“I don’t know what happened. I lay awake all night thinking about it. I don’t want you to think I had any ulterior motive. I haven’t really been myself lately, you know, and the sauna was hot, and maybe it was the wine . . .”
“It’s okay, Tom,” she said, resting her cheek against the open door. She wasn’t pissed, she wasn’t angry. It was okay. Jill was right, this whole being someone’s comfort lay thing wasn’t really for her. She’d been attracted to Tom and then read her own feelings into the situation. Yes, she felt embarrassed, stupid. But they were her feelings, not his. No big deal. She would go home and sleep with the Twitter journalist instead, she decided.
“Thanks for coming by,” she said.
“It didn’t feel right to part on bad terms.”
“Yeah,” she agreed.
“Maybe we can be friends?”
“Sure. Friends, sure.” She groaned inside.
He seemed relieved. “I can carry those down for you,” he said, pointing to her bags.
After a short pause, she said yes; she didn’t want to seem ungrateful now that they were apparently going to be friends. They took the elevator down to the lobby, where she quickly checked out, and then they found themselves standing outside the hotel.
“You don’t need to wait with me,” she eventually said, hoping he would get the message.
He brushed some snow from his face. A number of flakes had settled in his black hair, small white stars in the darkness.
“That’s what friends do, isn’t it? Wait with one another.”
“Suppose so.”
They waited.
And waited.
“It’s cold,” she said, huddling up inside her jacket. She was about to freeze to death. “Maybe we should wait inside?”
“There’s no cab coming,” he said firmly.
“It’s coming,” she said.
“Nope.” He picked up her bag and started to make his way toward the parking lot.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, jogging after him. “The cab will be here any minute.”
“It’s not coming.” He threw her bag into what she recognized as his car.
“Am I being kidnapped?” she asked, irritated.
He closed the trunk lid, opened the passenger side door and held it open for her. “Jump in, I’ll give you a ride.”
“But the cab . . .”
“Get in.”
* * *
Tom pulled up outside the Kiruna airport fifteen minutes later. He parked by the terminal building, climbed out of the car, and lifted Ambra’s bag from the trunk.
“I can take it,” she said, holding out a hand.
“I’ll carry it in for you,” he said decidedly, ignoring the obstinate look in her eye. The bag was heavy, and he still felt guilty; he needed to do something for her.
She walked ahead of him, and Tom followed her jerky movements with his eyes. It was good they had straightened things out, that they could part as friends.
Tom waited as she went to pick up her boarding pass. She was taking her bag as hand luggage, and he knew she had her beloved computer inside. Strange how quickly you could get to know a person.
She turned around.
“So,” she said.
So.
New Year’s Eve was approaching, and the airport was busy. All around them, people were checking in bags, skis, and strollers. “Thanks for the ride,” Ambra said as Tom held out his hand to her. She had pulled off her hat when they went inside, and her hair was a wild mass around her face.
He told himself he was just going to straighten one particularly unruly lock, but somehow his hand wasn’t satisfied with that. After he straightened that one curl and saw it bounce back, his hand continued the movement. Suddenly, he found himself stroking her cheek in a tender, lingering gesture. She froze and stared at him. His fingertips were coarse, so he kept his touch gentle, just wanting to see whether she was as soft as he remembered.
She was.
He let his fingers rest against her silken skin.
Standing in the middle of Kiruna’s little airport, stroking Ambra’s cheek, should have felt like a mistake, but it didn’t. It felt like the smartest thing Tom had done in a long time.
“What are you doing?” she mumbled, her brow furrowed. Tom’s entire palm was on her cheek now, however that had happened. Ambra blinked slowly, but otherwise she held his gaze. She didn’t seem to be a particularly vain woman, and he assumed that those long black lashes of hers were real.
“Thanks for the past few days,” he said quietly.
She inhaled, as though she had forgotten to breathe and was now compensating for it with one long, deep breath.
“Tom?” she said.
“Yeah?”
He should stop touching her. But Ambra looked up at him, her eyes like mountain lakes and birch glades in spring. And then it felt as if she was moving her cheek against his palm, only a slight movement but enough encouragement for Tom’s fingers to slide back toward the nape of her neck, in beneath her curly hair. It was like touching a cat or mink fur, she was so incredibly smooth, and he heard someone breathe out and knew that the sigh had come from him.
Point of no return.
Every operation Tom had ever been on had one, a point of no return, and he was close.
Then, once Ambra was on her plane to Stockholm and disappeared from his life, possibly for good, her scent would linger on his fingers as a reminder, he thought. He passed the point where he might have been able to turn back, took one last step and held on to her, not hard but determinedly, lowered his mouth to hers, and then, finally, finally, he kissed her. Finally got to continue what he’d started yesterday, dreamed of last night. His mouth moved against hers. Their lips met, tentatively. He angled his head, gently brushed his tongue against her lower lip, and she allowed him in, parted her lips, invited him to taste her, to feel her welcoming warmth.
Tom pulled her closer, so firmly that he heard her pant; pressed her to him, felt her mold to his shape, felt a leg slip between his thighs. His hands moved in, beneath her coat, around her back, down past her waist, and onto her hips. He grabbed her ass and pulled her even closer, kissed her properly now. She was still just a stranger to him, but his hands and body were fast learners, enjoying the fact that she had a soft, round ass beneath her jeans, passionate arms exploring his body, and an eager mouth. She clung to him as though they were in the middle of a natural disaster and he was her only hope of survival. Tom moved one hand between their bodies and raised it to her breast, cupped the soft weight of it. She groaned faintly against his mouth, made that feminine movement of pressing her breast against his hand, and then he groaned, too, ran his thumb over her nipple, which he felt harden through her layers of clothing.
They kissed like that, passionately and erotically, until he sensed a change in her. She stopped moving in his arms, gently pulled away, placed one hand on his chest, and pushed him back. She didn’t say anything, just breathed heavily, and studied him as though she was trying to understand what had just happened.
“What happened to being friends?” she said with a wry smile.
Good question.
“I have no idea,” he said, pushing one of those incessant locks of hair from her face. His finger followed her temple, her cheek, and then wandered down towards her collarbone. She gave off such a strong, energetic impression that he didn’t always notice how young she looked. Every time she took a breath, her collarbone rose and fell beneath his hand. He could sense all her vulnerable points, her pulse, her throat, her veins.
“This was a bad idea,” she said, though she didn’t sound too convinced.
“Yeah,” he replied, taking her face in his hands and kissing her again—hard, eager, with an open mouth and tongue. Her palms flew up to his chest, onto his arms, and then around his neck, where they nestled into his hair. Tom groaned as Ambra pushed her body against his again. He hadn’t realized quite how starved he was when it came to physical contac
t. He pressed his mouth against hers, used his tongue, kissed her recklessly, uncontrollably, heard her whimper.
And then someone swerved to avoid something in the crowded departures hall; maybe it was a baggage cart, maybe someone stumbled and bumped into Ambra. Tom’s arms wrapped around her protectively.
“Sorry,” said the woman who had bumped into her.
“No worries,” Ambra mumbled.
The woman moved on, and Ambra laid her cheek against his chest. Tom’s hands were clasped behind her back, his chin in her hair, and he breathed in the scent of her. She shifted gently but stayed in his embrace, now with her nose against his breastbone. How long had they been making out like teenagers? A minute? Five? Even longer? He had no idea. It was as if everything his brain usually kept track of—his surroundings, the way people were moving, how much time had passed—ceased to exist. He let go of her, took a step back, and rubbed his face. A loudspeaker barked that the flight to Stockholm was now boarding.
She straightened her clothes. “That’s me,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Her face was flushed, her mouth looked like it had just been kissed, and he felt a jolt in his heart. They would probably never see each other again. “Hope you have a good flight home,” he mumbled.
She smiled, turned, and walked away toward security.
Tom waited, confident she would turn around. But she didn’t, and then she was gone.
Gone.
Chapter 23
After Ambra’s plane landed, she took the Arlanda Express train into Stockholm. Now that she was on her way to the office, Grace was calming down. Ambra had spent the whole journey from Kiruna working. She replied to e-mails, wrote a few short pieces she sent as soon as she had Wi-Fi, and even started sketching out two more articles that Grace wanted her to turn in after lunch.
She barely thought about the kiss in the airport.
Aside from the fact she thought about it nonstop.
She stepped from the train and headed toward the Aftonbladet building.
It had obviously been a farewell kiss, and she didn’t expect anything more; no follow-up calls or continuation of any kind. It was perfectly clear that Tom wasn’t serious about her. But still. What a fairy-tale kiss. And what an inexplicable man Tom Lexington was. She knew she should be annoyed that he couldn’t decide whether they should be friends or make out. But it was hard to be angry at someone who had just given you the best kiss of your life. Because while Tom Lexington might be incomprehensible, damaged, and in love with the sprightly, blond Ellinor, the man knew how to kiss. What they’d shared in the airport in Kiruna easily came first, second, and third on Ambra’s list of Best Kisses of My Life.
She swiped her pass to get into the building, took the elevator to the seventh floor, said hi to the others on the Breaking News desk, and then slumped into her seat, switched on all of her screens, and logged in.
“Welcome back,” Grace said, using her hand to cover the microphone on her headset.
Ambra said hi, then went to get a cup of coffee, grabbed the last banana from the bowl and a few leftover dark chocolate pralines from a box (did anyone like dark chocolate, really?), and returned to her desk.
Back in her seat, she quickly checked her Twitter feed. The journalist from Dagens Nyheter, Henrik Stål, hadn’t replied to her message about going for a coffee. She really wasn’t having much luck lately.
Last time she had sex was also with another journalist. They dated all summer. Dinners, long conversations about Important Things, and then sex, always at her place. He talked trash about his ex-wife every time, and then he’d gone back to her, just in time for fall. According to his most recent Facebook update, they were in love, had never been happier, and were going to renew their wedding vows in Dubai.
How nice for them.
At the Christmas party before last, Ambra had flirted intensely with one of the IT guys. He was engaged now. To a twenty-year-old trainee from the Viral desk. Ambra wouldn’t go so far as to say it was a pattern, that the men she was more or less interested in ended up dumping her, moving on, and meeting the love of their life; that would be too depressing. But what was it people always said? The lowest common denominator in all your failed relationships is you.
The question was whether there were more men like Tom. Like him, only, well—available. Did they exist?
Grace finally hung up. “What’s going on?” she asked with her eyes on her own monitor. That was how things were. All conversations were subordinate to the news feed.
“We’ve got a traffic accident at the top of the Södertälje Bridge. And then new pictures of Princess Estelle in the lineup. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
Grace glanced around. “Couch?”
They sat down on the couch, both their cell phones facing up, ready to act if anything happened.
“Okay, this thing about the foster family,” Ambra began.
Grace nodded and started to peel an orange. The scent of citrus spread through the air. “I thought about what you said, I promise. But listen, that kind of social services thing—you know how it can bounce back. It sounds like the kind of story that might blow up in our faces. The more you dig into it, the more they close ranks, and then you’ll find yourself being reported by everyone.” Grace put a slice of the orange into her mouth. “Is there any particular reason why you’re so into this story?”
No one at the paper knew about her background. In fact, she rarely talked about her childhood at all. It was odd how much she’d blabbed in Kiruna. But something had happened up there. Not just with Tom, but with her. The memories came flooding back. It was Esaias Sventin’s fault that her hearing was bad, that she didn’t own anything belonging to her parents, that she didn’t trust people. She was a grown woman now, and she could live with that. But the idea that he and Rakel might be fostering other children . . . that they were allowed to go on . . .
“I think it could be a good piece, I just need a little time,” she replied neutrally.
Grace chewed and then swallowed. “Have you been thinking about the position with Investigative?”
Ambra nodded.
“I think you’d fit in well there, even though I don’t want to lose you from Breaking News. But you need to come up with something better than this story about social services. You know how many people want that job.”
Oh, Ambra knew. They both looked over to Oliver Holm on the Society desk. The editor-in-chief, Dan Persson, was standing beside him. The young guys of the office were gathered around him, laughing and slapping each other on the shoulders.
“Did you have anything else?” Grace asked.
Ambra shook her head. She couldn’t help but think of Tom Lexington and his mysterious background. What had he been through? And: was there a story there? A story good enough for an Investigative piece? She wanted to ask Grace. Grace was phenomenal at finding angles and judging how newsworthy a story was, but Tom had told her those things in confidence. Ambra reluctantly held back. Oliver laughed again.
“You did a good job with the old lady,” Grace said, gathering up the orange peel.
“Elsa Svensson.”
“Right. Make sure you catch up your hours today.”
“Grace, there’s one more thing. Do you know anything about elite Swedish soldiers?”
“Why?”
“I met a guy who works in private security. You know, kidnapping courses, bodyguards, that kind of thing.”
“That whole area’s a jungle, it’s completely unregulated. I know the UN keeps an eye on some of them. That there have been attacks abroad. That there’s been talk of international legislation.”
Ambra was impressed. That was Grace to a tee. A cornucopia of general knowledge.
Grace’s phone started to flash on the table. “Karsten Lundqvist’s our expert in that kind of thing. He wrote about it last year, I think. Talk to him,” Grace said as she picked up her phone. Ambra’s started to buzz at the same moment.
Hug
e fire in asylum centre, Central News Agency reports.
“We’ll run it as a flash,” Grace said, getting to her feet.
Ambra was already moving.
“Do we have any pictures? Video?” Grace shouted, receiving a thumbs-up in reply. Ambra got down to work.
* * *
When Ambra arrived home much too late two days later, the day before New Year’s Eve, both her refrigerator and freezer were empty. She had been working virtually nonstop, and she was exhausted. She listlessly stared at the empty shelves in the refrigerator. Oh, and it was her birthday, too.
She always steeled herself for the day in advance. Told herself it would be okay. That it was just like any other day. All that was true.
But the fact still remained.
Today was her birthday, and she felt like the loneliest person on earth.
Eventually, she managed to find some crisp bread and a jar of mackerel in tomato sauce. She put the open sandwiches onto a plate and sat down on the couch.
Jill had forgotten, of course. As usual. It was stupid to feel so low, really. She didn’t have any expectations; no one even knew what day it was. Her birthday wasn’t something that had ever been celebrated. Constant upheavals and different family situations weren’t exactly conducive to cozy parties or birthday dinners. She knew of people who had big family celebrations, and she’d seen them in movies and on social media, studied the way people interacted, talked, laughed, passed plates to one another. Sunday dinners. Family gatherings. Inside jokes and homemade desserts.
But none of that was for her.
She knew that.
She took out her computer, thinking she should have just stayed at work. An e-mail pinged into her in-box. She clicked to open it.
Congratulations Ambra Vinter, the subject line read.
She opened the e-mail.
Hi Ambra,
Happy birthday. We wanted to celebrate by offering you a 10% discount on anything in our shop.
Best, Anton at Sexoteket AB.
She studied the accompanying pictures. Dildos in a range of “girly” colors. Underwear that tasted like chocolate. Something she couldn’t make out at first but then realized were “authentic feeling” fake breasts.
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