The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“Hey, lady. Hey . . . you. Alex’s sister . . .” The words filtered through her hazy mind, as soft and warm as the light. “Hey, Denominator!” he said a little louder, and she bolted up just as a strong arm pulled her down and pinned her to the deck beneath him, and that was how she came awake, staring up at the most beautifully rugged face she’d ever imagined.

“It’s you.” She didn’t even try to hide the wonder in her voice.

“Yeah.” He chuckled softly. “Who else did you expect it to be? As far as I know . . .”

“You’re the only person I know?” She remembered gunfights and bridges and snow falling through streetlights. And him. He was the only thing in her entire memory that didn’t make her want to cry.

“Well, yeah.” Well, duh.

“I thought you were a dream. I thought this”—she gestured to what she’d started to think of as their Tiny Cocoon of Not Dying—“was a dream. Or a nightmare.”

“That’s understandable,” he said then inched away. “Anything coming back yet?”

She stretched as much as she could without really moving and racked her mind, but it was as blank as the canvas that covered them. She shook her head and bit back a yawn. “How long was I out?”

“Thirty minutes or so.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. Did she want it to be longer or shorter? She had no idea. “How far have we gone?”

“I’m not sure. But probably far enough.”

He was careful as he lifted the tarp and peeked outside, but the sunlight cut across her face, blinding her. The wind sliced across the deck, freezing her. All she wanted to do was curl up and go back to sleep, but the man who was crouching on the deck, surveying the scenery and assessing the threats, didn’t agree.

“Come on.” He pushed the tarp back a little farther. “It’s safe to stand—no more bridges.”

So she made herself crawl out into the sun. It felt good to stretch, at least. To look around at the outskirts of Paris and feel semiconfident that no one was going to shoot at her. Because, well, the bar . . . it wasn’t all that high, but a girl has to have some standards.

It was the first chance they’d had to really examine the boat. Ship? Maybe in her other life she was a nautical badass, but in this one she was a woman with a sore head, ragged tights, and a full bladder. So she was perplexed to see something that looked like a putting green. Dozens of collapsible tables and chairs. The tarp they’d been lying under seemed to be a massive shade of some kind. Someone would probably come up there and raise it eventually, but for the moment, they were alone.

“Is this a giant yacht?” she asked, confused, because it had to be hundreds of feet long but it was also low enough to pass under all those bridges.

“No.” He shook his head. “I think it’s a river cruise.”

“Ooh! I’ve always wanted to go on one of those!” she exclaimed but he looked at her.

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because everyone wants to go on one of those,” she said, feeling indignant.

“I don’t . . .” he started but trailed off. “Never mind.” Then he quietly headed toward the back of the ship. When they reached the edge of the top deck, he said, “Give me a second,” then dropped to his belly.

So she dropped to her belly.

He sort of army crawled toward the edge.

So she sort of army crawled toward the edge.

He peeked over.

So she—

“Stop doing that!” he spat.

“Stop doing what?”

“Just . . . wait there,” he said with exaggerated patience before leaning over to peer at the deck below.

It extended farther than the top level, with at least fifteen feet between them and the frothy strip of water that spread out in their wake.

“Ooh,” she said, and he spun on her.

“I thought I told you to stay back.” He was whispering, but he was also kind of shouting. She wasn’t sure how that worked exactly but she guessed it was something they taught at spy school.

“What are we looking for?” she asked just as a voice drifted up from down below.

“Melanie! What should we do with the luggage for the Michaelsons?”

She and Sawyer scooted back just as a woman came up a staircase, a young man on her heels.

The woman, Melanie, stopped on the little deck and looked back at the younger man. “The Michaelsons’ flight was canceled because of the storm.”

“But they shipped their luggage ahead. It’s here. What should I . . .”

“Take it to storage. Oh, and bring up a case of white? Lorenzo’s running low.”

The young man must have said something, but the words were lost on the wind and soon there was nothing but the sound of birds overhead and the water lapping against the hull and . . . silence.

The deck below them stayed empty, and Sawyer studied her, a now-or-never look on his face as he slid over the edge. Maybe she really was afraid of heights, she realized as she looked down and he looked up, impatience all over his face.

“Come on,” he whispered.

“It’s high.”

“It’s not even ten feet.”

“That’s high!”

“You’ve jumped off two bridges in the last ninety minutes!”

“People were shooting at me! Guns are scarier than heights. It goes guns”—she drew an imaginary line in the air then dropped her hand ten inches—“heights. Everybody knows that!”

“I have a gun,” he mumbled under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering pushing her overboard. But instead he held up both arms like she was a toddler who was refusing to go down the slide. Oh, how she wished there were a slide.

“Come on.” He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the disappearing woman. “I’ll catch you.”

Maybe it was the words . . . Maybe it was the gesture . . . Maybe it was the tone . . . But somehow she believed him. Sure, it was probably just because a sprained ankle or broken leg would slow them down even more. But why didn’t matter. It was enough that it was true, so she inched toward the edge.

“Any day now . . .”

And rolled onto her belly.

“Oh, we’re doing it this way,” he said, stepping closer.

And lowered herself down as far as she could go.

She was just starting to contemplate how long her arms could hold her when she heard a chuckle and felt the cold wind on the back of her thighs.

“Uh, you may want to drop . . .”

“In a second.”

“Okay. But just so you know your skirt got caught on something and I’m looking at your—”

She let go. She fell.

And, sure enough, he caught her.