in
Stockholm, dating back to the 14 th century, and then
found her way to Mårten Trotzig’s Gränd , the narrowest alley
in all of Gamla Stan. It was only ninety centimeter wide at its
narrowest—less than three feet—and she figured if someone was
following her by car, at least they’d be stuck. Someone big, like
Nick’s friend, might have a hard time squeezing through, as well.
His gun might get in the way.
That done, she hopped the nearest subway and
headed for the bus station. It wasn’t until she was on the bus,
with the doors closed for the almost two hour drive to Nynäshamn,
that she allowed herself to take a deep breath. She’d been the last
one onboard, and no one would have been able to follow by car
through the narrow, winding streets of Gamla Stan, let alone go
down to the subway with her. She was safe. For now.
She could have headed back to the airport
and used her return ticked to the States, she supposed. Without her
father’s ashes, there was no real purpose to her trip. But she’d
taken the time off from work, her colleagues didn’t expect her back
for a week, and she would probably never be in Sweden again; she
might as well enjoy her time here. And by now she was curious. Her
father had never talked about growing up on Gotland. He hadn’t
spoken Swedish, hadn’t communicated with anyone from home for as
long as she’d known him. This was a chance to learn a little more
about who he’d been—about who she was—and it would be stupid to let
it pass.
Yet she didn’t want to do the expected. Nick
knew she had a connecting ticket to Gotland. He’d helped her change
it so she could stay in Stockholm a few days. He’d helped her find
the Lady Hamilton Hotel, too.
And he had friends who carried guns. Maybe
she hadn’t been as far off as she’d imagined with that James Bond
fantasy. After all, a guy like Nick needed a reason to ask a girl
like her to dinner, and she knew it wasn’t because he’d been bowled
over by her beauty.
She looked OK today. Different. Today, a
handsome stranger might actually be intrigued enough to ask her on
a date. But not yesterday. Not in her librarian-clothes with her
scabby knees. No, there had to have been something else. Maybe his
job had been to keep her out of her room so whoever had gone in and
searched it knew he wouldn’t be interrupted.
That made a lot of sense.
But what were they looking for?
Not her father’s ashes, obviously. They
already had those—along with her eReader. And she didn’t have
anything else that would interest anyone. She was a librarian from
Brooklyn, not some sort of Mata Hari.
So maybe they’d mistaken her for someone
else?
Although that wouldn’t explain why someone
had searched her room. Once Nick had rescued her from the baggage
carousel, they’d known who she was. And they’d done it anyway.
Unless someone else had done it.
Unless she was paranoid and had imagined the
whole thing.
Shaking her head, she resolved to put the
whole thing behind her. She was on her way. Another hour and a
half, and she’d be on the ferry. Three hours after that she’d be in
Visby. The rest of it didn’t matter. She was going to her father’s
childhood home. Focus on that, Annika . Forget Stockholm. And
forget Nick. He was never real to begin with.
And somehow, that was a lot more
disappointing than it should be.
But on the ferry she met Curt, and suddenly things started looking
up.
He’d been on the bus too, and after she’d
resolved to stop thinking about Nick, she’d noticed him. He’d sat
across the aisle from her, with his nose buried in a book, which
immediately made him endearing. And although he didn’t have Nick’s
knock’em-dead sex appeal and sophisticated James Bond good looks,
he wasn’t a bad-looking guy in his own right. Tall and lanky,
dressed in corduroys and a button-down shirt, and he was traveling
light, with just a backpack. Although not as light as she was, with
her shopping bag.
He smiled at
Stockholm, dating back to the 14 th century, and then
found her way to Mårten Trotzig’s Gränd , the narrowest alley
in all of Gamla Stan. It was only ninety centimeter wide at its
narrowest—less than three feet—and she figured if someone was
following her by car, at least they’d be stuck. Someone big, like
Nick’s friend, might have a hard time squeezing through, as well.
His gun might get in the way.
That done, she hopped the nearest subway and
headed for the bus station. It wasn’t until she was on the bus,
with the doors closed for the almost two hour drive to Nynäshamn,
that she allowed herself to take a deep breath. She’d been the last
one onboard, and no one would have been able to follow by car
through the narrow, winding streets of Gamla Stan, let alone go
down to the subway with her. She was safe. For now.
She could have headed back to the airport
and used her return ticked to the States, she supposed. Without her
father’s ashes, there was no real purpose to her trip. But she’d
taken the time off from work, her colleagues didn’t expect her back
for a week, and she would probably never be in Sweden again; she
might as well enjoy her time here. And by now she was curious. Her
father had never talked about growing up on Gotland. He hadn’t
spoken Swedish, hadn’t communicated with anyone from home for as
long as she’d known him. This was a chance to learn a little more
about who he’d been—about who she was—and it would be stupid to let
it pass.
Yet she didn’t want to do the expected. Nick
knew she had a connecting ticket to Gotland. He’d helped her change
it so she could stay in Stockholm a few days. He’d helped her find
the Lady Hamilton Hotel, too.
And he had friends who carried guns. Maybe
she hadn’t been as far off as she’d imagined with that James Bond
fantasy. After all, a guy like Nick needed a reason to ask a girl
like her to dinner, and she knew it wasn’t because he’d been bowled
over by her beauty.
She looked OK today. Different. Today, a
handsome stranger might actually be intrigued enough to ask her on
a date. But not yesterday. Not in her librarian-clothes with her
scabby knees. No, there had to have been something else. Maybe his
job had been to keep her out of her room so whoever had gone in and
searched it knew he wouldn’t be interrupted.
That made a lot of sense.
But what were they looking for?
Not her father’s ashes, obviously. They
already had those—along with her eReader. And she didn’t have
anything else that would interest anyone. She was a librarian from
Brooklyn, not some sort of Mata Hari.
So maybe they’d mistaken her for someone
else?
Although that wouldn’t explain why someone
had searched her room. Once Nick had rescued her from the baggage
carousel, they’d known who she was. And they’d done it anyway.
Unless someone else had done it.
Unless she was paranoid and had imagined the
whole thing.
Shaking her head, she resolved to put the
whole thing behind her. She was on her way. Another hour and a
half, and she’d be on the ferry. Three hours after that she’d be in
Visby. The rest of it didn’t matter. She was going to her father’s
childhood home. Focus on that, Annika . Forget Stockholm. And
forget Nick. He was never real to begin with.
And somehow, that was a lot more
disappointing than it should be.
But on the ferry she met Curt, and suddenly things started looking
up.
He’d been on the bus too, and after she’d
resolved to stop thinking about Nick, she’d noticed him. He’d sat
across the aisle from her, with his nose buried in a book, which
immediately made him endearing. And although he didn’t have Nick’s
knock’em-dead sex appeal and sophisticated James Bond good looks,
he wasn’t a bad-looking guy in his own right. Tall and lanky,
dressed in corduroys and a button-down shirt, and he was traveling
light, with just a backpack. Although not as light as she was, with
her shopping bag.
He smiled at
Similar Books
