The only good thing about it being Friday was that she would soon have made it through the dinner with Alexander, Isobel thought as she stepped out of the shower.

She must have regretted going along with this crazy idea at least a hundred times by now. She should have said no. It went completely against all of her principles. But Alexander had surprised her, and now here she was: with newly waxed legs and curls in her hair.

What would they say at Medpax if they knew what she’d done? She could tell herself it wasn’t weird for her to be going out with him as much as she liked, that he was just one donor of many. But it felt weird. She was used to finding creative solutions to the most unexpected problems. Had used her own tights as a bandage, sawed-off broom handles to splint broken legs, and paid bribes to get ahold of vital drugs. But a date like this, did that really fit into the same category? The issue was, she thought as she slathered herself in scented skin lotion she rarely used, that a tiny part of her was looking forward to it.

She remembered how Alexander had looked when they’d met those first few times. As though he had just visited some kind of private hell. That wasn’t quite so plain any longer, but there was an occasional flash of it in those impossibly blue eyes, something that made her wonder what he was really hiding behind the charming devil-may-care façade.

She loosened the clip holding her hair up and shook out the curls.

The best thing would be if she could go on the date, secure the hundred thousand kronor, and then get out as quickly as she could.

It would be even better if she had any idea what to wear.

She cast a dissatisfied glance into her wardrobe and finally pulled out a dress she’d bought on sale before a donor dinner a few years earlier. She had never worn it. The thing was, people told her she was beautiful. Not every day, of course, but it happened. And men sometimes did a double take as she passed, at least when she had her hair down and wasn’t in a bad mood. She shouldn’t be so insecure about her appearance. It was just that her greatest asset had always been her brain. In school, she’d been the tall, weird girl who spoke French and Danish and blushed on a regular basis. She hadn’t been bullied, exactly, but she had been an outsider, hadn’t quite understood the subtle codes that made certain girls popular and others … something else.

And then she had somehow managed to catch up with herself, just in time to start her medical studies. People bloomed at different ages, and she was simply better suited to being a grown-up doctor than she had been a gangly teenager. But her self-confidence with regards to her looks had never quite caught up. And it hadn’t gotten any better when she fell in love with … She shuddered, rapidly chasing that memory away.

She studied the red dress thoughtfully. The price tag dangled accusingly toward her. She had bought it because it flattered her body. It emphasized her waist and legs, and with the right bra it actually made her look quite okay, if she said so herself. But it needed high heels to come into its own, and she had wimped out when it actually came to wearing it, and had chosen a safe dress and low pumps for the dinner. Still, that dinner had gone very well, and she’d managed to bring in a new donor.

This time, there was a hundred thousand kronor at stake. Money that could mean so much to their hospital, to children who had literally nothing, boys like Marius. Medpax wasn’t a wealthy organization. The hospital needed everything. Appliances. Personnel. Medicine. She had made her decision to go back to Chad. Was already looking forward to seeing Idris. And Marius. One hundred thousand kronor was a fortune here in Sweden. In Chad it was more than that. It was the difference between dead children and living children.

In the end there was no question.

Alexander was already waiting in the bar. Isobel saw his eyes widen a fraction when he caught sight of her, and then he did something she knew she wasn’t supposed to notice. He looked her body up and down, just for a split second, before he met her gaze. He came toward her, like a gentleman, ignoring everything in the room in favor of her.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

She wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but Alexander looked even more handsome than last time. He had on slim gray pants and a dark jacket, with a tight black T-shirt underneath. His blond hair looked golden against the muted colors. She was far from a fashion expert, but even she could see that he looked stylish, wealthy … and hot.

She shook her hair, hoped she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth, gripped her clutch beneath her arm, and held out her hand.

Alexander looked down at it for a moment. A smile played on his lips, but then he politely held out his own hand and shook hers.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“No, but I’ve read about this place. I heard it was impossible to get a table.”

“Yeah. I felt like I needed to boost my stock a little. Our meetings have been a bit … ahem, tense.” He held out a hand and she sat down on the stool next to his. “Champagne?”

Isobel heard herself say yes, despite the fact she hadn’t been planning to drink this evening. But one small glass, what harm could it do?

She was handed a tall glass of nearly ice-cold Bollinger. They toasted and she took a sip. Sweet Jesus, so good.

“They don’t have menus,” Alexander said once they’d gotten their table. He had given her the seat with the best view of the restaurant, and she had to remind herself, quite firmly, that she was here for work.

“The chef presents a tasting menu.”

Damn it.

“What?” he asked, studying her.

“I’m actually a vegetarian,” she said apologetically, not wanting to cause a fuss. “But it’s okay. I’m not so strict.”

Alexander smiled, and Isobel thought that it was biologically impossible not to be attracted to him. It was as though there were just two poles: attracted to Alexander or dead. It made no difference how much she reminded herself what she really thought of him. He was like a force of nature.

“Don’t say that. I like that you’re strict,” he murmured. His eyes were hooded, and his voice had an undertone that went right through her. Or maybe it was just the champagne. The waiter took the bottle from the bucket and refilled her glass. Somehow, it was already empty.

“Could you ask Anna to come out?” Alexander inquired.

“The chef. I know her,” he explained once the waiter had disappeared.

Of course he did.

The chef was a young woman with a serious face. Alexander stood up when she approached, and they shook hands.

“My guest here doesn’t eat meat,” said Alexander.

Anna looked at her. “Fish?”

“Ideally no,” Isobel replied apologetically.

“No problem. We’ll figure something out.”

“Thanks,” said Isobel.

“Good to see you, Alexander,” said Anna, before she gave them both a quick nod and disappeared.

Alexander sat back down with a pleased look.

He just kept on earning points, Isobel admitted to herself. She was used to finding herself in endless discussions about being a vegetarian, most often with men who enjoyed explaining how wrong she was, but he just accepted it and adapted.

“Is that why we got a table? Because you know the chef?” she asked.

“I’m actually a part owner here. Though it’s my best friend, Romeo, who owns and runs the restaurant. I provided the capital when he started his first place. He has several now, all over the world, and I’ve kept investing. It means I always get a table, which suits me just fine. Anna’s one of the world’s best chefs, by the way,” he said as the food began to arrive.

A tiny little dish.

Isobel gave him a suspicious look. Was this a joke? She was starving. She had been working hard all week, cycled everywhere. And she had just drunk two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. If she didn’t get more food, she would commit a murder.

“There’ll be twelve courses,” he said with a glimmer in his eye. “I promise you won’t leave here hungry, Isobel.”

“If you say so,” she said, not entirely convinced. She took a small bite. The taste was sensational, salty and sour, the texture both soft and crispy.

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t trust me?” he asked.

No matter how much the pheromones and the alcohol affected her, Isobel still had full control of her brain, and yes, he was right, she didn’t trust him at all. He was polite and had made an effort for her, but there was more to trust than that.

She put down her cutlery, picked up her glass. “Do I have to answer that?”

“But I’m so trustworthy.”

“You live in New York, don’t you?” she asked in an attempt to change the topic of conversation as more food arrived. The dishes were small, modernist masterpieces. She couldn’t even identify what most of it was; she just listened to the poetic descriptions and then ate, drank—though more cautiously now—and enjoyed.

“Yeah, for a few years now.”

She knew where he lived; several journalists had written about the expensive apartment in Manhattan where the Swede lived alongside princes and multibillionaires. She had trouble even imagining that kind of wealth.

“What do you do there?” She watched as a green soup was poured from a transparent jug.

“Nothing much.”

“You don’t work?”

Alexander studied her for a moment. He played with his glass. “The official version is that I party hard, drink too much, and sleep too little.”

Isobel thought back to all the gossip she had read. She hadn’t been able to stop herself. Now she wondered how it felt, to be exposed like that.

“Isn’t that true, then?” she asked.

A serious look flashed across his face, followed by something else, before his usual blinding smile reappeared. He shrugged. “I guess so,” he said, and Isobel knew he was lying.

In other words, Alexander would rather that she, a woman he clearly wanted to impress, saw him as a superficial playboy than tell her what he really spent his days doing. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with trust issues.

She put down her spoon and studied him as objectively as she could. There was more to Alexander than she had initially thought. Most people were multidimensional, after all. He was considerate toward her, was kind to the waitresses, and so far hadn’t allowed his gaze to wander to any other woman in the restaurant. That deserved a gold star, in Isobel’s book.

“You’re a count too, right?” she asked as she bit into a small, fried dumpling. Though maybe Alexander didn’t have all that many sides. Maybe he was exactly what he appeared to be: a man who had been given everything in life and didn’t think about anything other than his own enjoyment. She almost hoped that was the case. It would make it easier to dismiss him.

He pulled a face. “I hate being called count. I never use my title.”

She dipped the last of the dumpling in the spicy sauce. There was a certain self-importance in his reply, of course. Only someone who had been born into privilege could dismiss it so nonchalantly. Still, she decided to let it pass.

“Tell me about your work with Doctors Without Borders,” he said.

“What do you want to know?” She set her cutlery down at the side of her plate. She had lost count of the courses but hoped there would be a dessert or two included.

“Anything you want to talk about.”

He was giving her attention in order to flatter her; she knew it, but it made no difference. She was here to work, and maybe she was doing the same to him.

“I’m part of a small group of senior field-workers, an emergency pool. We get sent on acute missions at short notice.”

“Where to?”

She shrugged. “Wherever we’re needed. War zones, natural disasters. Asia. Africa. There was a huge hurricane in the Pacific last month. We get sent to places like that.” She thought of Syria, where it was too dangerous for them to work, of the streams of refugees and the camps. The world was an uncertain place for far too many people.

He looked attentively at her, but she hesitated. This was where it was always difficult to find a balance. How much should she tell him? Some people couldn’t cope. All the same, she wanted to talk about it.

“Working for MSF involves a few things. There’s the actual work in the field, of course. We’re often the first on the scene, sometimes in places where there isn’t any medical care at all. You see things that …” She fell silent.

“That?”

“That shouldn’t exist. And I’m not just talking about what people do to one another in war. The illnesses. The children who die because they’re too weak, too undernourished.”

“It sounds awful.”

“Yes. It makes you doubt so much in this world.”

“Last time, you mentioned that you can cope because it goes well sometimes.”

It made her happy that Alexander remembered. Some people simply wanted to hear about the grizzly stuff, but many of her best memories came from some of the worst places on earth.

“That’s what’s so incredible. I never feel so appreciated as a doctor as when I’m in the field. To see an undernourished child start to laugh again. To cure malaria, which is an incredibly easily treated illness, really. It’s an enormous paradox. You’re on your knees, always afraid, almost always crying, constantly feeling like you’re not doing enough, but at the same time you’re living fully.”

His eyes were warm, and Isobel found herself getting caught up in them. He was a great listener. “It sounds as though it can be pretty intense,” he said.

“It is. By the end of each trip, you’re completely done. You make mistakes and cross boundaries just because you’re so tired. And then maybe three kids you’re responsible for die, and you happen to go on to Facebook and see someone moaning about the weather, and everything suddenly just feels too much.”

He didn’t speak, just continued to rest his chin in his hand and look attentively at her. He had the most beautiful hands she had ever seen, big, dappled with golden hair. She had always loved hands, could still remember how she had reeled off the Latin names in med school: carpus, metacarpus, digiti manus. The wrists, the palms, the fingers.

“And you get very close to one another in the field,” she continued. She heard herself lower her voice, realized she had leaned forward slightly. “In a way you never quite manage at home. It’s very special.” She fell silent. She didn’t normally talk about this part of her life.

“You said that there were several things involved in being an MSF doctor?” he reminded her.

“The other is bearing witness,” she said as the desserts started to appear. She chose a small glass and picked up a spoon. It tasted heavenly, of course. Sour berries, caramelized notes. A few grains of salt. She sighed contentedly.

“MSF doesn’t take sides in conflicts. We’re not armed, we keep away from the military. But we bear witness to what we see. We’re a voice for the weak and stand up when crimes are committed. So when I get back from a mission, one of my jobs is to talk about what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard. Some MSF doctors run blogs, others write articles or books.”

“Yeah, I read some of those blogs and articles these past days. It’s hard not to be impressed.”

She put down her dessert spoon. Didn’t know what to do with the knowledge that Alexander had been reading up on her job.

“What strikes you, out there, is how similar we all are. That grandparents care about their grandkids, parents worry about their children’s schooling and their future, people fall in love—it’s the same no matter where you’re from.”

“There are no differences?”

“Well, of course there are. The women I meet often feel sorry for me, for example.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have a husband. It used to cause so much trouble that these days, I tell them that the minute I get home I’m going to get married and have kids. Otherwise I just can’t work, because all the focus is on the poor, unmarried, childless doctor.”

Alexander laughed.

“I swear. Once, a group of village women even got together to find me a husband. I only just managed to get out of it.”

He laughed again, picked up his glass, and sipped from it. “Your surname, though, it’s not Swedish?”

“My father was Danish.” A stern, absent man who asked about nothing but her grades on those few occasions he came home. With her father, you talked about international politics. And you didn’t disagree. “And I’ve got French heritage on my mother’s side,” she continued. “But both my grandmothers were Swedes. So I’m just one big ethnic mix of French, Danish, and Swedish.”

He smiled. “Not a bad mix.”

“I’ve just been going on and on about myself,” she said. “It’s your turn.”

“What do you want to know?”

What she really wanted to know was if Alexander was single, but she contented herself with asking: “How did your foundation end up giving money to Medpax of all organizations?”

He shrugged. “No idea. We give money to all kinds of places. It was probably some kind of tax thing.”

And there it was again. The superficial, self-indulgent Alexander she detested. It was almost a relief to be reminded of it.

“I thought you were against aid work.”

“No, not at all. Why should I be?”

“Because you said it was pointless,” she reminded him.

“I’m not against people trying to improve the world; I just wonder whether it’s possible. People are fundamentally selfish, and look out for their own interests.”

“Are you talking about yourself now?” she couldn’t help but ask.

“I’ve worked hard to acquire my vices. I like them. And I think most people are like me.”

“And yet you plan to give Medpax one hundred thousand kronor after this evening?”

“I wanted to spend an evening with a beautiful woman. It’s a purely selfish act.”

She remembered all the gorgeous women he had been linked to. Countless, that was the first word that came to mind. There was even a song about him, written by some pop superstar, wasn’t there? “You probably could’ve gotten more for your money, if that’s the case,” she said ironically.

He laughed. “Ah, Isobel, now you’re just fishing. Let me pay you a compliment, my suspicious doctor. The first time I saw you, I thought you were beautiful. Tonight you look completely fucking fantastic. Your hair, your dress—you’re easily the most stunning woman in the room. Plus, I get to listen to you talk about your work. Believe me, this date has been worth every cent.”

She shook her head. He really was good at this.

When Isobel was twenty, back when she started her medical studies, she had begun to emerge from her cocoon of awkward adolescence. The university environment had suited her better than the claustrophobic high school atmosphere, and she felt happier, more beautiful, and more confident than ever before. For a few wonderful months, she had soared. Her studies, her newfound freedom, her new friends. Everything had just felt easier.

And then she fell in love. Hopelessly and utterly, head over heels in love, with an older man. He was everything she had ever dreamed of, and she had been so terribly inexperienced when it came to love. Unaccustomed to men looking at her, embarrassingly naïve. And so she had made bad choices, allowed him to get much too close, and it had ended in total disaster.

Even today, Isobel was deeply thankful she had managed to finish her studies after the affair ended. She had learned so much from the experience. About love. Men. Sex. But she was thirty now, no longer an inexperienced medical student who wore her heart on her sleeve. She could make the distinction between attraction and other feelings, and life in the field had taught her what she really needed and valued. Kindness, loyalty, and reliability were at the top of her list. She gave Alexander a searching look, and surmised that his list probably looked quite different.

He leaned forward over the table. “This wasn’t exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I just got caught up thinking about something else. Thanks for the compliment.”

“What was it? What caught you?”

She peered down into the jet-black coffee in her espresso cup. “Nothing,” she said. Because it was nothing. Even if it defined her entire being.

When they stepped out onto Västmannagatan, it was close to midnight.

“Can you walk in those?” Alexander asked, with a glance at her high heels.

“Yes, I’d like to walk a little.”

“I transferred the money,” he said, and held up his phone as they passed the bustling Odenplan. A night bus passed.

“Thanks.” How she appreciated that he had done it immediately, that he didn’t leave her to wonder. She should feel relieved, she thought as they continued down toward Sveavägen, one of the wide boulevards that cut across the city. Should be happy it was over. Shouldn’t care that he was clearly done with the flirting for the evening. She took a misstep and wobbled on an uneven patch of asphalt. Alexander’s hand shot out, lightning quick, to catch her.

“Careful,” he said, letting go of her just as quickly.

Isobel couldn’t help it; her mood was plunging. Stupid. But maybe she had hoped Alexander would suggest a drink. She might even have done it herself if she hadn’t sat on a too high horse; now she would have trouble getting down. She glanced around. Not that there were many places to grab a drink where they were right now. She shivered a little. When she’d left home, it was warm and sunny, a balmy spring evening. But now she could feel just how thin her clothing really was. She would have to take a taxi. In silence, they turned onto Sveavägen. She would go home, she decided. Drink tea and get on with her real life. What had she expected? She was hardly his type; she hadn’t given him any reason to believe she was interested in anything beyond this one dinner. And she wasn’t interested, she reminded herself.

“I think I’m going to …” she began.

“Have you been here before?” he asked at the same time.

Isobel glanced up at the façade, glowing in neon. “La Habana,” she read as a door opened and music flowed out onto the street. A woman with long hair and a tight dress came out with a man in an unbuttoned shirt. They were laughing. The man pulled the woman to him and kissed her.

Isobel averted her eyes. “What is it?” She had never even seen the place before; the lettering on the neon sign looked like something from the fifties.

“A Cuban nightclub. Have you ever been to Cuba?”

“No. But I suppose you have?”

She could just see it: Alexander and his golden beauty, sitting beneath a palm tree with a cigar in his mouth; sweaty, suntanned.

There was laughter in his eyes when he looked at her.

“They have dengue fever there,” she pointed out.

A glint of humor warmed his eyes. “You would know, of course. But they also have the best drinks and the best music in the world.” Loud music came pouring out toward them as the doors opened again.

“Salsa,” he continued with the air of a connoisseur, and grabbed the door before it closed. He held it open. The suggestive tones beckoned them in.

“Shall we?” he asked. There was something dangerous in his eyes. As though he was testing whether she dared follow him in, challenging her to try something out of her comfort zone. She hesitated. It was stupid, really. Her entire life was about being able to perform far from safety and comfort. But still. Going to a nightclub with Alexander De la Grip? She was about to say no, completely out of reflex. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced. And salsa. Didn’t you need to know the steps? Have at least some kind of sense of rhythm?

But then Alexander raised an eyebrow at her, challenging her. And there and then, on the street outside the slightly faded, old nightclub, Isobel suddenly felt that more than anything in the world, she wanted to stop being sensible, to do something crazy and impulsive. Wanted to unbalance him a little.

Just once, she thought. No one needs to find out.

She held her head high and met his eye.

“Just what I was about to suggest,” she said.

And with that, she swept past him, as though she did nothing other than spend time in sweaty nightclubs accompanied by men with dangerous eyes.

Alexander’s hand shot out just as she passed. It caught her upper arm, and Isobel blinked. As her shoulder brushed up against his chest, she caught the scent of his aftershave. He leaned in to her until his mouth grazed her hair and her ear. She held very still, a low shiver spreading beneath her skin.

“Bravo, Isobel,” he murmured, letting go of the door and following her in.