The Outlaw Prince's Captive - Holly Rayner Page 0,25

to relax.

Even as anxiety pricked at her, she could feel her exhaustion sweeping over her like a wave. She wouldn’t be able to stay awake for long.

She got out of bed and went to the door, checking for a lock. There was none, so she went to the dresser that stood on the wall adjacent to the door. She slowly pushed it over so that its end butted up against the door.

There. Now he won’t be able to come in.

She didn’t know if she was being paranoid or sensible, but when she got back into bed, she found that it was considerably easier to relax. She closed her eyes, allowing sleep to overtake her.

Chapter 9

When Francesca next opened her eyes, sunlight was shining in through the vast window at the far end of her room.

It was so bright. Impossibly bright. This wasn’t an eastward-facing window. She frowned, her inquisitive side taking over, and got up to investigate.

She looked out the window—and gasped.

The world below had disappeared. It had been blanketed in white. The trees seemed incredibly short. Maybe that was simply because she was so high above the ground, but Francesca thought there was more to it than that. The snow had created a false impression of where the ground really lay.

How deep is it? she wondered, feeling uneasy. Would her car be buried? How long would it take to melt?

How long was she going to be stuck here?

She quickly got dressed. There was a full-length mirror in one corner, and she examined herself, combing her hair with her fingers into some semblance of order, straightening her wrinkled clothes with her hands. When she was satisfied that she had made herself look as good as she possibly could without a change of clothes or any toiletries, she pulled the dresser away from the door and opened it.

The landing was dark. There were no windows here, and for a moment, Francesca felt spooked. It was easy to forget that she wasn’t alone in this giant house.

At least the architecture is new. That was helpful. Something about the clean lines of the place, the way the floors didn’t creak underfoot, made it impossible to feel too frightened.

She crossed to the stairwell door and opened it. As she started down the stairs, she was struck with the pleasantly familiar smells of breakfast being prepared.

Coffee—a mellow roast, so unlike the cheap stuff she usually ended up burning in her pot at home. She could almost taste it already.

And bacon. She heard it sizzling and snapping in the pan, like a siren calling her down to breakfast. She found herself moving more quickly, responding to the call.

Only when she had reached the kitchen did it occur to her that Lindström might not have intended the breakfast to be shared. He stood in front of the stove, the handle of a skillet in one hand, a spatula in the other. As Francesca watched, he picked up a handful of what looked like spinach leaves and dropped them into the pan.

She lingered in the doorway, feeling awkward. She was here to arrest this man, not to have breakfast made for her. What had she been thinking, rushing down here like some sort of guest in his house?

He turned toward the fridge and saw her standing there. “Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Francesca managed.

He gestured toward the counter. “Come and pick the things you want in your omelet.”

“My omelet?”

“I’m making omelets,” he said, as if he were explaining to her that the sky was up.

“You don’t have to make me breakfast,” Francesca protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lindström said.

His accent fascinated her. He pronounced every syllable so clearly and flatly that it was almost as if he had no accent at all. She felt as if she was listening to a lack of her own American accent more than a new and different one, as though it were she who was pronouncing the words with flair.

He was still watching her. “We have cheese, vegetables, and meats,” he said, pointing to the counter behind him, and Francesca saw that an array of items had been laid out. “Take whatever you want and put it into that bowl there.”

At a loss, she did so, adding shredded cheese, onion, bell pepper, and bacon bits to the bowl he had indicated. She stepped back when she had finished and watched as Lindström transferred his own omelet onto a plate and poured a new egg into the pan to begin cooking hers.

“You really didn’t need