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Overview
Alexander de la Grip is known in the tabloids and gossip blogs as a rich, decadent, jet-setting playboy who spends most of his days recovering from the night before. With a string of beautiful conquests, he seems to care about nothing and no one.Isobel Sørensen has treated patients in refugee camps and war zones, and is about to depart Sweden for a pediatric hospital in Chad. Devoted to her humanitarian work, she cares almost too deeply. Especially when she learns that Alexander is withholding desperately needed funds from her aid foundation.
Is it because she’s the only woman who ever told him to go to hell?
As the two push each other’s boundaries to the breaking point, the truth turns out to be much more complicated.Pain, love, trust, betrayal. Which will triumph when safety is nothing but an empty word?
Praise for All In
“A compelling story that has heat and heart.” —New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown
“Sexy, smart, and completely unputdownable. Breathtaking, from start to finish.” —New York Times bestselling author Tessa Dare
“I've been searching for this feeling all year: this book left me absolutely breathless.” —New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781496706218 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Kensington |
| Publication date: | 07/25/2017 |
| Series: | High Stakes , #2 |
| Pages: | 480 |
| Sales rank: | 691,175 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.90(h) x 1.40(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
As Alexander De la Grip, Swedish count, international playboy, most eligible man under thirty (according to gossip rags), and no-good lazy-ass (according to his father), slowly came to life, he had absolutely no idea where he was.
He blinked, trying to assess his surroundings. It was early morning, at least judging by the light that came through a window at the other side of the room. He was naked and in a strange bed, which in itself was nothing out of the ordinary. But where he was — on which continent, in which country or city — well, that was all a blur.
Not that this was unusual either.
He made a quick assessment of his state of being.
He was hungover, obviously, but not brutally so. He seemed to have all his limbs and nothing ached. Splendid.
He reached for his cell on the unfamiliar nightstand. It was only eight in the morning; he usually slept much longer. But he felt okay despite the early hour. That was the plus side of regular drinking and partying — you built up a tolerance. Even though, as the previous night started to come back to him, he did remember a lot of drinking before winding up here.
Wherever here was.
Alexander racked his brain, vaguely recalling champagne, vodka, music, women — plenty of it all. He scratched his stubble. At some point there had also been a cab drive through Stockholm. Yes! Stockholm. Sweden. Home.
He turned his head. A young woman was sleeping soundly beside him. Her long hair was spread out on the pillow, her smooth skin lightly tanned. Alexander's gaze lingered on her bare back. Yes, her he remembered, he thought with a grin. She'd been pretty last night, when they'd started to flirt at the fourth or maybe fifth bar he visited. Sexy and energetic. Impressively determined, almost missile-like when she had spotted him. She had a lisp, too, and in his drunken state he'd found that sexy as hell. In all honesty, she was a bit too young for him, if he'd had those kinds of scruples, which he didn't. Twentyish, wide-eyed and giggly. The occasional flash of ruthlessness in her pretty eyes. He had been too drunk to care about that yesterday, when they were flirting, and later fucking, but he remembered it now. Not that ruthlessness bothered him too much.
Few things did.
He climbed out of bed.
Her name was something super Swedish. Linda, or Jenny maybe, and she was ... Alexander frowned as he searched for his scattered clothes. A journalist? No. He pulled on his underwear and his pants, and started to look for his shirt, leather jacket, and shoes. Student? Model? Nope, that wasn't it either. Something that involved more than long legs and an eating disorder.
He shoved his cell into his pocket, pulled the blanket up over her back, and headed for the door. He opened it soundlessly and was soon out on the street, getting his bearings. Right, she lived in Södermalm, the hipster, boho part of Stockholm. He put on his sunglasses. Young men with beards and MacBooks crowded the streets. Parents with children in brightly colored clothes, and pale, young women with skinny dogs. He kind of liked Södermalm. He bought a coffee at a deli, then hailed a cab. As he hopped into it his cell phone rang.
Looking at the screen, he felt the familiar sense of unease when he saw the caller: his mother. He rejected the call. They would meet soon enough; no need to suffer more than necessary.
The next time his phone rang, Romeo Rozzi's name flashed on the display. Alexander answered the call from his best friend with a cheerful "Talk to me, baby," while the capitol passed outside the window. Spring had arrived in Stockholm, the morning traffic wasn't too bad, and Alexander could feel the last of the previous night's indulgences being driven out by the coffee.
"I just wanted to check if you were okay," said Romeo. If it was eight in the morning in Sweden, it was two a.m. in New York. But Romeo, hard-working, world-renowned chef, never went to bed before dawn.
"And why wouldn't I be okay?" Alexander asked, then finished the last of the strong black coffee. You couldn't get coffee like this in New York.
Deep sigh. Clattering in the background. "Don't you remember?" Romeo asked, his voice that of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"That's right. I called you, didn't I?" He didn't remember why, though. It was a double-edged sword, this drinking-to-forget business.
"You were pretty wasted," Romeo said, his voice filled with disapproval.
"But being drunk is one of my best states."
Romeo sighed loudly on the other end of the line. "I Googled the girl."
"Why on earth would you do that?" asked Alexander.
"She's a blogger and Instagrammer," Romeo said, ignoring his question. "I checked her out. She has a huge following, publishes gossip and vulgar pictures. You said you were going to give her something to write about. Did you? Did you sleep with her?"
Linda. That was her name. Lusty Linda. Alexander pieced together the remaining fragments of a rather uninhibited night, remembering Linda's probing questions, wincing a little when some of the things they had tried out flashed before his eyes.
"I guess I did," he replied, forcing cheer into his voice and at the same time trying to work out whether he really cared if he was hung out to dry by yet another fame-hungry Instagram account, or anywhere else for that matter. He was used to it. He was prey, no matter what he did.
Another deep sigh from Romeo. "Do you take anything seriously?"
"Don't be stupid. I'm dead serious about my partying."
"You know what I mean."
Alexander fell silent, because he did know what Romeo meant.
The past six months he'd partied harder than ever. Sometimes it actually felt like he was trying to gift the tabloids and social media with gossip. Not that he would ever admit to it.
"Alessandro. I worry about you," Romeo continued.
"I'm a grown man and you worry too much," he said lightly. Alexander considered that maybe this time he really was headed off the rails with the drinking and the partying and the women. But staying sober probably meant going crazy. He didn't care much for going crazy. He glanced outside the car. Taxicabs, people, bikes passed by. Street after street after street. Alexander caught sight of glittering water.
"I'm almost home. Can I give you a call later?" he said, not sure he could keep up his show of bravado too much longer. Romeo was a nag and a mother hen. But he was Alexander's best friend and he cared. Stupid thing that. Caring.
"Just tell me how it feels to be back in Sweden," said Romeo.
Alexander looked at his watch. Almost nine. "I think I'm still drunk, I need a shave, I have a meeting with my bankers today, and I'm jet-lagged as hell, so it feels like I need a drink." Not to mention he was going to have to meet his mom this weekend. He almost groaned.
"Yes, well, be careful with that. Being a drunk is not a good look on anyone."
"Fuck off."
"Yeah, yeah. By the way, that Swedish prince of yours, Carl Philip. Do you know him?"
"I've met him," Alexander said dispassionately.
"He's hot. I'd love to cook for him. Among other things."
Alexander snorted. "If I see His Royal Highness, I'll let him know," he said. He disconnected at the same time that the taxi pulled up outside Hotel Diplomat, where he always stayed when he was in town. He looked up at the pristine white façade. No matter how hard he tried, and he did try, he couldn't drink away the fact that he was back in Stockholm to do the one thing he hated most of all. To face his demons. Or, at least, to meet his family.
Fuck.
CHAPTER 2
Isobel Sørensen chained her bike, unclipped her helmet, pulled the heavy doors open, and hurried up the old marble stairs. Wiping sweat off her forehead she opened the door with the brass sign that read MEDPAX. In the reception area, with its dark mahogany furniture, framed prizes, and twenty-year-old magazine clippings on the walls, she was greeted by two oil paintings in golden frames: one of Isobel's mother, the other of her grandfather, the founders of Medpax.
A door at the back opened, and Leila Dibah, the general secretary of the foundation, stuck her head out.
"Sorry I'm late," Isobel said, lifting her hand in a greeting. "Work was chaos."
"You're not late," Leila said with that slight accent that betrayed her Persian origins. Fifty-two-year old Leila was a clinical psychologist, and Isobel had always thought that she had the perfect eyes for her profession. Focused, unreadable, unwavering. Leila opened the door to Medpax's only conference room. "Let's sit here," she said, and let Isobel in. They sat at the table, Leila in front of stacks of papers and binders. Isobel reached for a decanter with water and a glass. She hadn't drunk anything since lunch.
"How's work?" asked Leila as Isobel poured a second glass of water.
"At the clinic?" Isobel shrugged and downed the water. She'd seen twenty-two patients today. That was nothing. When she was out in the field she could treat over a hundred patients a day. Malnourished, wounded, dying patients. Nobody starved to death before her eyes at the clinic. No one died from simple treatable diseases or infections. Nothing unbearable happened. "It's hectic but okay," she said.
Leila searched her face. "You work too much," she stated.
"No, I don't." Isobel worked at the clinic, and here at Medpax when she had time, and she was a fully committed field doctor for Doctors Without Borders. But life wasn't supposed to be easy; she just did what she had to do to pull her weight.
Leila sighed. "I just got a phone call. Sven can't go to Chad."
"Shit."
"Yeah."
During its golden years, Medpax, a small but renowned humanitarian aid organization, had run three pediatric hospitals in Africa. One in Chad, one in the Congo, and one in Cameroon. As the years went by, two of the hospitals were taken over by the authorities in their respective countries, and now they had only the hospital in Chad left. Day to day, it was run by medical personnel from Chad, assorted volunteers, and field-workers from other aid organizations, but Medpax was the driving force behind it. Sven was a surgeon and had been scheduled to go there at the end of the month.
"But why?" Isobel asked. No one from Medpax had been in Chad since the previous fall; the plan was for Sven to head down there, assess what changes needed to be implemented in the future, and create a formal course of action. This was a huge setback. Someone from Medpax had to go there. Sven would have been perfect.
"His wife doesn't want him to," Leila said.
"You're kidding."
"She gave him an ultimatum. Sven says he has got to give his marriage priority."
"I see." The cynical side of Isobel wondered why Sven — infamous for having slept with virtually every female nurse he'd ever met — suddenly thought he needed to give his marriage priority, but she said nothing. Going out into the field had to be an individual's own choice.
Leila nodded. "But it was actually because of something else I asked you here." She took out one of the binders, opened it, and placed it in front of Isobel. "I wanted to show you this. We have a problem with one of our donors. A serious financial problem."
Isobel looked at the neat rows, trying to decipher them. "It seems to be a foundation of some kind," she said after a while.
Leila bowed her head affirmatively. "They've given loads of money in the past, but the donations suddenly stopped."
Medpax lived off its donors.
"But are we really so dependent on them? One single donor?" Isobel asked.
"We are now. We lost quite a few of our donors before I started, as you know."
Isobel nodded. It was an understatement. They had bled.
"And since then, several of our applications have been rejected, and we haven't managed to make up the shortfall yet."
Leila had joined Medpax a couple of years ago. Medpax finances had been in bad shape at that time. With the force of a Persian conqueror she had managed to salvage what she could when she joined the organization, but the fact was that her predecessor, Blanche Sørensen, had become increasingly less successful at maintaining the important relationships with the organization's donors.
Isobel knew, of course, that none of this was her fault, but she still squirmed at Leila's words. Blanche was, after all, her mother.
"We can't afford to lose them. I don't really know why the donations have stopped. No one at the foundation has bothered to return my calls, though I've left several messages."
Isobel studied the documents. The name of the foundation told her nothing, but the address was one of Stockholm's most exclusive streets, so maybe the trustees simply didn't think it was worth their while to return calls from anyone at a tiny humanitarian organization.
"When exactly did they stop?" Isobel asked, still trying to understand the figures.
"Just before Christmas."
Isobel had been in Liberia then. She'd gone there with Doctors Without Borders to fight an Ebola outbreak. Seen more dead bodies, ravaged communities, and traumatized medical staff than she could bear to think about. She had worked in refugee camps, war zones, and the aftermath of natural disasters since she was in her teens. Her first summer job had been as a volunteer. She had seen it all. But still. Liberia ... It had been weeks before she managed to get past the worst of the nightmares.
"You should have said something. Maybe I could have helped."
"Asking for help really isn't my strong suit."
Isobel snorted at the understatement. "What's his or her name?"
"Who?"
Isobel nodded at the binder. "Whoever's behind the foundation?"
"Here," said Leila, pointing at a name. "A man. Alexander De la Grip."
The name went through her like a jolt. She sat up. "You're joking," she said.
Leila looked up. "You know him?"
Isobel had lost count of how many lists she'd seen Alexander De la Grip's name on.
Best-Dressed Bachelors in the World.
Richest Swedes under Thirty.
World's Most Handsome Men.
Or how many gossip rags he had appeared in. Not because she actively looked for his name, but because Alexander De la Grip and his escapades were like an ongoing, everlasting, disgusting serial in the media.
"We've met," she said calmly, but was shocked to her core.
She and Alexander De la Grip had met, by chance, last summer. He had flirted with her, and she had told him to go to hell.
Literally.
Several times.
She wanted to smack her forehead on the table. Every time Alexander De la Grip had ever spoken to her, in that deep aristocratic voice of his, she had been nothing but rude in return. She wasn't proud of it; she usually was much smoother than that. She was a field doctor, for Christ's sake — she could take annoying men in stride. But it was as though Alexander's entire being had irritated her back then. The drunken eyes, the divalike existence, the way women fawned over him. Was he really that easily insulted, that petty? Stupid question; of course he was. Alexander De la Grip's ego was probably more fragile than a compromised immune system. She had snubbed him, and in revenge he had cut off the money to Medpax. It was the simplest and therefore most plausible explanation.
Leila studied her with piercing black eyes over the rim of her glasses. "Could we talk to him? Get him to change his mind? Maybe over a lunch?"
Isobel toyed with the papers. "I guess we could try," she reluctantly replied. There was nothing unusual about meeting potential donors over lunch, dinner, or sometimes even breakfast. She had done it many times before, knew she was good at it and that people were impressed by her and her heritage. That was one of her roles at Medpax. But the thought of sucking up to that spoiled, privileged jet-setter ... Well, it was all her own fault. Pride goeth before a fall, and so on.
"Could you take care of it?" Leila asked.
Isobel regained her composure, gave Leila an unruffled look, and simply said, "Sure."
"Good. Because if we don't find more money soon, we're done. We'll have to close Medpax down before summer."
"You're exaggerating." Leila did have a tendency toward the melodramatic; surely things couldn't be that bad.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Falling"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Simona Ahrnstedt.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
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