All In (35 page)

“Don't you look at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?” he snarled.

“Like you're some kind of emperor and everyone else is beneath you. You
like
her.”

He'd told Caro select bits, not everything of course, but Caro was smart and she was intuitive—she'd always had that skill. Of course, she'd pieced together far more than he'd chosen to tell her. But he couldn't grasp how this had happened. He'd invited his little sister out to see some art on a Sunday morning and now they were practically yelling at each other. People were starting to look at them oddly.

“It's clear that she's important to you,” Carolina continued. She'd lowered her voice. “It's obvious from the way you look at her.”

“I care about
you
,” he said.

She waved her hand, as if that went without saying. “I've never doubted that, not ever. No one could wish for a better brother.”

“Don't say I'm a good brother. If you hadn't been alone that night . . .”

“Did you actively do something that caused me to be raped? Well?”

“Of course I didn't,” he said, shocked. “But . . .”

“There's no
but
. It wasn't your fault. If anything, it's thanks to you that I recovered as well as I did. That's what my therapist said: that you were always there for me unconditionally; that's the kind of thing that makes it possible to recover and move on. You can't change what happened back then, it's in the past.”

“But I can change how it looks now, and protect you.”

“Enough. I can take care of myself. You have to think about you. And I want you to be happy. You've sacrificed so much for me, but David, you're not happy. You need to move on too.”

“I can hardly move on with Natalia De la Grip.”

“No, not if you're going to destroy her whole family.”

“But what they did to you . . . ,” he repeated.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Some things a person doesn't forget,” he countered, and couldn't believe he even needed to tell her that. Although of course they'd never discussed this, he realized, not ever. He'd just assumed that Caro felt the same way he did, that she had been ruined, that it was a wound that could never heal.

“But that's exactly what I'm saying.” A note of frustration had snuck into her voice, and she waved her hand dismissively. “It's
over
for me. I don't want to live in the past.”

“You don't understand,” David said. “They hate me. Us. And you don't realize what they're capable of.”

“But I think they've already been punished in a way,” she said. “And I've left it at that.” It was clear that the subject was closed as far as she was concerned. She gave him a little smile. “And I've met a man.”

She moved on to the next pedestal and statue. David hurried after her, took her by the arm, and made her stop. “What do you mean you've met a man?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she said, giving him a sharp look, so belligerent it was like looking into his mother's face. Their mother had always had a fiery temperament. David just hadn't realized that Caro had inherited it.

“Is that so implausible?” she said. “Yes, it was awful that I was raped, it was disgusting.” She pulled her hand back. Her voice didn't tremble at all when she quietly said, “But I want to live my life. And I want
you
to live
your
life, not live mine for me. Don't you understand how much pressure you're putting on me if you're out for revenge in my name?”

He and Carolina had
never
argued like this before. He felt shaken down to the core, as if everything he'd believed to be real had turned out to be collapsible theatrical props.

“I didn't know,” he began and broke down. He didn't know where to begin. Was he living Carolina's life for her? Was that how she saw it? And all this stuff about letting go of the past, could that even be done? Just like that? He wasn't at all convinced. “I don't know what to say,” he finally said. “What do you want me to do?”

“I can't make a decision for you,” she said gently. “And I trust you. I trust that you'll do whatever's most sensible. I'd really like to go to the general meeting tomorrow,” she added.

That was an extremely bad idea. Carolina might have a bunch of ideas about how she was doing better, but this general meeting was probably going to be unpleasant. And who knew what Peter or Gustaf might do if they saw her. Good Lord, they thought she was dead.

“You shouldn't come,” he said. “You can send a proxy, someone to vote for you.”

Carolina's eyes narrowed. “I can do my own voting, thank you very much.”

“I know, but if you're there, then I'll worry the whole time,” he said, aware that he was shamelessly manipulating her by trying to make her feel guilty.

She shook her head. “We'll see,” she said, and for the first time ever David actually felt that he didn't have control over what she decided. It was a dizzying feeling. Not completely comfortable, but also not expressly uncomfortable.

“This man you're seeing, do you want to tell me anything about him?”

“Not yet. It's too new.”

“But do I know him?” David asked.

“No. But I don't want you to start investigating his background or doing anything else super controlling.”

“I would never do a thing like that,” he lied.

Carolina smiled. She put her hand on his cheek. “You most certainly would,” she said.

49

M
ichel was back at the gym again. His body was tired, but there was nowhere else for him to be if he didn't want to go insane. No matter where he looked, he saw Åsa. From the moment he woke up he saw her voluptuous curves and blond hair. All day long her mocking smile and pink lips hounded him.

He closed his eyes, sitting in the weights machine, then pushed until the sweat was pouring out of him. He forced himself to count his lifts, forced himself to ignore the protests from his muscles. And he didn't stop until he couldn't lift his arms anymore. Then he moved on to the next machine and started again.

He would take a long vacation when this was over, maybe go to one of those retreats where you're not allowed to talk, just work out and sleep. He had to get out of this mess of revenge and things that kept popping up from the past, away from Åsa.

He groaned and pulled on the back machine until his muscles trembled. The gym was barely half full since most normal people were outside hanging out, sunbathing, or swimming. They weren't at the gym, well into the second hour of their workout, trying to exercise away anything having to do with erections or sex or fantasies or platinum-blond women.

He could still picture her as he moved to the next machine. Saw her in that white suit, in that tight dress she wore in Båstad, or in a pair of simple jeans like she wore one time back in law school. Åsa was not a jeans person, but that time she had worn jeans and a white T-shirt. He'd glimpsed those extraordinary breasts, and her blond hair—longer back then—had hung in a simple ponytail.

She was a hundred percent woman and a hundred percent sex, and he would probably have to stay for another four machines because now he was hard as a rock. He punished himself and his aroused body by loading up the leg press more than he'd ever done, but when he got off it, heading toward the free weights on trembling legs, the only thing he was thinking about was the soft curve of her neck and the only thing he wanted to do was lick her entire body. He picked up two free weights and counted lifts intently as he stared into the mirror. His testosterone was coursing, his skin glistening, and he kept going until his arms refused.

Afterward he showered for a long time, then lathered himself up, standing with his back to the door. He was totally alone in the changing room, and it took him less than ten seconds to come.

He rinsed himself off grimly, watching the bubbles and sweat and semen run down the drain, and thought that he must have reached some sort of all-time low. Masturbating in a public shower—classy, real classy.

He pulled on his T-shirt and pants. His body was totally pumped, and he was still sweating, so he bought a bottle of water, pulled down his sunglasses, and walked out into the broiling sunshine.

His phone was in his bag, and it took a while before he realized it was ringing. He'd promised his mother he'd come out to the house for Sunday dinner, so he assumed it was her. Maybe he could head out there a little earlier, he thought as he dug around. He liked hanging out with his family. His sisters would be there, his father of course, and some of his uncles. They would drink lemonade and play with some of the kids who were always running around, and maybe he would be able to stop thinking about Åsa for a couple of hours. He managed to dig out his phone and stared at the caller ID.

So much for not thinking about Åsa.

“I thought you weren't going to answer.” He heard her deep, throaty voice as he clicked to answer the call.

Michel closed his eyes, letting himself be pulled along by the impossible feelings he had for this woman. He allowed himself to lower his guard for a short, short time, since she couldn't see him, before he straightened up and said, sounding steady and self-confident: “Hi, Åsa.”

He heard her breathing on the other end. Oh God, just the sound of her breath turned him on.

“I didn't know who to call,” she whispered.

“What happened?”

“Can you come over here? Do you know where I live?” she asked, and her voice was a little strained. “Do you know the address, I mean?”

Did
he know the address?

“Did something happen?” Was she hurt, had something happened to her? “Åsa?” he asked worriedly.

“Can you come?”

“I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“I'll text you the code for the front door,” she said. “Hurry.”

“But Åsa,” he began, but she'd already hung up the phone.

Michel stared at the silent phone. It buzzed in his hand as her front door code arrived in a text. Michel ran his thumb over the glossy display, wondering what kind of game she was playing. Because he really shouldn't let her control him. If he let her take charge, she would swallow him whole. But she'd sounded upset, for real.

He dialed a number as he started walking.

“Mom? It's me. Unfortunately I can't come. No, I'm busy. Yes, all evening. Say hi to Dad.”

He hung up and then veered off, jogging toward upper Östermalm.

 

Less than ten minutes later, Michel typed in her door code. The door was large, more like the door of a palace, and the whole building exuded the same discreet opulence as the rest of the neighborhood. He ran up the stairs and rang her doorbell. He heard the quiet swish of a well-oiled lock sliding open, and then Åsa was before him in the doorway.

Michel swallowed.

She was wearing something thin and billowy. Every breath made her soft curves push against the almost transparent veils of fabric. Pink toenails on bare feet peeked out from beneath the hem. He stared. He'd forgotten her feet. Perfect little toes, and then that innocent, erotic color on her nails, like the inside of her lips. There and then Michel realized something: he would never make it out of this meeting intact. Honestly, he didn't even know if he cared anymore.

Åsa watched him in silence. She checked out his freshly worked-out arms and Michel flexed his biceps, reflexively and unspeakably embarassing.

She raised an eyebrow. “Come in,” she said, stepping aside.

He stepped in, passed her scented body, and was surrounded by lavish but impersonal luxury. He dropped his bag on the stone floor.

“Come on,” she said and turned around, walking away.

Michel followed her. How could she look so calm? How could her voice be so cool when he had to force himself not to jump her, pin her to a wall, kiss her breathless? Everything about her was sensual and soft. There wasn't an angular inch anywhere.

She turned around again—were they there already?—and said, “What?”

“Nothing,” he said tersely.

 

Åsa tried to seem cool and unaffected on her way to the kitchen, but having Michel Chamoun here, in her home, made her weak. And in that tight shirt and with that gleaming chain around his neck, he looked so hard. Like a tough guy from some rough neighborhood she'd never even passed through. Even if she hadn't known him, Michel would have been the kind of man she would have turned around to watch on the street, the kind of man she fantasized about.

She couldn't stop looking at him over her shoulder.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

Honestly she didn't know what had come over her when she'd decided to call him. It had been an impulse, born from an almost overwhelming tidal wave of emotions, and she already regretted it.

She pushed the door to the kitchen open. She had no plan, but she was hot and needed something to drink. She opened the stainless-steel refrigerator, took out a bottle of French mineral water and two glasses. “Would you like some?” she asked.

Michel nodded.

When he took the glass, she noticed his arm again. She was a big woman and had always liked big men, but even by her exacting standards, Michel was enormous. He took a drink, and she hungrily studied his strong throat, watched him swallow, following his dark skin down to the neckline of his T-shirt.

She wanted to lean over, lick the drop of sweat she saw at the base of his neck, follow it down over him with her tongue, take all of him into her mouth.

She was good at sex, and that wasn't bragging, it was a fact. She could picture herself taking him into her mouth, sucking him until he buried his hands in her hair, groaned, and completely lost it.

She took a quick drink, studied him through her eyelashes as he stood there, his hip leaning against her kitchen island. She leaned back against the sink, letting him get a good look at her. She made a move and obediently the slit in her thin dress—it was just a hair's breadth away from actually being a negligee—fell open, revealing her legs.

“Åsa? Why am I here?” Michel asked calmly, setting his empty glass down on the matte-finished granite countertop. It used to be walnut, but she liked the granite better. An interior designer came once a year to change little things around and then sent her an astronomical invoice. “It sounded serious. What happened?”

She sighed. She should have suspected that he wouldn't let her escape.

“Nothing happened. But I was at the cemetery today,” she began, sipping the water and steeling herself against the wave of pain that usually arrived when she thought about this. But it never came.

“I haven't been there in a long time, haven't been to see them for several years,” she said, pausing and waiting again. Still nothing.

They were all in the same grave, all three of them.

Her mother, father, and little brother. Different birth dates, but all with the same death date.
Eternally remembered
, it said on the gravestone. She didn't remember who'd ordered it, didn't remember the funeral, didn't remember anything. Just that one day she'd had a family and the next day she was alone. So alone.

She looked at Michel standing there, steady as a mountain range.

“How was it?” he asked somberly.

“I guess it was okay,” she said, looking down.

It
had
been okay, strangely enough. But now she felt very weak, more fragile than tissue paper or newly formed ice crystals.

Michel crossed his arms. “What happened to your family was so awful,” he said softly. “No one should have to go through what you went through.”

“Some people have it worse,” she said automatically.

“That's always true,” he agreed. “But you're entitled to your feelings. And being the only one left, that's certainly everyone's nightmare.”

“I had Natalia's family,” she said. But Michel was right, she had wound up in a never-ending phase, in which waking up in the morning and being forced to realize that she was still all on her own was the worst thing.

“I didn't understand how I could go on living when I was so sad,” she said. Something ran down her cheek, and when she wiped her hand over it, she realized to her surprise that it was a tear. She hadn't even noticed she was crying. She never cried. “Sorry,” she said.

He came over to her, took her glass, set it down. He carefully wiped away a tear. “It's okay,” he said softly.

She sobbed. “No, I'm sorry about the other thing,” she said.

He wiped away another tear, and she wanted to lean on his shoulder, give herself over to self-pity and grief. “At law school, when I stopped being your friend. I'm sorry about that.”

“It doesn't matter,” he mumbled. “That was a long time ago.”

“I was so embarrassed when you refused me. I couldn't handle being your friend after that, and I pulled away.”

“Because you were embarrassed?”

She shook her head, thinking it was now or never. “Because I was in love with you,” she said, not actually daring to look at him. “You can't be friends with someone you're in love with.”

“No, that's very hard,” he agreed. “You always want more.”

“No one has turned me down as many times as you have.”

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You know how people usually say it's better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all?”

“Yes.”

“That's bullshit.
Nothing
is worse than losing the people you love. When my family died, I decided never to be close to anyone again.” She bit her lip. “It's such a terrible cliché.”

But it had worked.

She'd slid through life, not happy, but then again, who was? Happiness wasn't a human right.

He stroked her shoulder with his hand. It was a comforting caress that almost burned a hole in her. She had a hard time breathing. It hurt to feel so strongly about him. She slipped away and took a few steps. She wanted to leave him behind, erase him from her life, replace him with some other man she
didn't
feel so strongly about.

If they slept with each other, then she'd be able to move on. She leaned her hip against the counter and trained her eyes on him. She'd done this before, been obsessed with having one specific man. It always passed. She was going to put an end to this. She'd waxed herself yesterday, not too much because she loved her blond, curly locks, but she was smooth and fresh, and she just wanted this so much. She wiped away the last of the tears and took a step toward him. “Michel,” she said in a low voice, making herself sound tempting and promising.

“No, don't do this,” he said. “Not when you're sad.”

“I've regretted it for all these years,” she said, because this time she wasn't going to accept a rejection. “I've wanted you. Wondered what it would be like. Haven't you?”

“Of course I have,” he said, sounding choked.

She put a hand on his chest. She could do this in her sleep, seduce a man. His skin was scorching hot through the fabric, as if he had a fever.