The Outlaw Prince's Captive - Holly Rayner Page 0,34

car wasn’t even at my house the next morning,” Viggo said. “I never saw it after that night. I had to take a taxi to the airport.” He paused. “Doesn’t that suggest that I didn’t drive home? It seems like my car was stolen.”

Francesca shook her head. “We found your car,” she said. “It was abandoned in a lot a few blocks from the site of the accident. Whoever was driving must have realized that they weren’t fit to be behind the wheel, so they ditched the car and took off on foot. That could have been you or somebody else.”

“There’s no video of the car actually being parked?” Viggo said. “No recordings of who got out of it, or of what they did next?”

“None,” Francesca said. “We’ve put out a request to all the local taxi companies to ask their drivers whether they picked someone up from that location that night, or whether they remember seeing someone who looks like you.”

“And?”

“Nothing,” Francesca said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. You might have taken the subway.”

Viggo shook his head. “I’ve never taken the subway in my life,” he said, his voice blank of emotion. “I don’t even know how to take the subway.”

“You live in New York and you don’t know how to take the subway?” Francesca asked, aghast. “Why not? Is it beneath you?”

“No,” he said, frowning. “But it is a good way to get spotted by reporters. Do you know how many people get their picture taken on the subway? And I mean, just normal people. Not even high-profile CEOs or royalty. I’m surprised anybody does it.”

“We can’t all afford our own cars and parking spaces in Manhattan,” Francesca said, although she understood his point. “Whoever parked the car could also have just decided to walk home. How far is your home from the club you were at that night?”

“About twenty blocks,” he said.

“A bit of a hike, but not an impossible one by any stretch,” she said. “Especially given the fact that you were drunk and your decision-making was impaired.”

She looked at Viggo. He was pale, almost as pale as his ice-blond hair.

“Agent Bellucci,” he said.

She felt another stab of empathy for him. “You can call me Francesca,” she decided. “This isn’t an interrogation. We’re just talking here.”

He nodded but didn’t seem comforted. “Francesca…I don’t think I would do something like that. When I think about it, it repulses me. I know that all the evidence is pointing that way. I can see that.” He leaned forward and fisted his hands in his hair. “But how could I have done such a thing?”

Francesca had no answer to give him.

Chapter 12

Francesca looked at her phone. Eleven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until she would be required to call Laird and check in for the evening.

The rest of the day, following Viggo’s confessions, had surprised her with how peaceful it had managed to be. Francesca would have expected awkwardness. Instead, Viggo had put the alcohol away and gone into the kitchen. A moment later, he had called to Francesca to join him.

Much to her shock, she had found him taking down a series of ingredients, a mixing bowl, a cupcake pan.

“Have you ever had beet cupcakes?” he asked her.

“Did you say beet cupcakes?”

“I sell them at my stores,” he explained. “Much healthier than traditional cupcakes, and with quite an interesting flavor, too. I sell carrot cake cupcakes as well, but I imagine you’ve had those before.”

“I’ve had carrot cake,” she said. “Not in cupcake form.”

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll enjoy these.” He handed her the mixing bowl, already full of dry ingredients. “Stir that together, please.”

It seemed clear to her, now that she thought about it, that he had been trying to turn their conversation away from the hit-and-run, that it pained him to dwell on it.

I would feel tormented too, she thought now, shedding her clothes and pulling on a pair of soft flannel pajamas, if I didn’t know whether or not I was guilty of such a terrible crime.

What must it be like to know that you might be responsible for taking someone else’s life? It was true that the pedestrian had been struck by accident—but Viggo had also been drunk that night. Drinking and driving was unforgivable. If he had done it, and if someone had died as a result, it was absolutely his fault.

Francesca didn’t know what to think.

And she also didn’t know what to think of her own behavior. The things she had told him!