On the other side of the door, the party was still going on, despite the late hour. At least two dozen women out there would more than happily welcome him into their beds. They would offer him the things he liked most in the world: pleasure and the warmth of physical contact, with no expectations other than a bit of fun while it lasted. Out there, things were certain and risk-free. In here, uncertain and risky. He had always been a smart player. He should get up from his chair, say something superficial and distant, and then back away.
Alexander knew all this as he leaned forward, placed a hand on Isobel’s leg, felt her warmth through the blanket and the thin green silk beneath, felt Isobel tremble the way she had earlier when he had touched her. He was about to cross a line he might come to regret later.
Maybe.
“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, “would you like to go to Copenhagen with me? We could fly over, have lunch.”
“Fly? To Denmark?”
He caressed her knee, slowly, almost thoughtfully. Some of the guests had arrived by private jet. He could borrow one of them. Could take Isobel for a day to her father’s homeland. Take her away from drunken idiots and sadistic doctors from her past.
“One of the best restaurants in the world is there,” he said convincingly, still caressing her leg. “What d’you say? Can I take you for lunch tomorrow?”
“Copenhagen?” Her voice was quiet.
“It’s just lunch—you need to eat.”
She nodded, as though what he said was logical. “Yes, I do.” She smiled, and her smile sent butterflies through him. He couldn’t let go of her yet. He wasn’t responsible for her feelings and expectations; he was responsible only for his own. And things would go well between them, better than well. No one would walk away from this disappointed, that he could promise.
She covered her mouth with her palm and stifled an enormous yawn.
“Sorry,” she said, embarrassed. “I suddenly have no energy.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s almost three. Do you want me to walk you to your room?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I just meant walk with you up to the turret, nothing else,” he lied without hesitation
“So you are the one who fixed that beautiful room for me. Thanks. You really are a gentleman, Alexander. But if it’s okay with you, I’d rather say good night down here.”
She put the blanket to one side and got to her feet. He did the same. They studied one another. He wanted to raise a hand, touch her cheek, pull her close to him, but she really did look exhausted. She didn’t look like a person who should be going to a field hospital in Chad; she looked like a woman in need of a vacation.
“Good night,” she said softly.
“Sleep well, Isobel.”
Once she had gone, Alexander grabbed a carafe of whisky and sat back down in the armchair. As he sipped his drink—he actually preferred vodka but wasn’t so finicky that he couldn’t appreciate an eighteen-year-old single malt—he thought about his next move. He had always been a shrewd poker player. Never careless but never afraid, either. He loved and respected the game. He thought about what Isobel had said. She was a smart woman, and she was right about many things.
But she was dead wrong on one point. If there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a gentleman. He played to win. Always.
Chapter 17
Isobel took the last few stairs up to her turret room. After she closed the door behind her, she practically slumped with her back against it.
Jesus.
She took off her heels and sat down on the bed, her mind berating her. What, exactly, did she think she was doing? She couldn’t get involved with Alexander, she knew that. She wasn’t insane.
How could she even think of doing anything other than a bit of flirting? She fumbled for the clasp of the necklace, almost panicking when she couldn’t undo it. Eventually, she managed. She got up and put the necklace back in its box, along with the earrings. It was as though a spell was about to break. As though she had temporarily been another version of herself but was now slowly regaining her senses.
There were plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t have anything more to do with Alexander, she thought as she pulled off her dress. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of rational reasons. And then a few irrational ones, too.
The intensity. The feelings.
She took off her underwear, washed her face, fetched a glass of water, and then slipped between the ironed sheets in her absurdly big bed. She could still hear a faint murmur and the occasional hint of music from elsewhere in the castle.
She looked out through the window, growing drowsy, allowing her gaze to fall on the night sky and the twinkling stars.
What had she gotten herself into?
And then, before there was any time to react, she suddenly felt a hand over her mouth. Nothing could really prepare you for how it felt, to be almost suffocated by someone else’s palm. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. She felt her arms and hands being tied, quickly and without mercy. Bone-shattering terror coursed through her.
The fear. The petrifying experience of being totally at someone else’s mercy. The horrific sensation of not being able to move without your wrists hurting. She fought the rising panic, tried to scream, to break free, but couldn’t. She pulled at her bonds, panicking when she felt them cutting into her wrists. Please, she wanted to say to the man who had taken total control of her body. Please, don’t hurt me.
A sob racked her body and then she broke the surface of the dream. Her heart was racing, and she heard her breath coming in shallow gasps. A dream. It was just a dream. She’d had them before. She tried to steady herself. The loss of control was terrifying, she knew that painfully well. But it was just a nightmare. She fell back, pressed a hand over her forehead, and just breathed, trying to clear her head of the last remnants of the violent dream.
She was still lying awake when the sun began to shine outside, when the birds started twittering, and when what she assumed were the peacocks started to make screeching sounds.
When she heard a vacuum cleaner start and caught the scent of freshly brewed coffee, she got up. She took a quick shower and then headed, bare-faced, down the winding staircase. She knew that the castle was full of overnight guests, but it was just seven, so she was one of the few people awake. She followed the scent of coffee and found a kitchen where she picked up a freshly brewed cup and a cheese sandwich from a woman in a striped apron.
She heard the rustle of a newspaper and turned around to see Eugene Tolstoy.
He folded the paper and got to his feet. “Good morning,” he said. “You’re up early.”
She took her cup and sandwich and sat down opposite him.
“Leila is still asleep,” he said. “We stayed up late, playing cards and talking.”
She took a sip of the steaming coffee—strong and hot. She had completely forgotten about Leila.
“Is everything okay?” he asked, studying her. “I heard you got caught up in a bit of a scuffle yesterday.”
“Did Alexander tell you?”
“A little. He sat with us awhile after you went to bed. We don’t have to talk about it, if it makes you uncomfortable. But I want to apologize. You’re my guest, and I’m sorry it happened to you. None of those men will ever be welcome here again, that much is certain. You mean a lot to Alexander. And to Leila. That means you’re also important to me, if you’ll allow me to say so, even though we don’t know one another especially well.”
She smiled at his elaborate speech. “Thank you,” she said.
He played with his fragile teacup. “Did you know that I’ve met your mother?”
“No. When?”
“I met Blanche in Paris in the eighties. I actually met your grandmother, too. Karin Jansson, yes? She was a fantastic artist. I saw one of her canvases at the Tessin Institute in Paris. Have you seen it?”
“A girl with red hair, right?” Isobel smiled and held out a strand of her hair. “It’s me.”
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“I suspected as much. It’s beautiful, just like you.”
They fell silent, and Isobel drank her coffee as Eugene stirred his tea.
“It’s been good to have you here,” said Eugene. “I hope you see me as a friend. And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Isobel picked at a bread crumb. “Could you arrange a taxi?”
He gave her a look of surprise. “Are you leaving? I thought you and Alexander . . . ?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t begin to deny the physical attraction she felt for Alexander. She was experienced enough to realize it was unique in its nature, and she had come close to being drawn in. But that was the problem. Alexander threatened to free everything she tried to control within herself. First those crazy-hot kisses, melting her brain, setting dangerous feelings loose. Then Sebastien appearing, reminding her of things she desperately needed to keep in the past. And then that vivid dream. Christ, she hadn’t had that dream for a long time. It wasn’t a coincidence. When she was with Alexander her defenses began crumbling, and she couldn’t afford that, simply couldn’t. No, she was putting an end to this madness, taking the only logical, the only sane, step she could.
“I need to go home. I have lots to do.”
“Does Alexander know? Sorry, it’s not my business. But he likes you, I can see that.”
She sighed. The day trip to Denmark he’d suggested did sound great. She loved the language, the food, and the culture, and she hadn’t been to Copenhagen for years. Alexander’s suggestion had been almost irresistible.
“I’ll leave a note. I’ve already rebooked my train ticket,” she said.
“In that case, of course I’ll make sure you get to the station. If you give me five minutes, I’ll drive you myself.”
“Thank you,” she said. She felt a pang in her chest at the thought they might never see one another again. She liked Eugene, but they hardly moved in the same circles.
* * *
Once Isobel was on the train, her forehead resting against the window, her cell phone rang in her bag. Alexander’s number appeared on the screen, and she waited until it stopped ringing, sent a text saying she was heading home, and ignored her phone the rest of the way back to Stockholm.
She walked the short distance from the central station to her apartment on the corner of Kungsgatan and Vasagatan. Dropped her bag on the floor, and gazed sightlessly into the refrigerator.
She would never admit it, but Isobel knew exactly what she had done today. She had run, and she was ashamed of her cowardice. She wasn’t normally a coward. But the fact was that the last time she had felt something like what she felt for Alexander, the last time she felt such an intense attraction that she had trouble thinking clearly, it had ended in nothing less than disaster.
She closed the refrigerator, went over to the couch, and lay down. She stared up at the ceiling. She had eight unanswered messages from Alexander, but it was best to cut it off now, however much it hurt. Because the last time she felt like this, it had been for Sebastien, and she had very nearly not survived.
Chapter 18
No matter where Peter looked these days, he saw people at work. He hadn’t seen the world like that before. People working in kiosks, in restaurants, and behind counters. Serving, cleaning, and tending to the needs of others.
He placed a hand on his desk, studied the back of it, and tried to remember how much cleaning or manual labor that hand had done. They had grown up with staff, he and his two siblings, and he had always taken their presence for granted. But these days he often wondered about all these people whose lives were so different from his own. It was as if he saw life itself differently now. As though a filter had been removed, giving the world new contours, populating it with individuals he hadn’t noticed before. He liked to watch them. Some seemed happy and contented, but others definitely seemed weighed down. Why was that? Why were some people happy with their lives while others were unhappy? Where did the difference lie?
Peter watched Gina as she pushed the vacuum over the expensive office carpets. She was one of those who worked hard, who existed in the background. Was she one of the happy or unhappy ones?
He hadn’t said a word to her. Not since that evening last week when they’d left the office at the same time and he had spoken to her. He didn’t even recall what he’d said, just that she had looked at him like he was an idiot.
Peter got up from his chair. She didn’t look up as he pushed the door shut. The dull sound of the vacuum motor grew fainter. He was so tired. He couldn’t sleep, not at home, not in his bed, not at night. His mind just kept racing. There had been a time when he was worried because he felt so little. But these days it was the only thing he did: feel.
He sat down on the small couch that somehow had ended up in his office. Heard the faint sound of the vacuum moving back and forth, leaned against the backrest. He would just close his eyes for a minute or two.
* * *
“Hello?”
Peter woke and sat upright on the couch, completely disoriented. He blinked, tried to shake the sleep from his brain. When he saw Gina in the doorway, he quickly pulled his hand over his mouth, worried he might have snored or dribbled. Gina’s face looked concerned. Her eyes swept over him as though she was looking for a sign of . . . something.
“Is everything okay?” she asked as she wound her earbuds around her cell phone and then shoved it into her apron pocket.
“Yes, sorry,” Peter said, smoothing out his shirt and tie. He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping. “What time is it?”
“Eight.”
He stood up, feeling stupid just sitting there.
She quickly backed up.
It was probably just the two of them left in the office. Had he scared her? Christ.
“I’m sorry, Gina,” he said hurriedly. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping—I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. Sorry,” he repeated.
“I’m leaving soon,” she said, her chin jutting out. “I just need to eat something. You can go if you want. I’ll lock up.”
She started to leave, and Peter found himself following her to the lunchroom. He drank a glass of water while she ate from a round plastic box; it smelled spicy, looked vibrant. His stomach rumbled; he hoped she didn’t hear it. They stood in silence as he refilled his glass.
“Why can’t you sleep?” she eventually asked, as she wiped her mouth and put the box to one side.
“It’s been that way awhile.”
“My dad has problems like that.”
Peter smiled. “How old is he?”
“Don’t know. About forty. Or fifty. You?”
“Thirty-six.” He didn’t dare ask her age, but she looked young. Her Swedish was perfect, but he could still detect a slight accent he couldn’t identify. He wondered where she was from. Was it rude to ask? He had no idea, wasn’t sure he’d ever had such a long conversation with a dark-skinned person. Could you say dark-skinned? He was close to breaking out into a sweat, terrified of sounding politically incorrect or worse. He had grown up with his father’s prejudices. The man hated everyone: foreigners, blacks, feminists. Peter had never thought about it before, embarrassingly enough, had simply kept his mouth shut and adapted. But things were very different today, and he was genuinely curious about what life was like where Gina grew up. Geography was the only subject he’d enjoyed in school, maybe because the focus wasn’t just on numbers and letters but pictures and stories. But he didn’t dare ask, didn’t dare break the fragile state of noncontempt from her side.
He settled with asking, “How is it you don’t know your father’s age, if you don’t mind my asking?” He held his breath, hoped she wouldn’t rail at him.
She turned on the tap, added some dish liquid, and rinsed out her box. “He doesn’t know himself. It isn’t important in our country. I’m from Somalia. You aren’t defined by your age there, or even what you do. You’re defined by your family.”
Peter rinsed his
glass and dried it off, wondering what it would be like to be judged solely by your family. “Is it just you and your dad?”
“I have a little brother,” she said, but her voice changed. She didn’t like the subject, that was clear. But he didn’t want her to stop; he had been starved of any conversation that wasn’t about work.
“I have a little brother too.”
She smiled but said nothing.
Idiot. Gina’d met Alexander plenty of times.
Gina dried her box, threw away some paper, wiped the counter. Peter realized she was about to leave. He looked at his watch. It was almost nine. Where had the time gone?
“Where do you live?” he asked.
She looked at him as though she wanted to ask Why? but answered curtly: “Tensta.”
He had never been there, he realized, just knew it by reputation. Built in the seventies, called the Million Programme, once its aim had been to offer reasonably priced housing; today the huge high-rises were poorly kept. Ninety percent of the inhabitants were immigrants, and the project was infamous for violence and crime. “Do you have a car?”
She flashed him an ironic look. “Do I have a car?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I mean, how are you getting home?” Tensta was on the way to Gyllgarn. He must have passed the area hundreds of times, but it was far. He had no idea how you would get there if you didn’t have a car. Train? Bus? It was late already. Was it really safe?
“I get home the same way I’ve done the past few years,” she answered. All the usual contempt was back in her voice. “It’s called public transport.”
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