Falling Read online

  Also by Simona Ahrnstedt

  All In

  FALLING

  SIMONA AHRNSTEDT

  Translated from the Swedish

  by Alice Menzies

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Simona Ahrnstedt

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0622-5

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0622-6

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: August 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0621-8

  The child hid behind a small bush. It was the rainy season, and the leaves, lush and green, were covered with insects. The child, his small frame shaking with fear, crouched on the red soil. The jeep and the men had come out of nowhere. Violent, brutal men, pouring out of the car, shouting, creating clouds of ruddy dust. The boy could only stare at the unfolding scene. The angry men had guns. They were waving them and yelling at the woman. And then they took her.

  She fought, because she was a strong woman, but she had no chance against them. She screamed when they threw her into the car. It took off in a big cloud of dust and sand. Then there was silence. Not even the insects made a sound.

  The boy stayed behind the bush for a long time.

  He had nowhere to go. The woman had been the only one who cared for him.

  Now there was no one.

  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 Rom
eo. 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 befor
e 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?”