sweden after what had happened last summer—and he’d done it by burying his head in the sand and ignoring his duties. Now he was paying the price.

“Give them here, then,” he muttered.

Grimly, he started to work his way through the piles. Sheet after sheet after sheet.

The words “Sign here, here and here” went on repeat.

Investments. Payments. Authorizations.

As the clock neared lunchtime, they were still barely halfway through the piles, and Alexander decided he needed something other than coffee to drink, needed to breathe something other than the stale air in the meeting room.

“Let’s take ten,” he said, quickly leaving the room. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wished he could say that it felt good, dealing with all of this, that the coffee had helped with his hangover, but . . . He opened his eyes when he heard voices and caught sight of a tall, red-haired woman standing with her back to him. She was making gestures to the woman behind the reception counter.

“I can’t just give out his number,” he heard the receptionist say as he approached them. She sounded annoyed, as though she was repeating something she had already said a number of times.

“But is he in Stockholm? Can you at least tell me that? I sent him an e-mail, but he didn’t reply. Is he coming to Sweden? If so, do you know how I can get in touch with him? There has to be some way I can get hold of Mr. De la Grip.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed in recognition. He had heard that voice before.

The receptionist glanced up, caught sight of Alexander, and gave him a warning look. But the redhead must have noticed, because she turned around and he recognized her instantly.

Isobel Sørensen.

Well, well. A smile tilted his lips. This was much more fun than signing papers. He sauntered toward the reception desk. Even from a distance, Isobel was as pretty as Alexander remembered. Although pretty wasn’t the right word. Isobel Sørensen was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that wildfires and explosions and catastrophes are beautiful. He flashed her a wide grin, and after a moment she smiled back—a polite smile that came nowhere close to reaching her eyes.

“I’ve been trying to contact you,” she said, extending her hand to him. He received a firm handshake before she took a step back and pinned him with a searching look. He resisted the urge to run his hand over his stubble. He was almost regretting his decision not to shave.

“I e-mailed you. I just came by to try to get a phone number. You’re impossible to get ahold of.”

“And yet here we are.”

It was no surprise that she hadn’t managed to get through to him. Any e-mails from the foundation went straight from his in-box to a folder that he hadn’t opened in . . . He didn’t even know how long. There had to be hundreds of unopened messages in there by now.

“It’s okay,” he reassured the receptionist before turning back to Isobel. He turned up the charm, gave her a lazy smile. “I had no idea you were so eager to see me. What can I do for you?”

Something flashed in her eyes. Was it anger?

The door to the meeting room opened. “Alexander?”

Damn, he’d already forgotten about the gloomy bank people.

“Let’s break for lunch,” he called dismissively to the man who had looked out. “I need to take this.”

He was genuinely curious about what Isobel Sørensen might want with him. He remembered her very clearly, not that he’d given her a single thought these past six months. If someone had asked him what he thought Isobel made of him, he would have replied, She’s one of the few women who hasn’t fallen for my charm; it’s inconceivable. Whenever they’d met, Isobel had been dismissive, hostile, or downright rude. He found that, naturally, completely irresistible. He raised an eyebrow at the receptionist. “Is there a room we can use?” He turned to Isobel. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

The receptionist tottered past, and Alexander gestured for Isobel to precede him. It was his upbringing, in his very bones; he couldn’t be impolite to a woman even if he tried. But the courtesy also gave him an excellent opportunity to study Isobel from behind. He took in her Windbreaker, her ponytail, and her long legs. There were flecks of dirt on her shapeless pants, and it took a moment before Alexander realized they must be from cycling. When was the last time he’d been on a bike? And such flat, practical shoes. They were among the least sexy things he had ever seen, and he wondered whether he hadn’t just imagined how attractive she was. Isobel sat down. No, he hadn’t imagined it at all. He couldn’t remember when, if ever, he had seen a more beautiful woman. He would give anything to see her in a tight-fitting dress. Or, even better, naked. Under the layers of practical cotton and sensible colors, he suspected there were plenty of interesting curves and exciting secrets to explore. He sat down. The day that had started so abysmally had just taken a dramatic turn for the better.

Isobel crossed her legs, and he couldn’t help but wonder what they looked like. They had to be strong, if she rode her bike everywhere. She gave him a demanding look. What on earth did she want? A thought struck him. He hadn’t slept with her, had he? Christ, he surely wouldn’t have forgotten if he had. He racked his memory and, as a result, didn’t realize that she had already started talking.

“Sorry,” he said. “Could you repeat that?”

She blinked. Her face remained calm, but he caught a flicker in her eyes. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, as though a feeling had managed to come loose within her but had b