When Isobel looked out the window next time, the cab had pulled up outside an almost laughably posh address. Alexander paid, they climbed out, and he guided her toward the door.

“Looks expensive,” she said.

“I like expensive,” he replied, chuckling.

He laid a hand in the small of her back. He was so good at making her feel special, desirable. How many times had he done this exact same thing? Pursued a woman until she went a little crazy, could think of nothing but sex?

She stepped into the elevator. Maybe she shouldn’t be attracted to a jet-set playboy with dubious morals. She did know that this was just what Alexander did. It made no difference that he’d read up on Medpax or gave millions to young Internet entrepreneurs. He spent most of his time on seduction and conquest. And it made no difference that she’d seen a different side of him, knew that he undoubtedly had his own secrets, that he could be both smart and kind when he wanted to. She knew what he was at heart. A player. No one could change that quickly. And yet. Here she was.

The hall inside the apartment smelled clean and fresh, and Isobel reminded herself that he was a man who had staff to decorate, clean, and do his bidding.

He put down his keys on a chest of drawers and looked at her, silent and searching.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

She smiled, took a step toward him, laid a hand on his solid chest. “Very okay.” Maybe she shouldn’t be attracted to Alexander, but she was, couldn’t even remember when she had last been close to something like this. An expectant thrill rushed through her. She didn’t care if he was playing some kind of game, because she could decide how much of herself to give. Maybe this was just what she needed. The knowledge that it would never be more than sex and eroticism, the knowledge that the very worst that could happen would be falling for a man like Alexander. As luck would have it, she never fell easily.

“I just need to go freshen up.”

He showed her to a bathroom, where she rinsed out her mouth, washed her hands, and stared at herself in the mirror. She had to think hard to remember when she’d last slept with someone. After Sebastien, it had been a while. An aid worker in Paris last summer? Could it really be that long?

When she came back out, he put an arm around her waist, drawing her in for a kiss. Ah, he was so very good at kissing, so bold and assertive. And he must have more than one bathroom; he tasted of toothpaste. Maybe she could fall a little, just for one night?

“Come on,” he said, taking her hand and leading her through the enormous apartment. His grip was firm and his voice steady, but Isobel had seen his pupils darken with desire, felt him harden and her own body react.

She came into a huge living room, took a step in as he paused behind her. She noticed the big couches, the bookcases, and an oversized rug, soft as cashmere. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it really was cashmere. If anyone owned a large, fourteen-foot square rug made from an impractical light-colored wool, it was Alexander De la Grip.

“What do you think?” he asked nonchalantly.

She turned back to him. “It’s so cozy.”

“You sound surprised,” he said with a laugh. But she saw both relief and happiness flash in his magical eyes, blue as arctic ice. Or was it Antarctic? She wasn’t sure, had always gotten the two poles confused. Her opinion obviously mattered to him.

Alexander walked over to a sideboard covered with bottles and carafes, pulled a cork, poured whisky for both of them, and held out a glass to her. Isobel sat down on the couch. It was deep and soft, and she had expected him to sit down next to her, to start seducing her, but he chose an armchair opposite, stretched out his long legs, and studied her over the edge of his glass. She crossed her own legs, heard the faint rustle of silk, and saw his eyes glimmer. She had always thought blond men looked boyish, but there was nothing immature about this man. His broad shoulders and hard legs strained against his clothing, and his features were masculine and commanding. Isobel really believed that sex should be about more than just bodies and physical attraction, about closeness and intimacy, but suddenly she could hardly wait until she got to see him naked.

“What on earth are you thinking about right now?” he asked, and she realized he had been silently watching her.

“Just wondering what you look like without clothes.”

He sipped his whisky before putting down the glass.

He rested his hands and arms on the armrest, widened his legs. She could see he was aroused.

“What do you want to know?”

The hair all over her body was on end, standing at attention.

“Do you have any tattoos?”

Ordinarily she hated tattoos, but she decided that Alexander was a man who could get away with even that. But he shook his head. “Do you?”

“No,” she said with a snort. “I’m a doctor.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And doctors never have tattoos?”

“We think ahead and analyze things far too much; we don’t do impulsive things.”

“You’re here.”

She took a sip of whisky. It was fantastic. She loved its smoky taste, and it was the right kind of accessory when, for once, you were pretending to be a sophisticated creature.

“Coming here was a considered choice.”

“I see.” He looked like a fallen angel, sitting there with his ruffled hair and his damaged nose. An angel who had fallen, hard, and then had to do whatever it took to survive.

“So what do you think of piercings?”

“You have one?” she asked. “Where?”

“Guess.”

“No, I hate guessing games,” she said. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the excitement she’d read in his face. It made no difference if she was just one of many. Right now she was the chosen one, and he made her feel it. Was there a more powerful aphrodisiac than that?

“Show me,” she ordered.

He undid his fly, unbuttoned his shirt. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He opened his shirt, revealing his chest.

Ah. There were definite advantages to younger men.

“How the hell do you get a body like that?” she said, her eyes greedily working their way over him, remembering anatomical posters and thinking that this man was the godfather of all anatomical sketches. His stomach muscles were hard, vertical and horizontal, and his pecs swelled. He had golden hair on his chest—she liked that he didn’t bother with stupid waxing. A thin line of it disappeared into the waistband of his pants. She saw the gleaming ring in his nipple. Glossy and fat. She would never have believed she’d be turned on by a golden ring in a man’s nipple.

“Come here,” he said. “Come and feel it.”

She stood up. “It’s not like I’ve never seen one of those before,” she said as she sat down on the armrest next to him. He placed an arm around her, and she ran one of her hands over his chest. She paused above his heart, feeling its steady rhythm.

His arm moved up, along her spine, and beneath her hair. He cupped her nape and pulled her toward him until she ended up in his lap.

“No,” she mumbled. “I’m too heavy.”

He responded by wrapping his other arm around her like a vise, and then he kissed her. It was the kind of ravishing kiss she liked the best, with clever tongue and nibbling and hardness, and soon she was half-draped across his fit and hard body, inelegantly, with her dress twisted around her legs and one of his hands between her thighs. He cupped his hand against her panties, and she pressed against him. God, it had been so long since she’d felt this way, and it was much, much better than she’d dared to hope for. Say what you liked about amoral playboys without any kind of conscience, but he knew what he was doing and it was glorious, she thought dimly as they somehow ended up on the floor. He kissed her shoulder and searched for the opening of the dress, his hand sliding over the fabric.

“There are buttons down the back,” she instructed, breathlessly.

He flipped her so that she was on her stomach, and she smiled into the cashmere at how wicked it felt. He started to unbutton her dress.

“Careful. It has to go back.”

He gingerly pulled it off, and her shoes. Isobel attempted to turn over, but he placed a hand on her back.

“Stay there,” he said, putting a hand on her ass. “So goddamn sexy,” he said. His voice was heavy. His finger brushed against her G-string—she felt as though it had been worth wearing it all day when he so clearly liked it. He pulled at it gently, and she panted into the soft rug.

“Good?” he mumbled, his fingers gliding over her, tracing her back and spine, making her shiver in anticipation.

They helped one another to take off her panties and bra. His eyes were fixed on her breasts, and then he was on top of her—he was naked too, she didn’t even know how—and then they were wrapped around one another, and all caution vanished, nothing but hands and fingers and tongues in union.

But when he moved between her legs, she came back to her senses.

“Not without protection.” She should have brought this up earlier. He wouldn’t care, of course. He was a man, irresponsible, he …

She propped herself up on her elbows. “We need to use a condom. STDs aren’t a joke.”

He pushed back a strand of her hair, kissed her, and bit her on the ear.

“If that’s your idea of dirty talk, you’re pretty bad at it.”

“I think about stuff like that,” she huffed.

“Do you?”

“I keep an eye on things.”

“Not on everything,” he said. “I put one on about sixty seconds ago.” He moved, and she looked down. He was right, she hadn’t noticed a thing. That had never happened before.

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” he said. “I don’t know what you think of me. I probably don’t want to know, but I know what I’m doing here. Lie down so I can finally fuck you.”

She obeyed. Her thighs and lips obediently parted for him, and he kissed her as he entered her, filled her, took her. She closed her eyes as they made love on the soft rug, wrapped her arms around him, held him close. His chest rubbed over her nipples, and she bit his shoulder, bucked under his determined thrusts, felt his climax approach before he came, violently, and held her so tight she almost lost her breath.

“Of all the places I’d imagined us making love, the floor wasn’t the one that came to mind,” he said afterward. He was still holding her tight, nuzzling her.

“You fantasized about us?” she asked. She lay with her head above his heart, his warm skin against hers, and felt like there was nothing more she wanted from life right now. His hand stroked her back, and he had that kind of deep voice produced only by satisfaction, relaxed, comfortable.

“You haven’t?”

“No,” she lied. He laughed.

“You didn’t come?”

She hesitated. “No,” she eventually said. But she had been close, and making love to him had been fantastic.

“Why not?”

“It’s just the way it is.”

He turned and looked at her. “It sounds like it happens a lot. Why?”

“Can’t we just lie here like this?” She didn’t want to talk about sex. Not with Alexander, and not about what she liked or didn’t like. Under no circumstances was she so stupid as to even think of letting him in. There were no limits to what damage a man like him could do. It was one thing to maintain a distance but something completely different to lie there in his arms and feel tempted to tell him things she had promised herself never to talk about again. She stroked his stomach.

“It’s an important question, though. Coming is half the fun.”

“It felt great, isn’t that enough? Plus, there’s a difference between men and women.”

He snorted. “What century did you say you were born in? If you don’t talk, then you never learn what the other person wants. Sex should give something to both people. Do you usually come with other men?”

She was almost starting to wish she had lied. Or faked it.

“I’m more than happy,” she said primly, trying to pull away.

His grip tightened and he pinned her close to him. “I don’t believe that.”

“I’m sorry, Alex, but do we have to talk about this?”

He was silent, but she felt him relax.

“Fine, then, we don’t have to talk about it,” he said. “Not right now. Are you hungry?”

She was on the verge of saying no when her stomach growled.

He smiled, stood up, held out his hand, and pulled her up as though she weighed no more than a stethoscope.

Alexander started to take things from the refrigerator while Isobel leaned back against the kitchen island. He had pulled on a pair of thin trousers and a V-necked shirt, and of course he still looked like a Vogue model. Isobel had wrapped one of his light blankets around her.

He held out a glass of some kind of super-luxurious mineral water and then continued to move pans, put things on plates, and remove food from the refrigerator, which looked more like a complex space station. He dropped some butter into a sauté pan and started to cut vegetables. Isobel glanced at the clock. She liked that he was cooking for her at three in the morning.

“Are you some kind of kitchen god?”

“My best friend is a chef. Plus, I took a course once. In Paris.”

Of course. His kitchen was fully equipped; she wasn’t sure she had ever seen bowls like his. He placed plates and cutlery on a tray. The dish, pasta with tomato sauce, cheese, garlic and basil, smelled and looked fantastic, and she wolfed the food down.

After they ate, they sat down on the sofa again. This time, he sat next to her. He kissed her shoulder, breathed onto it. He was so nice. The words came from nowhere, but he was nice. Surprisingly solid under that frivolous surface.

He had handled the entire situation with Michel’s cousin so well. She was trained to respond to emergencies, but he hadn’t panicked, hadn’t started to act irrationally. People who were reliable when it really mattered were so uncommon, something she really valued. Plus, the sex had been fantastic. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t climaxed—that wasn’t important to her, not with her history. The important thing was that she enjoyed being with him. Felt comfortable and relaxed. She scratched her forehead as her thoughts whirled. There was so much Alexander didn’t know about her, that he would never know, that he never should know. Luckily she was leaving for Chad soon, so she just had to keep her mouth shut for now, not give in to stupid impulses of sharing inner thoughts with him. It scared her how much she liked talking to him. Christ, this whole casual sex thing was much more complicated than she’d thought.