The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe was a liar. And a fraud. And someone who should have her feminist card revoked because as soon as the hot guy with the big gun came crawling back, she let him. Worse, a part of her rejoiced at the sight of him. Because he was way better at strangling people with lingerie than she was. And he knew Alex. And spy stuff. And she was in the middle of an extremely spylike situation. So she needed someone who knew the ropes. And the guy on the other side of the door . . . well . . . he tied her in all kinds of knots. The question was, were they the kind that would hold her together or the kind that would hold her back?

He pounded on the door and she sighed, because ninety seconds of solitude was evidently way too much to ask.

“Okay! I hear you!”

But all she got was another bang or two, and Zoe knew she should open the door. She also knew she really didn’t want to. Because opening that door meant looking at broad shoulders and blue eyes and feeling things she really didn’t want to feel. Opening that door meant going back to pretending she was strong, pretending she was fine, pretending she had everything under control when the truth of the matter was, she spent most of her energy in any given moment trying to keep the rest of the world from seeing how very not fine she really was.

But what if she didn’t have to pretend with Sawyer? What if there was more than one way for him to keep her safe?

“Sawyer . . .” She had to say it while the door was closed. She didn’t think she could face him. “Don’t say anything, okay? But I just . . . You have to know . . .”

Then she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, and what she saw was a woman with bad fashion sense and no hairbrush—someone who had been through hell. And lived. But that little voice inside of Zoe couldn’t keep from adding So far.

So she leaned against the door and said, “I’m scared, okay? Of what happens if we don’t find Alex . . .” She gave a small, sad laugh. “And maybe what happens if we do. But most of all, I’m scared that I’ll never find . . . myself. I’m scared that I can’t trust myself. So I get that you’re Mr. I Can Kill a Man with Sleepwear Guy but right now the only thing I care about is whether or not I can trust you? So . . . I guess that’s what I’m asking. Can I trust you?”

She stayed silent for the space of five whole heartbeats, waiting, worrying. Wondering.

Had he gotten bored? Walked away? Left her? Or was the answer simply no?

“Sawyer?”

When Zoe pushed open the door, the first thing she noticed was the wind, gushing ninety miles an hour through the train’s side exit and blowing all around her. She tried to pull her hair out of her face, but the strands were stiff and curly and . . .

The second thing she noticed was the banging.

And the cursing.

And the rough timbre of Sawyer’s voice as he yelled, “Run!”

But Zoe was frozen to the spot, watching as a strange man pushed Sawyer toward the open door. He had one hand on Sawyer’s throat and another on his wrist, banging Sawyer’s hand against the wall over and over until Sawyer lost his grip on his gun and it flew through the doorway, disappearing into the blur of snow and trees.

A look of shock and pain and grief passed over Sawyer’s face, and then it quickly turned to fury. In the next moment, he was spinning, shifting their positions in one fluid motion and knocking the man out the open door. For a long time, he just stood there, breathing hard, hands on knees, staring longingly. “That was my third favorite gun,” he whined.

Zoe didn’t know whether to laugh or console him, but before she could do a thing, the door to the next car slid open. A gun cocked, and a rich voice said, “Well, hello there.”

It would have been so much easier if the man had growled or sneered. But, no. His voice was downright chipper—a fancy meeting you here tone. And something about it made Zoe’s whole body shake as the stranger stared at her—a lascivious gleam in his eye.

“It’s so good to see you again.” He closed the door that led into the next car and stepped toward her.

He was slicker than the others, Zoe couldn’t help but notice. Expensive suit and hair that didn’t even blow in the wind. One look was enough to tell her he was the kind of man who liked precision and perfection in all things, and there wasn’t a doubt in Zoe’s mind he was more dangerous than all the goons combined.

“Get away from her, Collins.” There was an edge to Sawyer’s voice as he shifted, ready to pounce.

“Oh, now, Mr. Sawyer. She’s quite the catch. Surely we can . . .” Collins looked her up and down. He all but licked his lips. “. . . share her.”

Zoe’s whole body shook. Dots grew at the corner of her vision, and she thought she was going to be sick. She was going to die. She was going to—

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

Sawyer’s voice was dark and deep and Zoe finally understood all those times he’d said he was a bad guy. A villain. A threat. Because, in that moment, he was the most dangerous, beautiful, terrible, wonderful thing she’d ever laid eyes on. He looked like someone who would follow his enemies to the ends of the earth; he was a specter in the shadows, a sound on the wind. He was the thing that went bump in the night and there was no place you could run, nowhere you could hide, nothing you could ever do to keep you safe from him.

And it was all Zoe could do not to fall head over heels in love with him. The jerkface.

But that didn’t change the fact that Sawyer was unarmed, and Collins was already raising his gun and aiming it right at Zoe.

“I’ve been so looking forward to this,” the man said and Sawyer growled and started to lunge, but, for some reason, all Zoe could think about was Paris—how it had felt to lie on the cold ground watching snowflakes fall in slow motion. Like she wasn’t even a part of her own body. That was how she felt right then. Outside herself. Detached.

She was aware, faintly, of the man shifting his aim as Sawyer launched himself across the car, but something was rising up inside of Zoe, and it made her kick—hard. The blow knocked the man back a step. Shock filled his face as he grabbed for a door handle that wasn’t there, a wall that couldn’t stop him. And Zoe didn’t think—didn’t wait. She just stepped closer and shoved.

The last thing she saw was the look on the stranger’s face as he fell.

The last thing she felt was relief.

And the last thing she heard was Sawyer saying, “What came over you?”

“I don’t know.” Zoe slammed the door. “But I liked it.”

The slow smile on his face was enough to tell her that she wasn’t the only one.