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9

 

I
t was a magical performance, Natalia thought. She didn't take her eyes off Sarah Harvey for a second. It might have been one of the best evenings of her life. The atmosphere at Café Opera was close and intimate, the experience almost private.

The last note of the final encore ebbed away, and if Natalia had ever felt a spiritual presence, now was the time. There was thunderous applause from the invited guests, and Natalia caught Åsa's attention. They were seated at a table right up next to the stage. She could tell Åsa was so moved that she had tears in her eyes.

The soprano circulated around the tables, greeting friends, and shook both Natalia and Åsa's hands. After that they strolled out into the summer evening. Despite the late hour, it was still light outside, and an almost tropical heat lingered over the city.

“We can't go home now,” Natalia said, still filled with the music. “How about one last drink?”

Åsa waved a hand and nodded. “Alright, but somewhere without tourists,” she said. “What are all these people doing here?”

Natalia laughed and took a few dancing steps across the cobblestones in her high-heeled golden sandals.

As a child she had danced ballet—long, hard workouts. She had loved the old-fashioned discipline, the pale-pink shoes and simple outfits, but since she wasn't one of the very best in her group, her mother decided it was a waste of time to continue. The next day she began at a school for ballroom dancing instead.

Natalia furrowed her brow. All these choices that had been made for her, which shaped her. If it had been up to her mother, she would never have entered the financial world. “Wasted on a woman.” But Natalia had put her foot down on that one.

She wove around an embracing couple. “What did you think?” she asked. “Aren't you glad you came?”

Åsa had grumbled and complained. No normal people stayed in Stockholm at this time of year. And Café Opera wasn't that hip. But she'd still canceled an all-weekend party and come along.

“It was nice,” Åsa admitted, but then swore as one of her sky-high heels stuck between two cobblestones. She'd had more to drink than Natalia and was a little wobbly. A curl of blond hair was dangling in front of one eye, and the thin shawl she wore over her shoulders shimmered under the streetlights. She looked like a movie star.

Natalia couldn't stop smiling. The June night was warm and magical. The streets were filled with people, and she felt young and strong, as if the last few years of worry and grief had randomly decided to go off and burden someone else.

“I haven't had such a nice time in ages,” she said.

“Not since Jonas,” Åsa said, surprising Natalia with her astuteness, because they never talked about the past. Åsa was allergic to pity parties and sadness, so just a few weeks after Natalia's breakup with Jonas, she was already sending clear signals that it was time for Natalia to move on.

Åsa's inclination was always to move on and never look back, but Natalia had taken the breakup hard. And Åsa's limited sympathy had hurt her more than she dared admit. But maybe the tide was finally starting to turn.

“Let's go in here,” said Natalia. She pointed at a subdued and very, very expensive bar and its long line and encouraged Åsa: “Get up there and get us in.”

Åsa, who personally knew everyone who was anyone in Stockholm nightlife, caught the bouncer's attention. He nodded in recognition, asked the line to step aside, and then they were in.

“You're my idol,” Natalia chuckled.

“I'm everyone's idol,” Åsa said, clearing the way over to the bar for them. She ordered for them both. “Two vodka tonics, please.”

The club was crowded and warm, and the din forced them to stand over by the bar so they could talk.

“I don't know a single person in here,” Åsa said.

“Is that good or bad?” Natalia sipped her drink. It was strong and cold, and she was thirsty. She looked around. Well-dressed men and skinny women with long hair laughed, toasted, and flirted.

Lord, when did everyone get to be so young? She tried to remember the last time she'd been out to drink for any reason other than work, but couldn't.

“You know as well as I do that all the civilized people have already started packing for their vacations in SkÃ¥ne.”

“I know,” Natalia groaned. The Swedish summer schedule followed a rigidly prescribed pattern. The Royal Swedish Yacht Club's Gotland regatta was this weekend, then all the political speeches during Almedalen week next week, and then the week after that BÃ¥stad for a week. Mingle, tennis, sun, and swimming. Year in and year out.

“I'm eternally grateful that you came. And it was something, you have to admit. Better than the same old people you're always hanging around with.” She sipped her drink again. “This is good,” she said appreciatively.

Åsa shook her head and ordered another drink with a quick hand gesture. She'd finished her first drink in only a couple of minutes. “When are you going to listen to reason and stop rebelling? Okay, I get that you don't want to hang out with your parents, but seriously, Natalia, you can't work all summer. Isn't that how people get burned out?”

“No,” Natalia said. “And I'm not rebelling,” she lied.

Åsa was right on the mark. She was actually acting like an overgrown teenager, rebelling against everything her parents were used to expecting from her. But she hated the conformity of the Swedish summers she'd grown up with and hated that everyone, absolutely everyone, seemed to think that was the only way to do it. Vacation in the right spot with the right people at the right time. Torekov, Båstad, and Falsterbo in the summer. The Alps in the winter. That's what she'd always done for as long as she could remember.

Wherever they went, they always saw the same people. She'd gone along with it her whole life without even thinking about it. Jonas had done the same. All their acquaintances and
their
parents had done it. But this year—her first summer on her own—Natalia refused. Thank you very much. It had only taken her half her life to dare to go against the current.

“Although I
am
going to BÃ¥stad,” she pointed out, taking another sip of her drink. “J-O ordered me to. But I'll mostly be mingling with Danes, so it will be work.” She glanced at Åsa. “Are you even listening to me?”

Åsa didn't respond. She was definitely looking for someone or something, and Natalia glanced around for a seat. For a person who loathed any form of physical exertion, Åsa was surprisingly able to stand upright in stiletto heels drinking alcohol for hours on end. But Natalia wasn't used to it.

“My feet hurt,” she complained.

“Hmm,” Åsa said. She nodded toward a table with a facial expression that Natalia couldn't interpret. “Some people have tables,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe you'd like to sit there?”

Natalia looked to see what Åsa was staring at, and when the crowd parted for a moment she saw a table in the corner, with a white tablecloth and shiny glasses: like an oasis amid the noise. The table was surrounded by beautiful young women flipping their hair and batting their eyelashes at the two men who were seated at it. One of them, an enormous man with a shaved, tan head, gold jewelry, and a shiny silk shirt, as if straight out of a gangster movie, was staring at Åsa, who was now openly staring back. Neither of them looked away, and Natalia had the strange sense that some kind of wordless communication was taking place between them in the midst of the crowded bar. The other man at the table—attractive, dark-haired, and exactly the same height with the same broad shoulders, oozing self-confidence—was David Hammar.

 

David met Natalia's astonished eyes. She nodded, and he nodded back, and it was as if neither of them could look away, their eyes locked. He might have had some idea that Natalia would show up here. If he were being one hundred percent honest, then maybe—
maybe
—he had even been mulling over that very possibility. Stockholm's nightlife for the very rich was fairly limited. The golden triangle that comprised the capital city's financial district during the day was the same small arena for nightlife. There weren't that many exclusive bars, and if a woman like Natalia De la Grip were going to go out after a concert at Café Opera, this was where she would end up.

She was dressed in gold. Her glossy hair was up, and the nape of her neck bare and slender and without jewelry. She stood up straight, poised like a ballerina, and there was something about the lighting in the crowded bar that made her shine.

It took a minute before David noticed the other woman standing next to Natalia, eyeing Michel through narrowed, suspicious eyes. He should have seen her right away, strange that he hadn't. She was in a class all her own, the most beautiful woman in the room, voluptuous and almost surreally sensual.

“Åsa Bjelke,” he said, knowing exactly who she was. One of Investum's attorneys and a close friend of Natalia De la Grip. The fact was that David knew almost more about Åsa than Natalia. The press loved to wallow in the details of Åsa's dramatic background, and she was referred to as the Poor Little Rich Girl in the worst of the tabloids. Born with both a silver and a gold spoon in her mouth, she'd gone to all the right schools, was often mentioned as a potential bride for the prince—in the papers anyway, not in real life as far as he knew. And then: the tragedy that had dominated so many of the headlines for weeks.

“She seems to know who you are,” David said, looking at Michel, who sat stiff and motionless, and added dryly, “and vice versa. Do you know each other?”

“Yes,” Michel said.

“You never mentioned that.”

But Stockholm was such a small world, of course Åsa and Michel knew each other. They were both lawyers. David had spotted a stressed-looking Peter De la Grip just yesterday afternoon at Östermalmshall. Peter had walked right by him, his hands full of shopping bags. David could have reached his hand out and touched him.

“There's nothing to say,” Michel said, still just as tersely. “We studied together. A few courses. Law school. I can't really say that I
know
her. But we . . .” He paused, took a drink of his mineral water and made a show of
not
looking in Åsa's direction.

David studied the two women. He looked at Michel and then at Åsa again. He had an almost dead-on ability to read people's moods, which was a major asset in his line of work. He didn't even bat an eye now. There was something Michel wasn't telling him. Michel sat there with his water, suddenly more like a sulky teenager than a world-class financial attorney.

David looked at the women again. Or, to be honest, he mostly looked at Natalia.

“I suppose we could go over to them,” he surprised himself by saying. He stood up before he had time to reconsider what he already knew was a bad decision and before Michel could oppose it. He could walk over to a woman he was acquainted with without it meaning anything more, he told himself. He could walk over to her and say hello and be polite for two seconds, even though she was a De la Grip. Michel reluctantly rose with him.

“Is that really a good idea?” asked Michel. He ran a hand over his shaved head.

“All ideas are good,” said David. He had decided. Because this was about politeness, nothing else. “Come on.”

Michel muttered something behind him, and David saw Åsa's face take on a wary expression as they approached.

“Hi,” said David as they stepped over to the bar. Natalia blinked with her long eyelashes. She moved forward ever so slightly, and for a fleeting second, David was close to leaning forward and kissing her on the cheek. But she just held out her hand, so he took it and shook it instead.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he repeated, holding her hand a moment longer than he needed to. He smelled that scent of something old-fashioned and spicy, a timeless, sensual scent, which he already recognized as hers.

Natalia pulled her hand back. David introduced Michel and saw her slender hand enclosed by Michel's ring-encrusted fist.

“This is my friend Åsa Bjelke,” she said. David held out his hand, and a steady, professional handshake reminded him that this silver-clad bombshell with the tipsy eyes was considered to be a very talented corporate attorney.

“We just came from the performance at Café Opera,” Natalia said. “Thank you again for the tickets.” She was smiling, and something about her eyes made her seem a little inebriated as well. But she looked happy, not drunk, just a little less controlled, a little freer.

The bar was crowded and noisy; someone pushed their way up to the bar and the inevitable happened: they brushed against each other. That scent wafted over to him again; he was captivated by her golden eyes, and even though he had just meant to say hello, he didn't want to go yet. Natalia was taller than he remembered. She was so delicate that you assumed she was petite, but in high heels, she was quite tall. She stood straight, without fidgeting with anything, without fussing with her hair or her clothes, and without chattering away. Normally those boarding-school manners annoyed the hell out of David, but he decided to take a little break from his knee-jerk hatred of the upper class. He smiled, and her eyes twinkled at him.

Åsa raised her glass, drank, and glared over the edge of the glass.

“Michel says you knew each other in law school,” David said to her politely.

“Yes, but that must have been over ten years ago,” she replied coolly. She gave Michel a quick, hard look. David wondered if this had to do with that same old, tired racism one found among upper-class Swedes. Michel, with his dark skin and foreign background, had suffered his share of prejudice. Åsa Bjelke twisted her mouth into a wicked, but downright sexy smile. “Is he still the same old bore?”