“Hi, my name is Tyra and I’ll be leading this training day, the first of two.”

Isobel tried to concentrate on the speaker, who had begun with a load of practical information about the safety course. Tyra was a short-haired blond woman, an army officer, and what she said was both interesting and relevant. But Isobel, who was usually an excellent student, was having trouble focusing on the course outline.

“We’ll be here for two days. This morning we’ll talk about safety and culture in the countries you’ll be visiting.”

Isobel’s mind drifted away; she couldn’t help it. The sex with Alexander had been insane. He had been fantastic. Passionate, challenging, dirty—a woman’s wildest wet dream. The best lover she’d ever had. She drummed her pen on the notepad, considering the blunt fact that Alexander De la Grip was probably the best lover any woman had ever had. He enjoyed sex, he was focused on his partner, and he was impressively experienced.

They had eventually fallen asleep. Woken up, showered, made love, made out again. She had walked around in one of his T-shirts, and he’d made cappuccino with his sophisticated-looking coffee machine, and yes—it had all been like something out of a feel-good chick lit movie. She hadn’t gone home until Sunday evening, after they’d kissed and made love and kissed some more.

She had gotten caught up. Or maybe she’d just relaxed. Definitely left doors ajar that had long been closed. And yes, it had been magical. And worryingly intimate.

Well, it didn’t look like intimacy or getting too close would be a problem. As far as Isobel could tell, she had been dumped.

“You don’t need to write this down; we’ll give you a folder with all the information. Except the stuff that can’t leave this room for security reasons,” she heard Tyra say.

Isobel looked up. The whiteboard was covered with writing and arrows.

Tyra gave the class a stern look. “Tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day on hostage situations.”

Isobel nodded and then immediately disappeared back into her thoughts. So, she’d been dumped. Alexander hadn’t been in touch at all Sunday evening, and finally she’d decided that women could send texts just as easily as men could. Well, that had been its own special kind of humiliation. Sending a quick text to Alexander, and then worrying that she’d been too brief and so sending another, accompanying message. And then waiting. She broke out sweating just at the thought of it. His reply hadn’t come until Monday evening, almost twenty-four hours later. Curt, as from a distant acquaintance. Impersonal, as though from a salesman.

She had spent an entire night and day interpreting every word, punctuation mark, and new line in that message. But it made no difference how many times she read it; she came to the same conclusion every time. She was dumped. For him it had been a one-time thing, and now it was over. Welcome to the twenty-first century. Thanks very much, grow up, move on.

Isobel drummed her pen against her notebook so hard that one of her coursemates, an award-winning journalist she had always admired, shushed her quietly over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” Isobel whispered. She made a halfhearted attempt to listen to the speaker, but she lost the plot somewhere around the words “Things to consider in Muslim countries.”

She wondered whether Alexander had already left Sweden. That was probably the most likely explanation; he had talked about going back to New York. And she really hadn’t expected it to continue. Just the opposite actually. Hadn’t she had sex with him precisely because she knew he would vanish? Yes, she firmly reminded herself. That had been the plan, and she’d been well aware of it. It just kept slipping her mind.

After the introduction—she would have to borrow someone else’s notes—they took a quick break. Isobel did her best to focus afterward, but the subject was trauma medicine, and if there was one thing she knew about, it was saving the heart and lungs and stemming the flow of blood. She tried to look as though she was listening to the ambulance driver who was demonstrating how to apply a tourniquet to a shot-off leg. It did actually capture her interest. She had met plenty of people injured by mines, and she managed to brush aside all thoughts of teasing blue eyes, hard muscles, and crazy-good sex until lunch.

She would do better during the afternoon, she decided as she followed the crowd toward the lunch room. After all, she would be headed to Chad soon and Alexander would be long forgotten. Anything else was madness. Life would go on like it always had. It had to.

Alexander looked up over the lunch menu. He hummed in agreement with what his lunch date had said, though he hadn’t heard a single word of it. He had reserved a table at one of his old hunting grounds, Riche. The service was fast, the food a combination of French bistro and Swedish fine cuisine, the atmosphere in the nineteenth-century surroundings cozy but not too secluded. He glanced around, searching for a waiter. If he was going to make it through this, he would need a drink.

“I was a little surprised you answered my call. I heard you were in Stockholm, but it felt like you were avoiding me,” his date said, pouting her lips. She had a sexy mouth. Small and glossy and pink, like bubble gum. She had reapplied her lip gloss three times since they’d arrived.

“That’s why I felt it was time to make it up to you, Qornelia,” he said smoothly. It was automatic, getting into this kind of talk. I should be happy now, he thought as he focused on Qornelia’s account of her latest sponsors. She was a former reality TV star, a so-called entertainment profile these days, and she had some kind of clothing label. Or maybe it was makeup or purses? He didn’t have the energy to remember.

“That’s so nice,” she cooed. “And I know I can say this to you without your taking it the wrong way, but it’s good for me to be seen with you.”

“Of course,” he mumbled.

She launched into a monologue about the celebrities she’d met over the past few weeks, the events she would be invited to, and the holidays she was trying to get sponsorship for, but he found it so goddamn hard to drum up any interest at all. He didn’t really understand it, why he was suddenly so annoyed by her superficiality. It had never bothered him before.

“Two vodka tonics,” he said when the waiter came over to their table.

“No hard liquor for me,” said Qornelia. She moved consciously, showing off her perfect little body. “It makes you so fat.”

“They’re for me. Champagne for my beautiful friend,” he said.

Qornelia giggled. “Oh, Alexander.”

He emptied the first glass in one go and breathed out. He held up the second one, showing that he wanted to order another.

“What should we eat? Oysters?” Qornelia asked.

“Have what you like.”

Her eyes shone. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, but her facial skin was so flawless he knew that she must get it peeled in one of those clinics his mother went to. He didn’t know why that bothered him either. He had never cared what women did with their appearance. This was what happened when you spent time around people with passion and conviction. You ended up with strange ideas. But it would pass. Isobel had been a challenge he’d set himself, and one he’d successfully conquered. It had taken longer to get her into bed than he’d calculated, but it had been worth the wait—it had been pretty damn magical. And now that they had slept together, it was time to move forward. They’d both known it, hadn’t they? That they would have sex and then go their separate ways? The only thing that really mattered to her was her work, for Christ’s sake.

He drummed his fingers on the white tablecloth. He had been in Sweden for over a month now. Maybe that was why he felt so antsy. He was restless. That had to be it. He’d seen his family, his niece—even his mother, for God’s sake. He’d signed his name on a ton of documents and he’d managed not to strangle Peter. Fuck, he practically deserved canonization.

Qornelia closed the menu. “I’ll take the entrecôte. But just the meat. No sauce, no carbs.” She smiled at Alexander. “It’s the most expensive thing they have. And I love meat.”

“I’ll take a risotto,” he said to the waiter.

She looked at him with wide eyes. They were framed by absurdly long eyelashes and perfectly sculpted brows. “But that’s just rice, isn’t it? Sounds pretty boring.”

“I feel like vegetarian food,” he said.

She pouted again. “Please, Alexander?” He felt a gentle stroke beneath the table. “It’s not like you to be so boring. Come on. We said we’d have fun today. Since when is rice fun?”

She was right. What the hell was he doing? He closed the menu with a snap. “Two entrecôtes.”

“I’m so full,” Qornelia groaned as she put her cutlery to one side. She hadn’t even eaten half her serving.

“There are children starving in Africa—aren’t you going to eat that?”

She burst into laughter.

“Send it to them, then. Are you getting another drink, or do you want to move on?”

She leaned forward over the table and laid her hand on top of his. She had long, pink false nails. Her entire being was completely flawless; it was like she was made of porcelain. Or plastic. But she had been flirting shamelessly their entire lunch, she laughed continuously, was sexy, carefree, and interested. His usual type, in other words, and so he forced himself to smile back at her, refused to let his strange mood take over. It wasn’t Qornelia’s fault he was suddenly annoyed at everything and everyone.

“I bought an apartment. On Strandvägen. Maybe we can continue there?”

Her face lit up. “You mean it?”

“There’s a well-stocked bar. Champagne in the refrigerator.”

Fresh sheets on the bed.

He paid and pulled out the chair for her. Smiling smugly, she took his arm and leaned in to him.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your place.”

“Is there anything particular you want to do there?”

She pressed her breasts against his arm.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something,” she purred.

“So, what do you have against kids in Africa?” he asked as he held the door open for her.

Qornelia swished her long, glossy hair. It fell so perfectly over her firm, narrow shoulders that he knew she must have extensions. Her pink lips and almost glow-in-the-dark teeth were on display with her laughter.

“Other people’s problems aren’t for me. They can look after themselves. I’ve got enough to worry about in my own life.”

She laughed, and he did so too. It sounded hollow. But the emptiness he felt wasn’t some kind of incurable condition. He knew exactly how to treat emptiness, and he had just prescribed himself a Qornelia. If it didn’t work out, he would just have to try harder. And drink more.