All This I Will Give to You Read Online Dolores Redondo

Categories Genre: Romance, Suspense, Thriller Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 196074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 980(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)

The award-winning, international bestselling page-burner about the secrets and lies of one man that lead another into a treacherous house of strangers…

When novelist Manuel Ortigosa learns that his husband, Álvaro, has been killed in a car crash, it comes as a devastating shock. It won’t be the last. He’s now arrived in Galicia. It’s where Álvaro died. It’s where the case has already been quickly closed as a tragic accident. It’s also where Álvaro hid his secrets.
The man to whom Manuel was married for fifteen years was not the unassuming man he knew.
Álvaro’s trail leads Manuel deep into one of Spain’s most powerful and guarded families. Behind the walls of their forbidding estate, Manuel is nothing but an unwelcome and dangerous intruder. Then he finds two allies: a stubbornly suspicious police lieutenant and Álvaro’s old friend—and private confessor—from seminary school. Together they’re collecting the pieces of Álvaro’s past, his double life, and his mysterious death.
But in the shadows of nobility and privilege, Manuel is about to unravel a web of corruption and deception that could be as fatal a trap for him as it was for the man he loved.



The knock at the door was loud and peremptory. Eight decisive blows, one after another, warning that someone expected to be admitted immediately. The sort of insistence you’d never hear from an invited guest, a worker, or a delivery driver. He would remember it later with the bleak reflection, typical behavior of police demanding to be let in.

He stared for a couple of seconds at the cursor blinking at the end of the last sentence. This had been a good morning for work, the best of the last three weeks. Though he hated to admit it to himself, he especially enjoyed writing when he was alone at home with nothing else to do, free of the usual interruptions, so he could go with the flow. That’s what happened when he got to this point in a novel. He was expecting to finish The Sun of Tebas in a couple of weeks. Maybe earlier if all went well. And until then the story would take over and obsess him every minute of the day. He’d have no time for anything else. Each of his novels had brought him to this intense pitch and this sensation, at once intimate and destructive. He loved it and feared it. He knew it made him hard to live with.

He glanced toward the hall that led to the apartment’s front door. The blinking cursor seemed about to burst with the pressure of all the words still behind it. In the moment of deceptive stillness he began to hope the untimely visitor had given up. But no; he sensed the silent presence out there of the intruder’s demanding energy. Determined to finish one more sentence, he put his fingers to the keyboard. The insistent pounding resumed and echoed in the narrow hallway. He tried to ignore it but had to give up.

Irritated less by the interruption than by the arrogant insistence, he got up and muttered a curse at the guard at the front gate. He’d told the man more than once to make sure he wasn’t interrupted at work. He angrily yanked the door open.

A man and a woman in police uniforms took a step back when he glared out at them.

“Good morning,” the male officer said, glancing at a little card barely visible in his big hand. “Is this the residence of Álvaro Muñiz de Dávila?”

“It is,” answered Manuel, surprise overcoming his exasperation.

“Are you a family member?”

“I’m his husband.”

The policeman glanced at his companion. Manuel saw his expression, but by this point his natural paranoia had already kicked in. He didn’t care whether they were surprised.

“Has something happened?”

“I’m Corporal Castro, and this is Sergeant Acosta. May we come in? It would be better if we spoke inside.”

This was a scenario familiar to any writer: Two uniformed police officers wanted to come inside for a private talk. They must have bad news.

Manuel stepped aside. In the cramped hallway the two troopers looked immense in their green uniforms and military boots. Their soles squeaked against the varnish of the dark parquet floor like those of drunken sailors balancing on the deck of a tiny boat. He led them to the living room where he’d been working. He started to escort them to the sitting area but stopped so suddenly they almost bumped into him. He stubbornly repeated himself. “Has something happened?”

It was no longer a question. Between the front door and the living room the inquiry had vanished and now it was almost a prayer, an echo of the voice in his mind pleading, Please, no; please, no; please, no. He prayed, even though he knew all pleading was useless. Prayer hadn’t stopped cancer from devouring his sister in nine short months. Feverish and exhausted, she’d still been determined to buck him up, console him, and take care of him; she’d joked even as death became visible in her face as she lay back against a pillow, as if already in her coffin. “Looks like I’ll take just about as long to leave the world as I did to get here.” In the humiliation of his weakness he kept praying to some inept superior power as he trudged like a humble servant to the doctor’s cramped, overheated office to be informed his sister wouldn’t survive the night.