“I don’t need the job in the financial sense, no. But I love what I do.” Losing another job would no doubt disappoint her father again. What would he think if Louisa didn’t work? If she just managed her trust fund and spent her time organizing charity events? Could she even do that? Her entire life had been focused on this career. It was a major part of her identity. The thought of leaving it behind was disconcerting.

Louisa pointed at her chin. “Do you think I can get this swelling down at all before tonight?”

“Maybe. Keep your head elevated and be diligent with the ice pack.”

“That’ll help?”

“It should. Back in my boxing days, I used to pack my face in ice after every fight. It wasn’t pretty.” He reached for his shirt.

Too bad. “I saw the picture the media released. It looked painful.” Though even battered, he’d been attractive in a virile, primal way. “And they tied in the fight you had with Kirra’s owner with your altercation with Heath. They succeeded in making you seem violent.”

“Which is exactly what Damian said they would do.” He grimaced. “I have to run by Jayne’s house and pick up the laundry I left there. Everything in my apartment was ruined. Are you all right here by yourself?”

“I’m fine.”

“OK then. I’ll bring lunch back with me. Anything special you want?”

Louisa moved her aching jaw. “Something soft.”

“I’ll be quick.” Conor kissed her gently on the uninjured side of her face before leaving.

Louisa put an ice pack on her face for twenty minutes, then grabbed her laptop and brought it back to bed. Turning it on, she propped a pillow against the headboard. Kirra jumped onto the duvet and stretched out next to Louisa.

She skimmed through her e-mails. Twenty messages into her inbox, she spotted a message from her father, the subject line: “Itinerary.” She clicked on it and copied the details of his upcoming holiday visit to her calendar. Nerves rattled in her belly. What was he going to tell her? She glanced at the clock. Nine a.m., three p.m. in Stockholm. It was time for their weekly phone call. Ward Hancock kept a strict routine. Saturday afternoons were spent in his study, working. If she was lucky, and she phoned early, she’d catch him still relatively sober.

She wasn’t the luckiest soul in the world.

She picked up her cell and speed-dialed his number, her stomach knotting as the line rang again and again. Where was he? She left a message and set her phone aside.

“Something’s wrong, Kirra.”

The dog rolled closer and flipped Louisa’s hand with her nose. Louisa settled a hand on the dog’s head. “Something is definitely wrong.”