Of course he had a ballroom, Isobel mused as she glanced around the extravagant room. Cuir de Cordoue gilded leather hangings were on the walls, huge chandeliers on the ceiling, and everywhere, brilliantly colored arrangements of tulips and other spring flowers. At one end, the musicians were playing. Their polished instruments gleamed, and the guests were already moving across the floor.

Alexander turned to her and bowed formally. “May I?” he asked, and held out a hand. She glided into his arms, a tingling sense of happiness spreading through her body. He had fought for her honor. He wasn’t a criminal, he was an economic genius, and he had kissed her as if she was the sexiest and most desirable woman on earth. It truly was a fairy-tale evening.

They sailed out, across the floor. Alexander was, of course, a phenomenal dancing partner. She knew that already, but there was something special about letting him sweep her across a dance floor that was several hundred years old.

“What?” he murmured, pulling her closer.

“It’s the second time we’ve danced together. We’re starting to get good at this.”

He squeezed her hand and spun them round, round, round.

Much later, after a softly lilting waltz, a fast dance that made her pulse quicken, a polka that made her laugh, followed by another sensuous waltz, Isobel halfheartedly suggested that maybe they should dance with other people. Her mouth was close to his neck, her hand tightly gripped in his. He simply hardened that grip in response.

“No,” he said. “I only want to dance with you. I’m not the host, I don’t have any obligations; stay with me.”

This intensity, this fervor … It was so tempting to be drawn in. People were so rarely intense. It was part of the reason she was drawn to field work, that you felt so much.

When the musicians took a break, Alexander led her over to the wide-open doors. She was warm, and the cool air that met them in the garden was glorious. They walked away, across the lawn, between the trees. Alexander stopped, put an arm around her waist, and pushed her gently backward until she ended up against a tree trunk. There it was again, that intensity. He placed a palm above her head and leaned in to her. How could she be so superficial that she was turned on by the size of him, his dominant position? But she was. His other hand was at her cheek, and he kissed her, and it was the perfect kiss, exactly as she’d known it would be.

It’s really the kisses you want.

Someone had said those words to her, and they were true. Nothing was like the first kiss. And Alexander was so awesome at kissing. Hard lips that turned soft, his tongue, finally playing with hers, and those small bites on her lower lip. His other hand was slowly caressing her waist, her rib cage, moving toward her plunging neckline, his fingers pulling at the material, cleverly working their way in, caressing her skin, making her gasp. She felt his leg between her thighs, and she wanted him more than she had wanted a man in a long time. His mouth covered hers once more, and they kissed, passionately and breathlessly. She placed her hands on his upper arms, loved how hard they felt, and let herself be swept away. She could be young and irresponsible for one weekend, she thought, make out with Alexander De la Grip beneath the stars. The world wouldn’t end just because she’d let go for a while.

Until it did just that.

Ended a little.

She heard an indistinguishable murmur of conversation at first. People were headed in their direction. And then she heard the sound she wanted to hear least of all.

A loud man’s voice that had, at one point in time, filled her with so many complex feelings, she still had trouble working them out.

A voice Isobel had loved at first, but then had come to fear.

And suddenly there he was, in front of them. Amused look. Piercing gaze. Unconcerned that he had interrupted. But then again Sebastien never did care about other people’s opinions. It was what had attracted her to him at first. Before it scared the living daylights out of her.

“Bonjour, Isobel.”

She hadn’t imagined it, after all—Sebastien really was here. Isobel ran her hands over her dress, smoothing it out, and knew that Alexander must be wondering. Sebastien’s dark eyes swept over her.

“Hej,” she replied in Swedish, creating distance between them by being petty and refusing to speak French with him. He took a step forward, and before she had time to react, he kissed her on the cheek, as though Alexander wasn’t standing right beside her. He smelled like he always had, the same aftershave, the same soap, and the memories washed over her. She was twenty again. How was it even possible to react like this? She swallowed, tried to fight the dryness in her mouth, searching for words but failing. And then Alexander stepped forward.

“Alexander De la Grip,” he said, and held out his hand to Sebastien. “This is my house, so technically I guess you’re one of my guests. Who are you?”

His voice was calm and civil, but Isobel detected hardened steel beneath the polite phrases and courteous movements.

“Sebastien Pascal.”

When the two men shook hands, Sebastien didn’t quite manage to hide a grimace of pain, and Isobel glanced at Alexander. Had he just crushed Sebastien’s hand? Like in some bad film? Alexander gave her an innocent look.

“So, Sebastien, how do you two know each other?” he asked.

“Isobel and I worked together,” Sebastien replied. “Among other things.”

If Alexander caught the subtext, he showed absolutely no sign of it.

“So you’re a doctor too?” he asked, all politeness. But Isobel sensed something wild beneath the smooth upper-class exterior.

“Oui. And you, do you work in medicine?” Sebastien asked with a wry smile, as if they all knew the idea was absurd.

“No, not at all,” Alexander replied, and Isobel could see him stepping back behind his jet-set façade. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d last heard him talk and act like that. As if everything was a joke.

“I’m an international playboy. I’d never have the time or inclination to train to be anything as serious as a doctor. But tell me more about your work together.”

He gave Isobel another look, his beautiful eyes devoid of emotion.

“I was her supervisor,” said Sebastien. And then his face cracked into a grin that made her skin crawl. “She was a very good student. Very perceptive.” He raised a hand and stroked her cheek. She managed not to flinch. “It’s great to see you, Isobel.”

Alexander studied the dark-haired Frenchman as objectively as he could. Sebastien had to be around forty. No wedding ring. Handsome, if you liked the self-righteous asshole type, radiating competence and confidence.

Alexander took a dislike to him immediately.

And now that the man was standing there, touching Isobel, he wished he had squeezed his hand even harder.

Every man worries about how he compares to the men a woman has been with before.

Alexander had read that somewhere. At the time, he’d thought it was ridiculous. Only men lacking confidence worried about things they couldn’t change, things that had nothing to do with them.

But now … That Isobel had been with this self-important doctor, it was obvious.

He would never stoop to jealousy, never. But there was something that didn’t add up. Isobel was rigid, and she hadn’t said anything for a long while. In contrast to Sebastien, who just kept talking.

“Chérie, you surprise me. He’s not your type at all.”

“Nonsense, I’m everyone’s type,” Alexander said.

“I think I need to …” Isobel began, falling silent midsentence.

Something definitely wasn’t right. Alexander found her hand; it was ice-cold. Sebastien wasn’t just some boyfriend from the past. There was something else in the air, playing out in ordinary, everyday phrases. But Alexander had grown up with parents who were experts at communicating via more or less veiled criticism; it would take more than Sebastien’s needle pricks to get to him. He put an arm around Isobel’s waist, and when she didn’t seem to object, pulled her close to him.

“Don’t let us keep you,” he said firmly to Sebastien. “There’s a free bar. Just help yourself. If you’ll excuse us,” and he maneuvered himself and Isobel past the Frenchman without waiting for a reply.

“Are you okay?” he asked as soon as they were out of earshot.

She took a deep breath, shook her head gently, and gave him a faint smile. “Sorry, I don’t really know what happened. It’s been a long day.”

He led her inside, down a hallway, opened a door and held it open for her. “Let’s go in here.”

“Where are we?” she asked once they entered the room.

He pulled a small armchair over.

“Sit.”

She sank down into it, leaned against the back, and breathed out.

“I’m completely exhausted.”

He grabbed a thin blanket and laid it over her knees. He hadn’t even thought about it, the tempo she’d been at all day; he had just wanted her for himself.

“This is the small library,” he explained, pulling another armchair over toward her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She bit her lip.

“Isobel?”

“Oh, alright then. I knew Sebastien was here. I saw him earlier.”

It was he she had seen when she’d looked so scared. Christ, he had a good mind to go back and knock out a few of the French doctor’s perfect teeth.

“He likes events like this. He’s a good doctor,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“But a bad person?” He wanted her to agree, to say that Sebastien Pascal was the worst person she’d ever met.

“All people have bad sides.”

“You don’t,” he said.

She laughed. “Of course I do.”

He leaned back, stretched out his legs. “Like what?”

“I can be a little judgmental at times.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

She laughed again, loudly, and he was pleased that the easy conversation was working. The color was returning to her face, and the awful haunted look he’d seen in her eyes was gone. What exactly had this Sebastien done to her? And did he really want to know? Did he want to get mixed up in this?

“You were together?” he asked, because this was Isobel and he did want to get mixed up with her.

She stalled before she answered, with a sigh. “Yes. I was really young. He gave a lecture to our course. Trauma surgery.”

Older doctor. Gifted. Of course she’d fallen for him. And Sebastien Pascal didn’t look like a man who had any moral qualms about having a relationship with a student.

“What happened?”

She shook her head. “It’s really complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?”

“I guess so.”

“Isobel?”

“Yes?”

He studied her face, her generous curves, her long legs. How had she looked at twenty? She couldn’t possibly have been more beautiful than she was today. “Did Sebastien hurt you?” he asked levelly.

She didn’t answer immediately, just looked straight ahead. Her face was impossible to read.

Alexander waited, his pulse pounding. He was certain he had broken hearts. He had slept with married women for nearly half his life, and he’d often been selfish. But he had never physically hurt a woman. Just the thought of it made him feel ill. It was the one thing that defined him, and it was more important these days than it had ever been. With his family background …

“I don’t really know how to answer that,” she said slowly. She turned to him. “It was all so long ago. I was just shocked to see him, shocked by my own reaction. In a way I’m glad we met, talked. It was good for me. As a kind of closure, I guess.”

He exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Was her answer deliberately vague? Should he head out, find Sebastien, and beat him up?

“Did you love him?”

She looked down at her hands, pulled at a loose thread on the blanket. “Yes. A lot.”

“And now? How do you feel now?”

“Like it’s time to look forward. I moved on, of course. It was ten years ago. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends since then.”

“Good to hear.”

She laughed. “Oh, come on. I’m sure I haven’t had as many as you.”

“Nah, I haven’t had a single boyfriend.”

He smiled at her laugh.

She rested her chin in one hand. “Have you ever been in love? If you don’t mind my asking.”

He dragged a finger along the armrest of his chair.

“Not in the way you mean,” he said. He realized it wasn’t just Isobel who had things in her past that were difficult to explain to an outsider.

He had never been deeply in love. It felt like a defect at times, a huge plus at others. He loved the company of women, enjoyed spending time with them, but he always moved on before things got serious.

Isobel nodded without pressing for more. The tension was completely gone from her face now; she looked young and vulnerable. Happy and still slightly ruffled from his kisses.

Alexander leaned back in his seat and tried to look at the situation objectively. She was a passionate idealist and a competent working woman. Sexy as hell. Their kissing had been pure eroticism, the promise of passion beyond the everyday. But she was also a woman with a complicated past that might or might not be over. It was probably now he should take a step back. The stakes were getting higher, and the outcome was uncertain. If he continued, he would just get more and more involved, he knew that. At worst, Isobel might start to have expectations. She could talk about boyfriends and have secrets all she wanted, but she wasn’t nearly as experienced as he was, not when it came to this kind of game. Maybe it was time to listen to the warning bells after all? Stop now, while there was still time. Back up before things got too messy and complicated. Before people got unnecessarily hurt.

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.