All In (45 page)

Alexander.

Her brother came over to her. She saw a bruise on his chin, but he was all smiles, brushing aside her worried questions and giving her a firm hug.

“I didn't even know you were in town,” she said, half-squished in his embrace.

“I wasn't,” he said dryly. “But your future husband can be very persuasive. Especially since he apparently has some kind of mercenary and a helicopter at his disposal.”

“You came by helicopter?”

“We landed just outside of Stockholm's Old Town twenty minutes ago,” he said, muttering something that might have been “the fucking psychopath.”

“David did it for me,” Natalia said with a laugh. “Now be nice.”

“I'm always nice,” Alex said. He scanned the room, and his eyes lingered on Carolina. “Is that her?” he asked softly.

Natalia nodded.

“Are you ready?” David asked. Alexander released her and moved over to join the other guests.

David reached out his hand and grazed her shoulder, brushed aside a lock of hair, as if he couldn't help touching her. He held out his arm, and Natalia put her hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they turned to face the justice of the peace.

She was so grateful that she'd said yes to that original lunch invitation, she thought. That she had dared. It reminded her of something Åsa had said, but she couldn't quite remember what. She heard music from far away. She looked at the guests, feeling so incredibly thankful.

And then, somewhere in the middle of the wedding ceremony, Natalia remembered what Åsa had said on that day in June when it had all begun.

Natalia peered at the handsome, solemn man who would soon be her husband, and she couldn't help but smile.

Her life—summed up in a cliché from a paper coffee cup.

The justice of the peace concluded the ceremony, smiled at them both, and pronounced them man and wife. And then, before she knew what was happening, David swept her up in an enormous hug. It was a tight hug that turned into a hard kiss which in turn became so passionate that the guests started whistling and applauding. And Natalia let herself be swept away, let her husband kiss her until she was breathless, and knew that this was right. It was the two of them forever now, because this was the love of her life, until death did them part, in sickness and in health. And she thought that sometimes life
was
a cliché. How did the saying go?

Epilogue

 

I
sobel Sørensen was at the airport.

Again.

Sometimes she was struck by a strange, unreal feeling, as if she were at the same airport over and over again all the time, without ever leaving. Other times, like today, she felt like she'd been on enough flights to last a whole lifetime.

She stopped to study the departures board and then sensed someone next to her, at exactly the right distance to avoid being pushy, and yet close enough that she would know he wanted to be noticed.

“What a coincidence. Are you going to New York too?” he asked.

Isobel felt a surge of irritation. Even without turning around, she knew who it was. She recognized that arrogant upper-class voice.

Alexander De la Grip.

“I just went to my sister's wedding,” he continued, carrying on his conversation without seeming to care that she was ignoring him.

She thought about walking away, just leaving him there to try to hit on her without her. She didn't owe him any politeness. But she'd liked his sister, the unexpectedly pregnant Natalia, and she was tired of walking, and she had a lot of time to kill before her flight, so she just stood there.

“Love,” he continued what by now would have to be described as a monologue. He put so much scorn into that word that Isobel found herself smiling despite herself.

“Love makes people do worse things than even religion,” he stated.

Isobel had no objections to that. Love, religion, fanaticism—they were depressingly similar, so she was inclined to agree with him. Weird. She would never have thought she could have anything in common with a man like this jet-set prince.

She'd browsed several magazines on the plane here. There had been pictures of him in at least two of them. He'd been surrounded by women, eyes glazed from alcohol and maybe something more. He should watch out, she'd thought with a grain of cynical schadenfreude. She'd seen people die of liver failure, and it wasn't very pretty.

On the other hand, death was
never
pretty. It was nasty, sad, and horrifically unfair, no matter what anyone said.

Alexander had stopped talking, but Isobel could sense that he was still standing there behind her. She assumed he was on her flight to New York. She studied the departures board. It was leaving in exactly sixty-four minutes. He would surely be sitting in first class with its chilled champagne, warm washcloths, and obsequious flight attendants. There were no words for how much she despised men like him. Even if she had to admit to herself that he was one of the handsomest men she'd ever seen. Handsome in that way that attracted both women and men, young and old. Apart from his eyes, that was. She'd noticed when he'd run into her the last time, in BÃ¥stad. She tried to remember where she'd seen eyes like that before.

“Love really messes life up,” he interrupted her thoughts. “Did you know it's a modern invention? Love, I mean.”

Even though that sounded familiar, she didn't say anything. She didn't share his need to hear herself talk all the time.

“So, are you going to New York?” he asked, clearly unaffected by her reticence. “Then we can keep each other company. Can I buy you a drink beforehand? They have a decent chardonnay here, actually.”

Isobel shook her head.

Because now she remembered where she'd seen eyes like Alexander De la Grip's. Actually she saw them all the time. She turned around quickly, gasping a little for breath at having his dazzling good looks so close.

“I'm not going to New York,” she said curtly. She looked into those blue eyes, eyes that were in no way angelic. “I'm going to Africa.” She started to walk away. She felt him staring at her back, and she sped up.

Isobel met so many people through her work who had survived war and torture, people who had seen horrors that no one should have to see. And even if the wounds healed and were no longer outwardly visible, you always saw it in their eyes if you knew how to look.

She sped up even more. That was what she'd seen before, what she'd seen in Alexander's eyes.

People who'd been in hell and survived usually had that same look in their eyes.

Author's Thanks

I've published three previous historical novels, and it was with some relief that I looked forward to writing a book set in our own time. Anyone who's ever written a historical book will know what I mean. Not having to think about unfamiliar manners and customs, not having to go to a museum or call a historian every time I had a question about clothing, traditions, or food felt like a luxury. It felt like a luxury for about ten minutes.

Because I chose to situate the protagonists of
All In
in Sweden's financial elite, and I can honestly say that I've never done so much research, conducted so many interviews, and read so many technical books in my entire life as an author.

All In
could never have been written without the generosity of people who understand the complexities of the financial sector so much better than I ever will. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, those of you from finance and beyond, who volunteered your time, knowledge, and expertise. You know who you are—everything that turned out right was thanks to you. The things I got wrong were entirely my own shortcomings.

I also want to extend a special thank-you to some friends who played a role in the creation of this book: Åsa Hellberg, Carina Hedberg, Petra Ahrnstedt, and Trude Lövstuhagen. You were all wonderful support, especially you, Petra. Thank you!

A big thank you to my publisher, Karin Linge Nordh, my editor, Kerstin Ödeen, and of course to the rest of the amazing—
amazing—
gang at Forum Publishing. It's a pleasure to get to work with you.

Thank you of course to my wonderful, wonderful children.

And finally thanks to my literary agent, Anna Frankl, at Nordin Agency, who in addition to selling my books abroad also has an unerring sense of when I am in desperate need of being treated to a fancy lunch.