“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.
Chapter 3
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 a
ll, 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 been resolutely pushed back. She started again, slowly and exaggeratedly this time around, as though she was talking to a child.
“You have every right to do as you please. It’s your money, I get that. But I really want to apologize. And I’m still hoping you’ll be able to see the bigger picture here, too, that your actions affect so many more people than just me. That this is about people, real flesh-and-blood people.”
Alexander scratched his forehead. Isobel may as well have been speaking a dead language, he understood so little of what she was saying.
He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again as she continued.
“It’s nothing short of a catastrophe for the people affected. What happened between us . . . like I said, I wish I could undo it. But this is serious, especially for the children. I’m not exaggerating when I say we’re talking about life and death here.” She picked up a folder and started to lay out pictures of undernourished children and what looked like hospital beds, as well as sheets of paper filled with columns.
“Isobel . . .” Alexander began. He had to stop to clear his throat. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’ve had a tough morning, but I don’t quite follow.
”
She placed her hands in her lap and gave him a long look. Two faint, pink patches had flared up on her cheeks. A furrow had appeared between her eyebrows, which were utterly fascinating in themselves. Fiery red against her pale forehead. She was such a beauty, he could just imagine it: arriving at one of the nightclubs in New York with her on his arm. Or, even more appealing, Isobel beneath him, in his bed, naked.
Damn it, she’d said something he hadn’t heard again. He forced himself to focus.
“We’re completely dependent on our donors.”
“Okay,” he said, without understanding what the hell that had to do with him. He really wished the caffeine he’d poured into himself would somehow disperse the fog in his head. “So if I’ve understood this correctly,” he tried to summarize, “there’s a lack of money somewhere?” But even as he uttered the words, he knew he had misunderstood something vital.
Isobel blinked several times. Her mouth was taut, causing the last of her professional composure to vanish. “Let me repeat the most important things,” she replied tersely, launching into a new, quite forceful monologue about famine, children, and money.
This time Alexander made a serious attempt to keep up. Regardless of what Isobel thought of him, he wasn’t actually an idiot. And finally he managed to decipher what she was saying.
“We gave your organization money. Then we stopped. And you’re . . . uh . . . upset.”
“I know you did it to get revenge, but I . . .”
“Revenge?” he interrupted. This really wasn’t very easy to follow.
“Yeah, well, you know. Because I . . .”
She actually blushed a little at this point. Was it wrong that a blushing woman turned him on? Normally, she looked like a damned Amazon, and that small weakness just made her extra sexy.
“Because I was rude.”
“Rude? Aha, you mean when you told me to go fuck myself?” he asked helpfully. “Or do you mean that time when you turned your back on me at Arlanda Airport? Or maybe it was when you pretended not to understand Swedish? Sorry, it’s just there were so many times, I don’t know which one you mean.”
Falling Page 2
