The Outlaw Prince's Captive Read online

  The Outlaw Prince's Captive

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  The Outlaw Prince's Captive

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  The Prince's Devious Proposal

  Chapter 1

  Want More?

  Also by Holly Rayner

  The Outlaw Prince's Captive

  Copyright 2020 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  “Bellucci!”

  Francesca Bellucci looked up from the paperwork she had been filing. She fully expected her boss, Deputy Assistant Director Brian Voles, to dump a fresh pile of files that needed sorting on her desk. She had joined the High Profile Crimes division of the FBI thinking that she would be working on exciting cases—cases that would change the world.

  Instead, she had spent most of her time so far organizing papers.

  Director Voles stood over her, wearing his usual discontented frown. He dropped a thick Manila folder on her desk.

  Francesca flicked it open.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “A case for you.”

  “Really?” It wasn’t the first case she’d ever had, but they were assigned to her infrequently. Even now, she could see that Special Agent Chuck Stevens was staring at her from his desk with his eyes narrowed.

  Tough luck, Chuck. She knew how much he hated having a woman in his department. He had been with the division for years, much longer than Francesca herself, and yet he still lorded it over her every time he was assigned a case and she was passed over.

  Of course he would have expected to get this one.

  “You’ll be working with Laird,” Voles said. “He’s reviewing the file as we speak. Take a look at it, and then the two of you can get together and discuss.”

  Francesca nodded, her heart soaring. She tried not to let her joy at being entrusted with a case show on her face. She couldn’t let Voles think this was any big deal. She had to act as if putting her on this assignment was no more than she would have expected.

  It was hell sometimes, being the only woman in the department. Francesca knew that whenever the men around her looked at her, her gender was the first thing they saw. Even the good guys, like Matt Laird, the guys who never treated her as if she was incapable, still acted differently around her than they did with their male coworkers.

  Maybe working together on this case will be a good chance to bond with Laird. He started in the division only a few months before I did. Maybe he’ll get the idea that he doesn’t need to think of me as a woman—that I’m just another Special Agent, like he is.

  The best way to make that point, she knew, would be to do her research and bring some good insights to the table when she and Laird met up. She began flipping through the pages in the file to see what sort of case she had been given.

  The case was a hit-and-run. Francesca felt the muscles in her chest tense up at the thought, and she forced herself to relax. Cases like this were a part of the job. Violent death couldn’t be avoided. And yet, it was always painful to see it, to confront the pointless loss of life.

  The incident had occurred in downtown Manhattan. She scanned the details of the file. A black sports car, driving at night, had struck a pedestrian. The driver had hesitated and then pulled around the prone body in the road and driven off.

  Who would do something like that?

  Francesca turned to the suspect profile that had been included in her folder, and her eyes went wide.

  Viggo Lindström.

  She knew of Viggo Lindström. She followed him on social media. His Friska stores were everywhere in New York, and Francesca loved shopping there for healthy snacks. He was technically a member of the royal family of some small European country, she knew, although he didn’t actually sit on the throne or hold any authority.

  Could Lindström really be responsible for this?

  Francesca didn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he was related to royalty and that he owned health food stores. But she had always assumed he must be a decent guy. Who else would go into the business of health food but a nice person?

  She turned to her computer and pulled up her social media account, then typed in his name.

  Lindström’s account had been deleted.

  Already?

  That didn’t look too good. Why would he delete his account unless something was wrong, unless he had something to hide?

  She checked the archive that the social media service kept of people’s accounts. Everything Lindström had ever posted was gone. He hadn’t merely deactivated his account—he had gone to the extra step of erasing every trace of his existence. Why?

  Maybe he had simply made his account private. She tried searching for his name on the directory, but to no avail. His previous online presence had been wiped clean. It was as if he had never existed.

  And that was highly suspicious behavior, in Francesca’s opinion. Lindström was a public figure, after all.

  She did a quick search for his name, and sure enough, dozens of articles popped up. Dozens of pictures. He couldn’t erase himself from the internet. Why would he even try?

  Maybe he posted something on social media that he didn’t want anyone to see, and then he panicked about it.

  That was possible. She made a note in her file to come back to this. She would check all the other social media sites, too, and see if he had a presence there. Maybe that would help her find the answer.

  She gathered the materials back into the folder and got to her feet. As she crossed to a conference room, she caught Laird’s eye, and he nodded confirmation that he had seen her signal. He would join her momentarily, she knew, but getting to the conference room first meant that she would be able to plug her computer into the projector screen. It meant that she would be able to take the lead as they reviewed the material of the case.

  What must it be like, she wondered, to be a man and never have to worry about these things?

  Matt Laird came wandering into the room, and Francesca watched as he stopped along the way to laugh and chat with several of their colleagues. She liked Laird, always had, but there could be no denying that life in the department was easier for him.

  He doesn’t have to prove himself over and over, every single day. No one out there is questioning whether or not he belongs here in the High Profile division.

  But maybe once this case was over, no one would question her anymore either. Most of the high profile crimes they dealt with involved celebrities and politicians. Francesca had never seen anyone take on a case that dealt with royalty before now.

  I wonder why I got it?
>
  Voles must have seen something in her over the past few weeks. She had been putting in extra hours, hoping to make a good impression. Maybe her hard work had finally paid off.

  Laird came into the room and sat down opposite her. “Hey, Frannie. What’ve we got?”

  He was the only one in the department who could get away with calling her by that nickname, and that was only because he took care not to use it in front of the others. She pushed the folder toward him.

  He opened it and took a look. “Hit-and-run, huh?”

  “Right. And that’s not all, Matt. Look at the suspect.”

  He found the relevant piece of paper and pulled it out. She watched as his eyes grew wide. “Seriously? Viggo Lindström? He’s like…the Prince of Sweden, isn’t he?”

  “Close,” she said. “Prince of some small island nation off the coast of Sweden.”

  He scanned the page. “Here it is,” he said. “Konäs. Know anything about it?”

  “No details,” she said. “But it should be easy enough to find out. We can research the place online.”

  Laird nodded. “We should probably watch the CCTV video first, though.”

  She looked up at him. “We have that?”

  “Didn’t Voles mention that to you?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thumb drive. “There was a CCTV recording taken at the site where the hit-and-run occurred, so we have video evidence to review.”

  Francesca resisted the urge to roll her eyes. How very like her boss to hand the most important evidence to Laird and not even tell Francesca of its existence.

  Laird seemed to know she was upset. “Sorry,” he said. “I think he just, you know…”

  “You don’t have to make excuses for him,” Francesca said. “We both know he thinks you’re more competent than me.”

  “Well, here’s your chance to prove him wrong,” Laird said. He slid the thumb drive across the table to her. “If you and I kick ass on this case—”

  “Then he’ll just assume you did all the heavy lifting.”

  “No, he won’t,” Laird said. “You’re better than I am in the field, Frannie, and you and I both know it. You’ve got great instincts, and all I’ve got is training. If we do well here, it’s going to be because of you, and I’m not going to take credit for your success.”

  She smiled at him. “Thanks, Matt.”

  “Don’t get mushy on me,” he said. “Put on that video, and let’s get a look at what we’re dealing with here.”

  Francesca plugged the thumb drive into the computer and pulled up the video file.

  They both watched as a black sports car rounded the corner. “That’s the car,” Francesca said, pointing at the screen. “It matches the description on file.”

  “Good shot of the plates,” Matt noted. “So we know it’s definitely Lindström’s vehicle.”

  “He’s not driving that fast,” Francesca observed.

  “Yeah, but it’s night,” Matt said. “And look, he’s weaving in the lane. I think he might be drunk.”

  Francesca frowned. Driving while intoxicated would definitely explain why someone would drive away after hitting a pedestrian. The ramifications for causing an accident like that while drunk would be worse than if the driver had been sober.

  She forced herself not to turn away as the pedestrian stepped into the street. The car still had plenty of time to stop, she observed, but it didn’t even slow down. If anything, it was accelerating.

  There was no sound, but she could clearly imagine the noise the impact would have made. She bit her lip and fought to keep her face from showing any emotion. She didn’t want Laird to see that this was affecting her, or he might suggest that he be the one to watch and then tell her what he had seen.

  He’d be trying to do me a favor—but I don’t need that kind of help.

  The car came to a stop, and the driver rolled down the window and looked out. Francesca could see the streetlight shining off a shock of white-blond hair. She also made note of the sharp angle of the driver’s jawbone. She would compare it later to photos of Lindström.

  He pulled his head back in through the car window, rolled it up, and drove away.

  Laird let out a low whistle as the video came to an end. “I know the guy’s royalty,” he said, “but does he really think he’s above the law?”

  “Maybe,” Francesca said. “But that might not be why he left the scene.”

  “What other reason could there be?”

  “Well, he might have been afraid,” Francesca said. “He knew he was guilty of involuntary manslaughter, and he knew the repercussions for that would be severe. Maybe he panicked and drove off because he was too afraid to face it.”

  Laird shook his head. “You always want to think the best of people, don’t you, Frannie?”

  “Sometimes I do,” she said. “But that’s not what this is. I just think it’s important to consider all the possibilities. We can’t assume that he’s just an entitled prince who ran away because he doesn’t think he has to answer for his crimes.”

  “What difference does it make?” Laird asked. “It’s not our job to assign motive anyway.”

  “But if we can figure out what he was thinking, we might be able to figure out what he did next,” Francesca said. “And that might lead us to figuring out where he is. The file says he wasn’t at his Manhattan residence when the police went to question him.”

  “Fair enough,” Laird said. “Let’s start with a little research. We can do facial matching and a search of his name and see if we can pinpoint any locations he might have been to since the time of the accident.”

  “How about you take the visual search,” Francesca said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Laird began typing on his computer.

  Francesca knew he was looking for decent photos of Lindström so he could then search the online camera network for a match.

  She decided to begin her own search in the easiest possible place—by looking for hits on his credit cards. It was likely that he would have been too smart to use them, of course, if he was on the run from the law. But if her theory was correct, if he had simply panicked after the accident, it was possible that he wouldn’t have thought things through that far.

  And Francesca got lucky. Because on the very first search, she found a match. An expenditure on one of his credit cards.

  A plane ticket.

  “Matt,” she said. “I got a hit. Come and look at this.”

  He came around the table and leaned over her shoulder. “A plane ticket. Did Lindström buy that?”

  She nodded. “Look at the date.”

  “This was purchased the morning after the accident.”

  “He probably hadn’t even been to sleep,” she said. “He practically went straight from the scene of the crime to the airport.”

  “I can’t believe he was stupid enough to use his credit card,” Laird marveled.

  “Unusual for sure. But it makes sense if you think of it as a response to blind panic,” Francesca said. “I’m sure he wasn’t thinking clearly. He was probably still just trying to get away from what he had done, just like he was on the street after he hit that pedestrian.”

  Laird clapped her on the shoulder. “What did I tell you?” he asked. “You’ve got a real instinct for this stuff, Frannie. I never would have thought of it that way, but you’re already right inside his head.”

  “I guess I am,” Francesca said. Laird was a good partner to have. He could be a little goofy sometimes, but he definitely respected her.

  “So,” he said, returning to his seat, “where did our suspect take off to, anyway? If he crossed state lines, we should put the local PD on alert for him.”

  Francesca consulted the airplane ticket. “Uh-oh,” she muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s not just out of the state,” she said. “He flew to Konäs. He’s left the country.”

  Chapter 2

  Laird stared at her for several moments.


  “He fled the country?” he said at last. “He went home?”

  “We should have expected it,” Francesca said. “He’s royalty. Of course he would think he could get away with something like this by just going back home.”

  “This is an international incident now,” Laird said. “Lindström is going to have to be hunted down by the Konäs authorities and sent back to us.”

  Francesca shook her head. “We wish,” she said. “But he’s their prince, Matt. I don’t think they’re going to turn him over to us. At best, they’ll want to deal with him locally. More likely, they’ll just let him walk.”

  “Can they do that?” Laird asked. “We’re talking about manslaughter here.”

  “Well, manslaughter in the U.S.,” Francesca said. “It’s doubtful Konäs law enforcement officials are in the business of punishing their citizens for breaking U.S. laws. And Lindström isn’t your average citizen either.”

  “Oh, God,” Laird murmured.

  “But you’re right about it being an international incident,” Francesca said. “The department’s going to have to send someone over there to track him down. We have to tell Voles what we know.”

  “It’s not going to look great that we’re coming back to him a half an hour after being put on the case,” Laird pointed out. “It’s going to look like we can’t handle it.”

  Francesca sighed. She didn’t relish the idea of handing her very first big case right back over to Voles either. “What else can we do? Go to Konäs and hunt Lindström down ourselves?”

  “Why not?” Laird asked.