The first three pages of Act of Redemption, for your enjoyment. But first, the blurb, so you'll have some idea what's going on:
A shy librarian and a dashing FBI agent must
work together to catch a killer and recover a priceless silver treasure in this
light and sweetly romantic suspense novel from the New York Times bestselling
author of the Do It Yourself Home Renovation mysteries and the Cutthroat
Business mysteries.
On the island of roses and ruins, love awaits and
danger lurks.
When Annika Holst's father dies, it's up to the young
librarian to carry out his last will: to take his ashes back to his hometown,
medieval Visby on the Swedish island of Gotland in the Baltic Sea.
But no
sooner does the plane touch down in Stockholm, than the bag with the cremains
goes missing. A young American named Nick Costa comes to Annika's aid... but can
she trust the handsome stranger? And what of Curt Gardiner, another young man
from “back home,” also visiting his mother’s native Sweden?
To catch a
murderer, recover her father’s ashes, and find a missing Viking treasure, Annika
has to put her trust in one of them. But the wrong choice could mean not only
the loss of her heart... but of her life as well.
- ONE –
It was the kind of thing that should never happen, the kind of thing that would
never—in a world where everything was right and good—be allowed to happen.
What kind of daughter loses her father’s ashes, for God’s
sake?
But—Annika reminded herself—it wasn’t a world where
everything was right and good, was it? If it were, her father wouldn’t have
been shot and killed for the money in his wallet, and she wouldn’t be here,
halfway around the world, sans his
cremains.
And the trip had started out so well, too.
She’d been early to the airport, of course. The flight
left in the evening, and navigating New York City
at rush hour, straight through Manhattan from
Brooklyn to Newark,
had been a daunting proposition. She’d set out five hours early, just to be
sure she wasn’t late, and had gotten to Liberty Airport
with three and a half hours to spare.
But the wait hadn’t been unpleasant. She’d walked around
a bit and browsed in the duty-free stores. She hadn’t bought anything, but
she’d noted a few things she thought she might want to buy, once she was on her
way home instead of headed halfway around the world. She probably wouldn’t end
up buying anything on her way home either, but thinking about it was nice.
After that, she’d bought herself dinner in one of the
restaurants—she was on vacation, after all, and it was all right to eat alone
in an airport. There, it didn’t mean she was the kind of girl who couldn’t get
a date. Rather, it meant she was confident and sophisticated enough to travel
on her own, without anyone else.
And when those activities had paled, she’d simply sat
down in one of the seats by the gate to read, the carry-on bag with the ashes
safely tucked behind her feet, where no one could get at it.
As a librarian, she should probably abhor eBooks—more
than a few of her colleagues did—and as a librarian she definitely appreciated
the sight and smell and feel of a “real” book in her hands, but for traveling,
nothing could beat an eReader. She’d never run out of books again. And if she
did, there were more just a click away.
For the trip, she’d downloaded everything she could find
about Gotland—fiction, non-fiction, Frommers, what have you—and quite a bit
about Sweden
in general. Her Danish mother had made sure Annika, Anders and Astrid were grounded
in the Danish language and Danish history and custom, but her father hadn’t
seemed to care that his children didn’t speak Swedish or know much about his
childhood home. They’d gone to visit family in Denmark every few years growing up,
until they were old enough to want to stay home with their friends during
school breaks, and then Anne had gone on her own. But Carl Holst—Calle
Magnusson, Annika corrected herself, still amazed that she hadn’t ever known
her father had spent most of his adult life living under a name that wasn’t
properly his own—hadn’t ever brought his children to Sweden, not even when
they’d been so close that it was just a hop, skip and a jump away, and hadn’t
gone back himself, not in the more than thirty years since he’d left.
Until now.
And she’d lost him.
So anyway, the trip had been uneventful up until that
point. She’d spent the time in the airport reading, and when she needed a
break, she’d watched the people moving through the terminal, wondering where
they were going and what they were doing. Making up stories about them. That
young woman, in the Indian clothing with the red dot between her brows and the
resigned look on her face, dragging her feet... was she just tired, or was she
reluctant; on her way to India
to be married off to a cousin against her will? Just before the airplane doors
closed and the flight took off, would her boyfriend push his way onboard, to
tell her he couldn’t live without her and to convince her to elope with him?
Would he succeed, or would she abide by her parents’ wishes? Would she find
love, either way?
And the two backpackers, barely out of their teens, with
heavy boots and bright smiles... were they off to explore Europe for a month,
tramping through the Old World, gawking at
museums and architectural gems? Or were they headed to Africa
to plant crops and minister to the sick? Archaeology students, off to dig in Cornwall, or missionaries, going to preach to the heathens
of darkest Borneo? Boyfriend and girlfriend?
Siblings? Or just friends?
And what about the handsome businessman, the one with the
black hair and dark suit, hunched over his tablet? Was he an engineer, going to
save a bridge from collapse, or an accountant, going to save a business from
bankruptcy? Or maybe a spy, going to save the world as she knew it? With those
kinds of dashing good looks, he could be anything. She could totally imagine
him in full James Bond mode, navigating his customized Lamborghini along the
beach in Monte Carlo, top down, wind ruffling
those dark curls. She could see him pull up outside a casino and get out of the
car, smoothing a well-manicured hand over his hair and straightening his bowtie
before tossing the keys to the valet and going inside to the glitz and glamour,
his stride long and unhurried; his face bland, but his gaze ever vigilant,
missing nothing—
Just then, he lifted his head and caught her eye, and
Annika had found herself looking into a pair of brown eyes, as dark and melting
as Godiva chocolate, surrounded by long sooty lashes. He held her glance for a
few seconds, just long enough for her to turn beet red, before he smiled and
went back to work. After that, Annika kept her attention on her own tablet and
didn’t look at anyone else for too long.
He’d been on her flight, a few rows behind and across the
aisle, and had spent most of the time in the air working. A few times, she’d
felt prickling at the back of her neck, as if someone was staring at her, and
she’d always turned, hoping maybe it would be him—but it never was. Just her
imagination, probably. Wishful thinking. As if a man like that would ever be
interested in a girl like her. As if she’d know what to do with him if he were.
He probably spent his time with slinky Mata Hari types, as dark and exotic as
he was. Gorgeous women with lush figures and designer breasts, in
million-dollar gowns sparkling with diamonds. Women who knew what to say to a
man like him. Women who didn’t blush when he made eye-contact.
It was an overnight flight, so she’d tried to catch a few
hours of sleep, but between the anxiety about being thirty thousand feet up in
the air, the worry that she wouldn’t know what to do when they landed, and the
excitement about going somewhere she’d never been before—not to mention the
guilty knowledge that in the luggage compartment above her head, unbeknownst to
the people around her, was a semi-transparent Tupperware container full of her
father’s earthly remains—she hadn’t been able to sleep a wink. By the time the
fasten seatbelt sign came on and the plane started its descent into Arlanda Airport, she must look as bleary-eyed as
she felt.
Passport control went quickly and efficiently, and the
handsome young Swede behind the counter winked at her when he handed her
passport back and told her “Welcome home.” Either he was an idiot and didn’t
notice she was carrying an American passport, or he was smart enough to realize
that with a name like Annika, her background had to be Swedish.
After that, the only thing left to do was pick up her
suitcase, take both that and the carry-on through customs, and then make it to
her connecting flight to Gotland. Tonight
she’d be sleeping in Visby.
City of roses and ruins. A UNESCO world heritage site. The best preserved
medieval town in Scandinavia and her father’s
childhood home.
The baggage carousel was mobbed, but eventually she found
an open spot in the back, close to where the suitcases disappeared back into
the bowels of the airport. And there she stood, watching as suitcase after
suitcase swirled by, many of them black cloth with wheels, just like hers. She
should have tied a ribbon or something to the handle before she left home, so
it would have been easier to pick out. Or instead of something staid and
boring, like black cloth, maybe she should have splurged on a hot pink suitcase
with polka-dots instead, like the one just now moving past. No chance of anyone
picking that up by mistake.
She tried to picture herself wheeling a pink suitcase
with polka-dots, but couldn’t. Pink polka-dots belonged to long-legged nymphs
with flowing, wheat-blonde hair and skimpy shorts, like the one who just now
leaned over to snag it. The James Bond type from earlier was standing nearby,
and Annika couldn’t help but notice that his attention—and eyes—snagged for a
second on the girl’s upturned rear and the long length of her legs.
The girl didn’t miss it, either, and when she turned to
sashay off, polka-dotted suitcase in tow, she flashed him a smile, one he
returned with interest.
Figured.
Annika turned back to the carousel, looking for her own
suitcase. There were several black ones on the band, and more coming all the
time. That one coming her way—with the tiny nick at the corner—looked somewhat
familiar. If she could just get a look at the tag...
She took two steps forward and leaned in.
The next second, the world turned upside down, quite
literally. Something hit her from behind, and she found herself sprawling
beside the suitcase, legs waving in the air, with her skirt bunched around her
hips and her thighs on display. She was stunned, unable to move for a second;
unable to do anything but watch as surprised faces flashes by, their eyes wide
and their mouths open. If they were talking to her, she couldn’t hear them. The
noises seemed distant, like the buzzing of a bumblebee in a jar, a sort of dull
background hum.
And then a pair of strong hands grabbed her and she was
unceremoniously yanked off the luggage carousel and to her feet, and the noises
became voices, babbling in a lot of different languages. People crowded around,
jostling her. Arms reached past her to grab their suitcases and bags off the
belt. Eyes stared, mentally stripping her down, and she could feel her face
flush. As reality came back, she realized her knees hurt, and she wobbled
again. The hands on her arms tightened.
“You’d better come over here and sit down.”
The voice was male, deep and smooth. And American. Annika
looked up, and found herself staring into those same chocolate brown eyes as
earlier.
Way to go. She’d made a fool of herself in
front of the same guy twice. The same really handsome guy.
Up close he was even better looking than from a distance.
Handsome enough to make her forget the stinging in her knees for a moment as
she stared into that perfect face.
And then he opened his mouth. “Did you have a little too
much to drink on the plane?”
Annika stiffened. What
a jerk! “I don’t drink.”
“Of course you don’t.” He kept pushing her toward a bench
a few yards away.
She tried to slow down, glancing over her shoulder. “My
bag—”
“We’ll see it go by. I’ll grab it for you.”
That wasn’t the bag she meant, but he wouldn’t allow her
to turn back. Instead he deposited her on the bench and squatted in front of
her. “You banged yourself up pretty good, didn’t you?”
She had?
Annika followed his gaze and saw that sure enough, the ride
on the carousel had shredded her nylons and left her knees a bloody mess. She
hadn’t had scrapes like those since she was five years old and had fallen off
her bike in Prospect
Park. “Oww!”
“Right.” He glanced around. “You’re gonna need bandages
for those. Let me grab the bags and I’ll help you find someone.” He got to his
feet.
“I really don’t need...” Annika tried, tilting her head
back to look up at him. He quirked a brow, clearly not convinced, and why would
he be? Of course she needed his help. Her knees were hurting more and more with
every second that passed, and she had zero desire to go near the baggage
carousel again. Easier just to let him do what he wanted. Saving things was his
specialty, after all. She could let him save her the trouble. “I have a black
cloth suitcase with wheels, and a black carry-on bag. It’s over there.” She
pointed to the other side of the baggage carousel, where she’d been standing
when she took her undignified tumble. “I put it down when I went to grab my
suitcase. The tags say Annika Holst.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Nick Costa.” He glanced over his
shoulder. “Excuse me. I think I see my bag. I’ll be back.”
He headed toward the carousel, leaving her sitting there.
Annika watched him for a second, as he threaded his way between the other
travelers still waiting for their suitcases, and bent to check the tag on a
piece of luggage making its way past. His posterior in the black slacks was
every bit as nice as she’d expected.
# # #
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