Leisurely Isobel went around and cleaned up after them in Eugene’s opulent apartment. She drifted from room to room, straightening tablecloths, remembering things they had done, blushing a bit before moving on. Every now and then, her cell phone would buzz and she would read yet another message from Alexander, pausing and grinning.

It was probably a good thing he’d had to leave, that they both had a moment to catch their breath. Not that it stopped her from aching for the next time they would meet. With a quick glance she made sure nothing embarrassing had been left behind in the bedroom or under the couches.

In the kitchen she put the last glass back in the cabinet, checked she had packed all of the … ehrm … equipment in the bag, wrapped the flowers in their cellophane, and went down to the cab she had called.

At home she searched for the biggest vase she owned—an heirloom from her grandmother—and put the orchids on the kitchen table. As she admired the exquisite bouquet she tried to remember the last time a man, a lover, had given her flowers, but had to give up.

She had only just changed into her sweatpants when Alexander sent another one of his messages. Just a red heart this time, and she felt her own heart swell. Ah, but this was too ridiculous. It was like being sixteen and head over heels in love. Aside from the fact that she’d never had such strong feelings for anyone when she was sixteen. Or ever.

She sat down at the computer. She was behind with everything, needed to get into some kind of serious working mind-set.

Isobel managed to work effectively for a few hours before she began to yawn. She brewed some coffee, took a quick shower, and sat back down at the computer.

Another text, the twentieth or so of the day, asking: How soon can I see you?

It probably wasn’t a very smart idea to let Alexander take up so much of her working time. But God, she longed for him.

Need to work. Later, okay?

Sipping her coffee, she opened a medical site to look for a particular study, clicked on a link to a newspaper article, clicked on another interesting link, and suddenly found herself on the couch, surfing the net for anything related to Alexander De la Grip. Out of self-preservation she avoided things she had already read about him—didn’t want to read old gossip—and found an article about Romeo Rozzi’s career instead, which she read with great interest. Then she moved on to another Web site and saw pictures of one of Romeo’s restaurants, activated another link, ended up on a famous rooftop terrace in New York, studying the beautiful people’s faces, and caught sight of …

She frowned and then couldn’t help it. She knew the wise thing was to leave the page, but instead she looked closer, against all better judgment.

Yup, it was Alexander, looking very drunk. With two young women in his lap. An arm around one of them, a hand on the other’s thigh. She read the caption. “Playboy billionaire plays fast and loose with gorgeous blondes.” There wasn’t much difference between this picture and every other she’d seen. Aside from one thing. She had to check her calendar just to be sure. Double-check against her Skype account.

Yeah.

This was taken on Alexander’s latest New York trip. The same day they’d started to Skype, as a matter of fact, when he had sworn to her that he hadn’t slept with that girl with the strange name or with anyone else. She had believed him then and she still believed him. This stupid photo didn’t have to mean a thing. But still. It did. A little anyway. She clicked down the site but now she just couldn’t stop herself, so she started Googling him seriously, reading everything that popped up. Years and years of escapades came on her screen. Pictures of Alexander and famous women. Notorious women. Actresses, pop stars, and heiresses. Parties, premieres, and one scandal after the other. And everywhere Alexander—grinning, drinking, partying, actually looking quite happy, in a sort of debauched way. Occasionally she thought she spotted an almost desolate look on his face, but maybe it was just her imagination.

It wasn’t that she was jealous, not too much anyway. She knew this was who he was, had no illusions about his past. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t so concerned with the pictures online as she’d thought she would be; they didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know. But another thing had been nagging her, in a dark corner of her mind. Something that had been lying there, in wait. Something she hadn’t allowed herself to examine too closely. But now it came to the surface. All the stuff he’d told her, the revelations about his mother’s infidelity and the abuse he’d suffered as a young teenager; how much damage had it caused? Everything she knew about the human psyche, everything she’d read and experienced told her it would be difficult for someone with that kind of background to really have a deep, emotional relationship with a woman. But that didn’t matter, right? Because she didn’t want a relationship with Alexander.

Or did she?

She got up from the computer. Washed her face. Walked around restlessly. Was she overanalyzing this? Probably. But it didn’t change the fact that she had some serious decisions to make. Oh, she could just go with the flow, enjoy the ride, and all the other bullshit people said when they were trying to fool themselves into making stupid decisions. But that wasn’t her. She wanted, no needed, someone stable. Dependable. She was old enough to know herself. Could Alexander be all that? Because she didn’t believe in trying to change people. In her opinion people pretty much were who they were, period. And Alex was a player. It didn’t diminish her feelings for him. She had fallen for an amoral billionaire playboy. That was a fact. But she had to stay sober about this. Had to rely on smart Isobel, not sex-crazed Isobel. It would be a scary prospect to start committing to Alexander. She had to be brutally honest and ask herself if she was anything more to him than another victory in a long line of conquests. She mulled it over. Yes, she really did think she was more, if her instincts were to be trusted.

Her cell phone buzzed. It was him. Her silly heart started to flutter. Oh, but she had totally fallen.

Want to meet tonight? I’ll make dinner. Satisfy all your appetites.

Isobel read the message. And then again. Could hear his deep voice in the words, feel his touch, sense his laughter. Even through a short text she was drawn into his remarkable force field, remembering their wild lovemaking but also the closeness she felt to him. Damn, this was so dangerous.

And then something else struck her, made her freeze. Had she really talked with him about not going into the field anymore? That was madness. How could she even think about that, much less say it aloud? People like her, doctors like her, professionals like her, simply didn’t do that. She was a person who, more than anything else, wanted to help others. She needed to be of use to the world, had felt like that as long as she could remember. That meant she simply couldn’t indulge in every shallow whim that happened to strike her. Definitely couldn’t let sex and infatuation guide her actions. Surely she was more sensible than that.

She spent a long time looking at the display, reading the letters.

Be logical, Isobel. Be smart.

Slowly she tapped in her reply: Maybe not today.

Stared at it for a long time, wondering whether she should add anything else before sending it.

But what else was there to add, really? This had gone much too far already, was leading her astray, making her choose the wrong path. Hurriedly she pressed send, then switched the phone to silent and returned to her work.

When everything came crashing down around her, she always had her work. Though, right now, at this moment, she was uncertain whether it felt more like a blessing or a taunt. But she didn’t pick up the cell phone the entire evening. It had gone on long enough. She had to be wise. Even if it hurt like hell.