The Outlaw Prince's Captive - Holly Rayner Page 0,11

much space, her heart sank. It wasn’t going to keep her very warm.

“We’re going to have to do some shopping,” Laird said.

“We can ask Voles for an advance on our per diem money,” Francesca suggested.

“The hell with that,” Laird said. “I’m going to ask him for an emergency account to deal with this.” He laughed. “Are you still planning on going to check out Lindström’s house?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I’ll drop you at the hotel first, as promised.”

The hotel was surprisingly average-looking. It was the kind of building that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Midwestern United States.

“Want me to take your bag up for you?” Laird asked as he got out of the car. He was already shivering.

“Leave it,” Francesca said. “You have enough to deal with just carrying yours. I’ll bring it up when I come back.”

She thought he might protest, but he just nodded. Francesca popped the trunk open and Laird went around, grabbed his bag, and slammed it shut.

First, Francesca switched to her international SIM card so her phone could get service. Then she checked the address again and punched it into the GPS on her phone. Lindström’s house was only a fifteen-minute drive from their hotel. That wasn’t even enough time to get properly nervous.

She had promised Laird that she would be safe. This was supposed to be just a reconnaissance mission. But as she drove, she couldn’t help thinking what it would be like to return to the hotel with Lindström in custody. What if she and Laird could get right back on that plane and fly home tonight? Francesca would be the hero of the mission.

And no one would ever be able to question my skills again.

By the time she pulled across the street from the house, she had herself convinced—there would be no harm in knocking on the door.

After all, it’s not as if he’ll know who I am.

She got out of the car, surprised to find that she wasn’t shivering as violently now as she had been at the airport.

It must be the adrenaline. Francesca always appreciated a good adrenaline rush. It could give an agent the strength to fight through something that would otherwise have been physically beyond her—even if that thing was only cold weather.

Lindström’s house—at least, the house that had been listed in her file as belonging to him—was framed with gray stone. Beneath a high, peaked roof, the side that faced the street was comprised of panels of polished wood and floor-to-ceiling windows. Francesca couldn’t help admiring it.

She glanced in the windows. The room beyond was empty, unlit.

She stepped to the door, heart pounding. Maybe this will all be over right now. Maybe he’ll answer the door, I’ll arrest him, and that will be that.

Practically trembling with anticipation, she lifted the brass knocker on the heavy-looking oak door and let it fall.

She waited, doing her best to steady her breathing, surprised by her own nervousness. This might be her first time on a major case, but it wasn’t as if she had never been in the field before. It wasn’t as if she had never gone knocking on a suspect’s door.

But before, I always had backup.

Suddenly, she found herself wishing she had waited to do this with Laird.

Several seconds slipped by, and nobody came to the door. Francesca knocked again, this time rapping the knocker several times.

Again, there was no answer.

Her irritation mounted, pushing her anxiety out of the way. She stepped off the front porch and over to the window, peering inside.

There was still nothing to be seen.

And yet it was clear that someone did live here. The remnants of a meal lay spread on the dining room table—apparently Lindström wasn’t much for cleaning up after himself. There was a wide-screen television in the living room, and though the screen was dark, the remote control sat on the couch as if it had been tossed carelessly aside by someone.

She angled her head slightly. By doing so, she was able to make out several pairs of shoes on a mat by the door. They were men’s shoes, all of them.

Whoever lived here was an adult male, single, childless. Whoever lived here had enough money to buy a classy TV and nice furniture, not to mention this fancy house itself.

So—it could be Lindström.

Francesca wanted more. She wanted proof.

For a moment, she considered finding his garbage and going through it, looking for a piece of mail that might have his name on it. But that would be