The Blonde Identity: A Novel

He was an asshole. He knew the words in a half-dozen languages, but in every one it was absolutely true. He should let her walk away, cool down. Have her space. Only an asshole would bolt out of his seat and dart down the center aisle, saying, “It’s not what you think.”

“So it’s my fault”—Zoe spun on him—“that I heard the words that you said in the order that you said them? It’s my fault that you’re regretting the words that you used. That’s my fault?”

“No,” Sawyer said, but her face seemed to get a little more murder-y, so he tried, “Yes? Yes. And no. Maybe. What’s the right answer here?”

Then she groaned, whipped back around, and kept walking, out of that car and into the next. And Sawyer did the only thing that he could: he followed.

Sooner or later, she was going to have to listen to him. After all, sooner or later she was going to run out of train. But as she stepped into the small vestibule at the end of the car she stopped and turned.

“Why are you even here? I thought you were leaving me. Isn’t that why you took the . . .” But she trailed off, pieces coming together in her mind. “Oh. Of course. You’re following me so you can get this back.” She pulled the bank card out of her pocket, holding it like a magician who was getting ready to make it disappear. “Come to steal it from me? Again? Or did you come to steal me?”

The fact that she was willing to flash that card around showed just how little she understood the danger she was in, so he gently eased it back into her pocket and closed the door behind them.

But that meant they were closer than they had been, and she looked up at him, fire in her eyes.

“Get. Off.”

He took a step back, giving her space, but she didn’t move. “Get off the train,” she clarified before wheeling and heading toward the narrow door in the corner of the alcove. “I appreciate your assistance, but I can make it the rest of the way on my own.”

The words were strong and her eyes were cold, but there was an uncharacteristic lilt to her voice, a more-defiant-than-usual set to her chin as she said it, like she was bracing for a laugh, for a mock, for some kind of cruelty to be determined later.

“Go ahead,” she even told him. “Laugh. I can take it.”

He had to make her see—make her know—“I’m not laughing.”

It must have been the speeding train, why he felt unsteady on his feet. When Zoe pulled open the tiny door and stepped inside the even tinier compartment, it must have been temporary insanity that made Sawyer push in after her.

“Get out!”

“Not until you listen.” He slammed the door. He hadn’t even registered that it was the lavatory until she had to back up against the sink to make room for his big body.

“If you think I’m joining whatever the train version of the mile-high club is with you— Ouch!”

She banged her head against a small cabinet, so he used one hand to cup her head and the other to circle her waist and lift, setting her atop the counter and stepping in between her spread thighs.

“You were right,” he admitted. “I thought about using you. And then I thought about leaving you.”

“Uh . . . I know!”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He let his eyes take her in, from her wild hair to the bruise to the—damn, was she bleeding again? It proved his point, though. He cursed silently to himself then grabbed a tissue and pressed it against her temple. He hated the way her eyes closed when he touched her—was it because her head hurt? Or something else? Because touching her hurt him, too, but he wasn’t anywhere near brave enough to say it.

“I thought about leaving last night because I thought you were safe there. I thought you’d stay safe there. I thought . . .” Sawyer had been trained in interrogation tactics and at least twenty different ways to spot a lie, but for the life of him he didn’t know how to say—“I learned a long time ago that everyone is safer far away from me.”

It was almost peaceful there, in the small, dim room on the gently rocking train. And Zoe was so close—warm and safe and alive. He had to keep her alive.

“Is this about Helena?”

He balled up the tissue and threw it in the bin. “It’s about a lifetime of collateral damage. I thought you’d be safer if I left, Zoe. That’s all.” He cupped her face and pulled her close. “I was wrong. So . . .” He drew a deep breath; he was going to need it. “I’m sorry I almost left last night. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about the card in Paris. And I’m sorry I thought about using you to access the vault. And I’m sorry that I’ve lost track of all the things I’m supposed to be sorry for. But, mostly, I’m sorry this is happening to you.” He tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry I can’t keep you safe.”

“It’s not your fault,” she whispered.

His thumb ran over the smooth skin of her cheek in the world’s tiniest caress. “Of course it is.”

Zoe looked over her shoulder, into the mirror—at the face the world was looking for. “As long as the world is after Alex, I’ll never be safe.”

“I know. I—”

“That’s why I have to clear Alex’s name.”

It sounded so simple—so obvious and so easy. But she was also so wrong he could cry. “These people are dangerous, Zoe. They’re monsters.”

“I know! There’s a price on my sister’s head, remember? On my head.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to pay it!” Then he pressed against her, body against body, foreheads touching because he didn’t trust his hands. He’d spent too much time training them to act on instinct, and if he let them near her, then he didn’t trust what they might do.

So he breathed in her scent and he matched her breath for breath, and he wished he were the kind of man who could save her. And he wished she were the kind of woman who would let him.

“Let me get you someplace safe.”

“You want me safe?” She seemed to take it like a dare. “And out of your hair?”

“Yes, please.” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Both would be great.”

“Then take me to the bank.” Oh, she was good. He hadn’t even seen it coming. And he really, really should have.

“Just so we’re clear, when I think hey, maybe Zoe could pretend to be Alex so we can access the bank box, it’s evil, but when it’s your idea, it’s genius?”

“It’s evil when it’s a secret,” she said simply, and Sawyer knew she was right. He also knew—

“It’s too dangerous.” He was shaking his head. “No. I’m not letting you—”

“I’m going with or without you, so unless you plan on kidnapping—”

He pulled back as much as he could in the tiny room. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Help me.” It was the tone of her voice that did it, pleading and desperate, but just proud enough to show that asking hadn’t been easy. “Help me end it.”

Sawyer never thought about the end. He didn’t plan for his retirement. The fact that she still thought she could get a happy ending . . . he didn’t want to be the one to tell her that was the biggest lie of all.

So he made her a deal. “We can go to the bank and check it out, and if Alex is there and shows herself, great. But we’re not going in, and we’re not taking any risks.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Yes.”

And, asshole move or not, he pressed even closer. He wanted her to remember he was bigger and stronger and forget that she could break him with a look.

“But, Zoe . . . so help me. If I so much as smell Kozlov on the wind, we put Zurich to our backs and we don’t stop running until we hit water.”

“Okay,” she said.

“I swear to—”

“Okay. Yes. Deal!”

“I need . . .” Sawyer started. “I need you to trust me. Can you do that? After last night? After this morning, if you can’t trust me, then this won’t work.”

She was a little too quiet for a little too long, biting her lip in the way that almost killed him.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Now leave.”

“No! I just said I’m not going to—”

“No. I mean get out. Please.” She might have blushed. She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I came in here for a reason . . .”

He suddenly remembered where they were. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just wait . . .” He tried to point over his shoulder but banged his thumb on the door. “Ow. Yeah.” But the door wouldn’t open. “I’ll just . . .”

He pushed. He leaned. And then the door opened a little too quickly and Sawyer, a man who earned his first black belt at the age of fourteen, almost fell on his face.

“I’ll be right here.” He pointed to his feet and once the door closed, he was pretty sure he heard laughing.

And, worse, he was pretty sure he liked it.

Maybe that’s why he missed the footsteps—didn’t hear a thing until the gun cocked and cold metal pressed against the back of his neck and a deep voice said, “Move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

And all Sawyer could think was Not again.