The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Maybe it was the jet lag or the three-hour nap or the many, many, many pink beverages, but sometime in the night Zoe had to get up and use the bathroom. Sure enough, eyes were staring back at her in the dark. She would have apologized for waking him, but as she made her way back to bed, he was smirking, a look that said told you so. So Zoe stayed quiet as she crawled beneath the covers.

It was her first memory of silence. There had always been shooting or running or talking. Even the sounds of the ship—room service carts, and guests passing in the halls—had gone dormant in the middle of the night. But now Zoe could hear her own thoughts. She wasn’t sure she liked them.

Because the longer she lay there, the more they piled on top of one another, a wall of questions with no answers. Like where was she supposed to be sleeping, and what was she supposed to be doing, and, most of all, who was she supposed to be doing those things with? She couldn’t stop wondering if someone was out there—missing her, needing her, wondering why she hadn’t come home? What if—at that very moment—there was someone going crazy without her?

Or, worse, a tiny, terrible part of her wondered, what if there wasn’t?

“You okay up there?” Sawyer asked because clearly the CIA had next-gen brain reading technology implanted in all their operatives.

“Yes. No.”

“Well, that’s clear.”

She didn’t turn. Didn’t look. It was enough to feel him, a calming presence in the night. He was four guns, three knives, and six-foot-two inches of dangerous. And he was on her side. But this wasn’t something he could kill, so she just whispered, “It’s nothing.”

“Hey.” His voice was gentle. “That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Her eyes were a little too wet, all of a sudden. “It is. It’s silly.”

“Then you should definitely tell me. I could use a laugh.”

But she was the one who giggled softly. “I . . . It’s just . . .” She’d been terrified the night before, stumbling through the snow and the shadows, but lying in that beautiful room, something about the darkness made her brave. That’s the only reason she had the strength to ask, “Do you think I’m in love?”

It sounded so silly when she heard it, and immediately, she wanted to take it back, roll over. Pretend like she was asleep, but it was too late. She heard the rustle of the blanket as he sat up. “What?”

“Nothing.” She turned on her side, away from him; but they were in a hall of mirrors and his gaze bore through the dark.

“Hey.” The bed dipped beneath his weight. “What did you say?”

Fingers brushed against her shoulder, faint and whisper soft, and, suddenly, her eyes felt hot again. She didn’t want to face him.

“I said . . . Do you think I’m in love?” Suddenly, the weight of the silence was too heavy, pressing against her, pushing out the words she should have kept inside. “I mean, do you think there’s someone in the world who makes my heart beat really fast and my fingers tingle? I remember tingly fingers. But I don’t know if I have them or if I just want to have them? Do you think I’d know it? Because love isn’t a memory, right? It’s a feeling. So do you think I’ve forgotten being in love? Or am I just not?”

She felt fingers in her hair, a slow, gentle stroke that made her eyelids heavy. “I think . . .” The words were as soft as the moonlight. “. . . that you’ve had a shit day, lady. And you’ll feel better in the morning.”

She felt warm breath on her shoulder and the quick brush of soft lips on her skin before he pulled away and returned to his place on the floor. But a few minutes later, she heard, “You know, most people would ask, do you think someone loves me?”

Zoe closed her eyes. She pretended to sleep. She didn’t want to admit that, deep down, she already knew the answer was no.

*  *  *

He was a liar. A lying liar who lies. She could tell because people who don’t sleep don’t dream, and people who don’t dream don’t scream “No!” as they toss and turn.

“Sawyer.”

She slid out of bed and crawled across the carpet toward the man who was a tangle of blankets and flailing limbs, sweaty skin and—

“Helena!” he shouted, and Zoe froze, knowing she shouldn’t be hearing this—seeing this. She didn’t want to be an intruder in his dreams.

But he was lashing out again, sheer anguish on his face, and, on instinct, she reached for him. As soon as she touched his bare shoulder he pounced. Like an animal—an apex predator—something strong, and territorial, and alpha—as he twisted, pressing her against the floor and—

“Sawyer!”

She saw the moment he drifted from mostly asleep to mostly awake—the second he saw her—that he knew her. The second she was safe.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she tried to tease, but he didn’t smile. Not even the crooked one that he probably didn’t know he had. “Did I wake you?”

“What . . .” He shook his head, like he couldn’t quite remember where he was. “What happened?”

“I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure it’s called dreaming.” She was more smug than scared by that point. “It happens sometimes. When people sleep, which all people do.”

He was lying over her—on her, technically. His body long and lean and pressing into hers; and she was still wearing the great invisible nightie—a fact that he seemed to remember a split second later because he rolled away. But there was a dark edge to his voice when he asked, “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Are you—”

“I’m sure.” She was careful as she touched him, a gentle brush against his skin. “I’m fine. I feel guilty, though. You take the bed for the rest of the night. I can—”

“No.”

“You exasperating man! You obviously need your sleep way more than I do. Whatever happens tomorrow, I won’t need to shoot guns or judo chop—”

“I do not judo chop . . .”

“—bad guys. I’m expendable, so—”

She thought he was scary with a gun in each hand and dead Russians all around him, but she had never seen Sawyer look as lethal as he looked then. “You are not expendable. Don’t ever call yourself that. Ever.”

Suddenly, he was too close and his gaze was too hot and it was all way too much. She hated how badly she wanted to look away but she knew he’d see her—he always saw her.

“I’m serious, Zoe. You’re not expendable. And you never will be.”

He was so much closer then, and her throat was so much dryer as his hand cupped her cheek. It was all she could do to choke out the word, “Okay.”

The boat took that moment to rock slightly, and he swayed—away from her and the moment—so she climbed to her knees and said, “Come on. It’s a king-size bed. I’ll put a row of pillows between us. That ought to protect me.”

She gave a saucy glance over her shoulder, but there was a look in his eye—something hot and dark and hungry. And Zoe felt like she had when she was flying off the bridge—like her stomach wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

“Lady, nothing can protect you from me.”

Then he got up and went to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and closed the door. Zoe sat there for a long time, wondering what had just happened.

When the light flickered off ten minutes later, she felt the other side of the bed dip; she heard the covers rustle. And Zoe kept her gaze on the moonlit countryside passing outside their window.

She never said a thing.