“My name is Isobel Sørensen. I’m a doctor of general medicine. My mother, Blanche Sørensen, and grandfather Henri Pelletier founded Medpax in 1984. I was invited here today to talk about my work as a field doctor.” She paused and smiled. The woman had a smile that men would go to war for.
“And to get you to give me absurd amounts of money too,” she added with a glimmer in her eye.
The joke made the audience laugh; she had them on her side after that. She took another step forward, closer to her listeners, and swept her gaze over them. “I’ve seen many children die. But I’ve seen even more survive. Medpax runs a pediatric hospital in Chad, and I’m headed down there in a couple of weeks. The organization has also been involved in funding vaccination programs, taken part in national public health campaigns, and helped to ensure that undernourished children have enough food to survive. I’m telling you this because it’s easy to feel hopeless.” She paused, allowed her words to sink in. The audience was silent. “But if, like me, you’ve seen the results of such relatively simple contributions, there’s no more doubt. All of you gathered here today can make a huge difference. Every one of you can save lives.”
She had an amazing voice. Alexander wasn’t the only one to be drawn into her force field. The audience sat absolutely still. No one jabbed at a phone or moved restlessly in their seat. Isobel held them all spellbound; she brought tears to their eyes when she talked about the sick children she had met, only to make them burst into laughter at the story of how she and two nurses had once organized a wildly popular spa using buckets of mud and a tub of skin lotion, and then made her audience sit silent in awe as she talked about proud Chadian men and their love for their families. She was magnificent. Even he, who had already given so much money to Medpax that his bankers had started to send him questioning messages, wanted to give more. It was a need to impress her, to win her respect. Was she actually getting to him? He looked at the straight-backed, self-confident woman up there at the front. If that was the case, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Just unexpected.
* * *
Partway through the presentation, her tension had vanished, as it always did. Isobel knew that no one probably noticed it, but she was always enormously nervous at the start of a speech. Once she could finally breathe normally, she allowed herself to look out at the audience as she talked and gestured. She wanted to invite her listeners into her life, make them understand how important they could be in creating a better, more equal world. And perhaps a part of her—not that she would ever admit it—enjoyed being the center of attention after all. The thought made her smile, and at that exact moment she caught sight of Alexander, sitting in the last row. Above him hung an oil painting of a fat, old man on a little horse. She suddenly lost the thread. How the devil had Alexander ended up here?
She cast a glance at her watch and continued. Talked about Doctor Idris Toko, so caring to the children in the hospital, so respected among the patients; she talked about the mother who had dared defy the medicine man and come to the hospital instead; and she talked about Zouhoura, the sixteen-year-old Chadian girl whose malaria they had cured and who now went from village to village telling people about the importance of using mosquito nets. She finished at exactly the right time and was met by thunderous applause. Leila clapped hard, looking proud. Alexander stood up and applauded, too, winking and grinning at her, and then she was shown out through a side door by an assistant. She breathed out and heard the next speaker being introduced. And then Alexander came out to her.
“You were fantastic,” he greeted her.
“Thanks. I was so surprised when I saw you there, I thought I was seeing things.” It still felt completely surreal that he was there.
“Only surprised? Not radiantly happy? Almost ecstatic?”
“That too, of course. But what are you doing here?” Had he come here just for her? Was that even possible?
“It’s my castle.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“I don’t come here often; my uncle takes care of it. He’s the one who organized this whole circus.”
“Eugene Tolstoy is your uncle?” But she could see the likeness now: the same blue eyes and blond hair. An air of decadence. A touch of danger.
“Want to go outside for a while? Or did you want to stay?”
Isobel had planned to stay and listen to the others, but being outside with Alexander in this beautiful weather was pretty irresistible.
“How long has your family owned this place?” she asked as they walked across the velvety lawn. Other guests were moving about the park, some with glasses in their hands. She caught sight of a peacock pecking at a magnolia bush. She laughed at the sheer absurdity of it, but Alexander just rolled his eyes.
“It’s not a De la Grip castle. I won it three years ago.”
“Won it?”
He shrugged. “Poker.”
She shook her head. “I never know whether you’re kidding or not.”
“I usually am. But I really did win it. It had been in the guy’s family for generations. You don’t really sell this kind of thing, you know; people hold on to these places until they go under, financially. In a way I think he was relieved to get rid of it. Eugene moved in, and that was that. I hardly ever come here.”
“Aside from now,” she said, and God help her but she was flirting with him. How could she not? He had come all this way for her, she suspected that much.
“Are you staying for the ball?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“Yeah. I even bought a new dress.”
“What color?”
She pulled a leaf from a tree and twirled it between her fingers. “Green.”
His gaze never left hers. “My favorite. There’ll be dancing. Should I ask them to play a salsa?”
She shook her head. “It’s not a salsa dress. It’s a waltz dress.”
“I’ll ask them to play waltzes all night, then.”
“You can’t do that.” Their eyes locked, and there was a faint buzz in the air. He leaned closer to her.
“Right now, it feels like I can do whatever I want.”
Chapter 14
Leila had draped herself on the window ledge inside Isobel’s room. She had opened the window, lit one of her slim, black cigarillos, and was now blowing bluish-gray smoke out through the gap, ignoring Isobel’s demonstrative coughing.
“Passive smoking isn’t nearly as dangerous as they make out,” Leila said, unconcerned, exhaling yet another menthol-scented cloud of smoke. She had on a tight black dress and glittering black shoes with bright red soles. With her kohl-rimmed eyes and jewels in her jet-black hair, she looked more like an exiled Persian queen than ever.
As Leila took yet another puff on her cigarillo, Isobel pulled out the dress she had bought. The dress code was black tie, and since the only suitable dress she owned was ten years old, she had bought a new one.
“It’s nice,” said Leila.
“Thanks.”
Isobel carefully pulled on the green dress, shivering slightly at the rustling noise it made. “I don’t really get dressed up too often. Other things are more important than appearance,” she said, and thought that usually, that was true. She fell silent, embarrassed, and busied herself choosing between a simple gold chain and a pearl necklace, the most expensive pieces of jewelry she owned.
“But now there’s a man you want to feel pretty for,” Leila stated. “In my professional opinion, that’s completely normal. Men are rarely attracted to your brain, after all.”
“What an awfully judgmental thing to say.”
Leila snorted. “We’re talking about Alexander De la Grip, aren’t we? Just so I know. The same man who gave me one hundred thousand kronor just to have dinner with you the other day?”
Isobel bit her lip. That still jarred.
“Did anyone say anything about that?”
“At the office? No one knows. It has nothing to do with them.” Leila stubbed out her ci
garillo on a plate with a golden rim; Isobel was sure that it was both antique and irreplaceable. “I don’t really like this,” Leila said as she took out the pack again. “Two intelligent women like us, talking about men.”
“You want to talk about something more intellectual, you mean? We can always discuss COPD and lung cancer.”
“I really don’t. I’d rather talk about men, if that’s the case. In fact, I can even give you a piece of dating advice right now. Don’t talk about deadly lung diseases if you can avoid it. It’s rather unattractive.”
“You’re a psychologist. I read somewhere that psychologists aren’t meant to give advice.”
Leila took a deep drag. “Maybe, but it’s tough when you have so much wisdom to share.”
“So what do you think of him?” Isobel asked as there was a knock at the door. She went to open it.
“The interesting thing is what you think of him.”
A young man, dressed in what Isobel would have described as period clothing, was standing outside. “With compliments from Alexander De la Grip,” he said. He held out a flat package.
Leila came over to the doorway and studied the young man’s tights-clad legs with great interest. “What is it?” she asked as she stopped ogling him.
Isobel closed the door, ripped off the thin tissue paper, and found a case, old and worn. “It looks ancient,” she said.
“Open it.”
Isobel lifted the lid. Her eyes widened. Lying on a liner of black velvet were a necklace and a pair of earrings.
“Mon dieu. Do you think they’re real?” She lifted up the necklace. The green stones sparkled.
“I know what they are,” Leila said. She touched one of the enormous green gems. “Eugene told me about them. They’re emeralds— they belonged to Josephine Bonaparte, the first wife of Napoleon and the first Empress of the French. Most of them are in Norway, on the crown jewels, but this set wound up at an exclusive auction, and Eugene bought it.”
“So shouldn’t they be in some kind of vault?” Isobel turned the necklace in her hands. The stones were a clear, almost poisonous shade of green.
“Yes. He must have gone to get them. What does it say in the note?”
Isobel picked up the little envelope that had been lying on top and opened it.
Your dress just begged to borrow these.
A
Leila grinned. “You’ve got to give him bonus points for this, Isobel. Turn around, I’ll help you.”
Isobel waited while Leila fastened the necklace. She put on the earrings and then looked in the mirror. The green stones against her pale skin, the dress, her hair—she had never felt so beautiful in all her life. The set had to be priceless. It was extraordinary. Her fingers grazed the necklace. She was happy. But all the same, she wondered. All this extravagance. How could Alexander afford it? Her misgivings had been lulled by his attentiveness, but now they rushed to the fore. The place in Manhattan. The brand-new apartment on Strandvägen. This castle. True, he came from a wealthy family, but still. The last time she checked, you didn’t earn much money from taking the occasional course here and there.
“What do you think? Just a superficial playboy? Criminal? Sex addict?” She said it in a jokey tone, but what was it people often said? If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that you shouldn’t form an opinion of a person too quickly. The first impression is always a lie.”
“But I’m asking you for an opinion now, not drivel like that.”
“Please. If I only ever said what people asked me to say, I’d never get to talk about anything interesting. But if you asked me, I’d say that you need a man to take care of you.”
Isobel shook her head. “I can take care of myself.”
“But still.”
“He’s got no staying power. He said so himself.”
Leila snorted. “You can’t analyze yourself. He drinks too much and he needs something to focus on.”
“And you think that’s Medpax?”
Leila gave her an ironic look. “Hardly. He needs something to fight for, a cause, and he just doesn’t know it. He gave money to Medpax because he wanted to impress you. Not that I mind. A couple more dates, and we’ll make it to Christmas.”
“Are things really that bad?”
“Isobel?” Leila’s voice was stern.
“I know, I know.” Isobel sighed. “I shouldn’t take everything so seriously. And it’s just one party.”
“Mmm, exactly. Just one party.” Leila smiled demonically, then took a puff on her cigarillo, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before she blew a perfect smoke ring. “Just one party where anything could happen.”
* * *
Once Leila had finished smoking and Isobel had finally chosen between her only two pairs of evening shoes, they went down the castle stairs. The green dress was snug and formfitting at the top, hugging her breasts and waist, only to fall out in thin layers that fluttered at the slightest movement of her feet. It wasn’t hard to feel like Cinderella or a princess. The castle was filled with voices, and they followed the sound to a big room in which trays of wine, champagne, and sherry were being passed. There was something almost decadent about the atmosphere. Expectation, flirtation, and excitement hovered in the air, as though the castle itself was looking forward to the evening and planned to make sure everyone ate, drank, and enjoyed themselves to the max.
When Isobel saw what the other guests were wearing—people were dressed in velvet, lace, and jewels—she was glad she had dressed up. For roughly the tenth time she checked that the emeralds were still there, then took a flute of champagne from a tray, glanced around, and tried to look as relaxed as possible for someone wearing antique crown jewels for the first time in her life.
She saw Alexander before he caught sight of her. He entered the room, and it was as though his corner was lit up by brilliant sunlight. She watched him talk to another guest. He really was absurdly handsome. Muscular and tanned, of course, in the way only the truly rich could afford to be. But it was more than that. It was as if someone had gathered every desirable feature a man could have, mixed them all together, poured the result into some perfect mold, and out came Alexander De la Grip—a pure, unspoiled model of blond male beauty. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and naturally managed to look ultrasexy in what would make many men look like badly dressed waiters. He had told her he had been a paratropper when he did his military service, so she tried to picture him as a soldier but failed. He was just too suave, too glamorous.
The women in the room were drawn to him, as if they were small planets gravitating toward the bright center of the universe. Alexander paused again, chatted with two young brunettes, laughed, moved on, and was stopped again. Over and over, as though he was the very life of the party. Every now and then he cast an almost imperceptible glance over the guests, and Isobel knew he was looking for her.
And then he caught sight of her and halted, his eyes locking on to hers. He cut a path across the room and stopped right in front of her. Long, dark eyelashes amped up the intensity of his gaze. His eyes fell on her necklace, and she felt her breasts strain against the edge of her dress as she breathed.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. It was just above her cheekbone and lasted slightly longer than an ordinary, polite kiss. She could smell him—he was warm and masculine, and she felt herself tremble. No one could kiss a woman on the cheek like Alexander De la Grip. Then again, he’d probably had plenty of practice, she thought cynically, taking a step back and telling herself to get a grip.
“Hi,” she said.
Beneath the calm surface, her heart was pounding hard and expectantly. Her pulse and blood pressure increased, and she knew that her blood was rushing through veins and arteries, pulsing out into capillaries and giving her skin a sheen. He affected her. But Alexander wasn’t the first man who’d made her weak in t
he knees. Ultimately, it was just biology and chemistry—hormones and nerves.
“Thanks for this,” she said, noting that her voice still sounded cool and collected as she gestured to the necklace.
“I thought you’d like them. They’re so old, it’s practically recycling.”
“Is it true they’re from Napoleon’s days?”
He nodded.
There was, of course, an attraction between them. It would have been foolish to deny it. But Isobel was an experienced doctor. So many of her patients had alcohol problems. Alexander’s eyes were glazed, and when he put down his empty wineglass and picked up a new one, she knew that he, with his various affairs and his extravagant lifestyle, was a man on the way down the slippery slope toward dependency. Not someone it would be smart to rely on, in other words. But with that said, she couldn’t deny that she and her autonomous nervous system were very happy to see him.
“Good evening,” Eugene Tolstoy said, joining them. He took Isobel’s hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed it. “Ah, Isobel, French jewels become you. Alexander tells me you aren’t just a great physician, but a brilliant speaker as well. I must say, it’s an honor to have you here as our guest.”
Isobel glanced at Alexander. Apparently he had talked to his uncle about her. “This castle is fantastic. I’m so grateful we could come to talk about Medpax’s work.”
“It is I who should be grateful,” Eugene answered smoothly. “So, how is it going? Is there anyone in particular you’d like to be introduced to?”
Isobel was on the verge of replying when she suddenly glimpsed a face she recognized. He was right across the room from her, and she froze. No. It couldn’t be. The shock almost numbed her. Don’t react to seeing him, she told herself. It had been years. Nonetheless, the reaction was physical, and she couldn’t control it.
In a daze she felt Alexander’s arm on her back. “I’ll look after Isobel,” he said with a smile in his voice, and she vaguely realized he was still talking to Eugene. She swallowed. Again. Jesus Christ.
Falling Page 11
