The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Zoe must have sensed it, too, because she nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“Yeah. That fixed it,” Sawyer said and she smacked him on the arm. He couldn’t keep from smiling.

With any luck they could slip into town, get a car, and get out without anyone being any the wiser. But as they walked down the too-empty street he saw a reflection in a window, and he realized . . . “Don’t freak out, but I think we have a tail. Take the next right and I’ll engage. You—”

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Michaelson.” She slipped her hand into his and laughed a little too loudly.

“What are you . . .” He was turning to her. He was staring at her. But somehow he didn’t see the kiss coming—not when she put her hand on the back of his neck and went up on her toes. Not when her lips brushed against his—subtle pressure and teasing touches that made Sawyer want to melt.

He’d always been good at situational awareness, but right then he couldn’t plan their best escape route because there was no place else he wanted to be. He just knew that Zoe was pressed against him and her fingers were in his hair and it was way too much and not enough. Steadier. Hotter until . . .

Zoe inched back as the two police officers walked right past them without even a glance in their direction.

“See?” Her breath was warm against his lips. “I’m an excellent spy.”

“That’s not . . . uh . . . actual tradecraft.”

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he said a little too quickly. And, in truth, he didn’t sound mad, but he didn’t sound normal, either. “I just wasn’t expecting that . . . uh . . . maneuver.”

“I know! I’m so good at undercovering!”

“That’s not a verb.”

“And coverting. I covert so well!”

“That’s . . .” But he trailed off as he looked at her and, suddenly, he knew that there was absolutely no one with whom he’d rather undercover. “Yeah. You do.”

It wasn’t until they’d been walking for three blocks that he realized he was still holding her hand.

It wasn’t until they’d been walking for four that he realized he had no intention of stopping.

*  *  *

They found the car right where the lady at the store had said it would be. All it had taken was three hundred euros and a sob story about being on the run from Zoe’s ex-husband, and now they were the proud owners of a fifteen-year-old SUV that may or may not start.

But it wouldn’t be reported stolen. And it was a way out of town. Because they needed a way out of town. Desperately. Sawyer hadn’t seen them yet, but, soon, those streets were going to be crawling with every acronym in the business—maybe Kozlov’s guys, too. They didn’t have a moment to lose.

“This must be it.” The SUV was big and boxy and covered bumper to bumper with at least six inches of snow. It would be slow and lumbering and the most unimpressive car on the road. In other words, it was perfect.

He leaned down and winced in pain and cursed the rocky hillside as Zoe asked, “What are you doing?”

He brushed the snow away from the driver’s-side wheel well. “Your new best friend, Emmy—”

“Emiline,” she corrected. “And don’t make fun! She was very concerned about us being able to outrun my tortured past. You know she knocked fifty euro off the price.”

“Because you told her you were pregnant!”

“What?” She looked so innocent, so proud. So beautiful. It was incredibly annoying. “I had to sell the inciting incident.”

“The what?”

“Why are we running now? What drove me to leave Edward—”

“Edward?”

“The terrible man my family made me marry on my nineteenth birthday even though he’s old enough to be my father . . .” Zoe explained like she couldn’t believe Sawyer had forgotten the very best part.

“Damn it!” The key wasn’t behind the front wheel, so he went to try the back.

“What are you . . .”

“She said the key was here. Maybe it fell . . .”

He was hunkered down on the ground, searching the snow, when he heard it. Or maybe he didn’t hear it at all. Maybe he felt it, like someone walking over his grave. But before he’d even turned around, he knew what he would see passing on the street: Range Rovers. He knew what he would hear: the hum of motorcycles and the low, guttural sound of Russian curse words on the wind. Because Kozlov’s guys were there.

How had those fuckers found them so quickly? He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because, ultimately, it didn’t matter. They were there. And soon every agency in the world would follow.

“Zoe, I want you to listen to me very, very, carefully.” He slowly stood then turned up the collar of her coat and handed her the backpack.

“No.” She was already going pale and shaking her head because Zoe was no fool.

“I’m going to walk back to the street and take care of some things, and I need you to get on the other side of the car and wait three minutes—one hundred and eighty seconds. Count them. Then get up and walk the other direction. Don’t run.”

“No!”

“Walk. And don’t look back.”

“Sawyer—” There were tears in her eyes and her voice cracked. Her voice cracked and that broke him.

“I put a piece of paper in your pocket. There’s a phone number on it—a service I use. I want you to go back to Emiline’s and tell her your ex is after us. Hide. If I don’t come for you in forty-five minutes, get out of town. Tomorrow morning, call that number. If there’s not a message from me, then you start running, sweetheart. You run and you don’t look back.”

“Sawyer.” She grabbed his hand as if she could keep him there, like she wasn’t just afraid to let him go—she was afraid to lose him. Like she needed him, wanted him, cared for him. Not Sawyer the spy but Sawyer the man. And in that moment, Zoe made him wish he could have more—be more. She made him believe in happy endings. She made him wish there could be one for him.

“You promised.” He heard the swooping, pulsing sounds of a helicopter flying overhead and knew the agencies were coming—the agencies were there. They were all out of time. In so many ways.

“You’re gonna do great, sweetheart. Go. I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile and turned toward the street—he started to walk away. He should have walked away. But he stopped. And said, “Fuck it.”

“Langu—” she started, but he was already pulling her into his arms and pressing her up against the snowy car. Lips touching, tongues seeking, skin caught between fire and ice.

When he pulled back, her eyes were dazed and her lips were parted and he had no idea if she even heard him when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’ll find you.”

And then he went to buy her some time because it was all he had left to give.

Her

The asshole was going to make her a widow before she’d ever been married, and that alone made her want to kill him.

Tears she didn’t remember crying streaked down Zoe’s face as she watched Sawyer walk toward the end of the alley, drawing the guns from the waistband of his jeans.

Darn, the man could wear a pair of jeans.

But Zoe had to shake the thought out of her head; she had to think! When he glanced over his shoulder and gave her an irritated glance, she remembered.

“Oh. Right!” Then she scampered to the other side of the SUV and hunkered down and started counting.

One. Two.

The idiot was going to get himself killed.

Three. Four.

What kind of man can give a girl a kiss like that and then just walk away?

Five. Six.

She hated him. But most of all she hated this, kneeling, hiding, being sheltered and protected.

Seven.

She hated it so freaking much.

Eight. Nine.

A part of her had to wonder if that was the first time she’d sat alone, crying, hoping that a guy would call.

Ten.

She really, really hoped it would be the last.

Eleventwelvethirteenfourteen.

She had to do something! Help. Distract. Covert. She needed to covert her butt off, but she could hear the helicopters circling overhead so she pressed closer to the SUV, hiding. Waiting.

When a big chunk of snow fell off the vehicle’s window, Zoe risked a peek through the frosty glass, hoping to get a glimpse of Sawyer, but what she saw instead was an unlocked door. Then Zoe stopped thinking. She just threw open the door and crawled inside.

The keys had to be there somewhere! They had to, she thought, climbing into the driver’s seat, searching.

“Come on come on come on.”

He would be almost to the street by that point, to the Range Rovers and the goons and the guns. So many guns. She opened the backpack and started digging. There had to be something she could use to . . . what?

That’s when she saw the knife. And looked at the steering wheel. And something in her mind went click.

It wasn’t a flashback. And it definitely wasn’t a memory. But for one split second it happened—the feeling of someone else being in control of her body, of autopilot kicking on and conscious thought going dormant as her hands flew, popping open the dashboard and grabbing for the wires and the knife.

She had just enough time to think, I’m probably going to electrocute myself when the car started. Did I do that? Did I dream that? But exhaust was fogging up the chilly air and a radio was blasting, and when she tapped on the windshield wipers they pushed aside a layer of heavy snow.

And Zoe knew exactly what she had to do.

Him

If there had been a little more time Sawyer might have made a list of the hardest things he’d ever done.

There was the drinking contest with the Turkish arms dealer who was a lot tougher than she looked. The week he’d spent in a livestock car on a train through Argentina. The mission Alex simply called Operation Mustache. But nothing in his whole life had ever been as hard as walking away from Zoe. Still, if he bought her enough time to get out . . . then, well, it was worth it.

So Sawyer cocked his guns and took a breath and . . . spun. Ready to shoot because something was coming down the alley toward him—fast. He took aim but didn’t fire because he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

It looked like a tank covered with snow. No. An SUV. No. Their SUV. And it was flying in reverse. He actually had to dive out of the way before it slammed to a stop and the passenger door flew open; and there was Zoe, leaning over the seat. Eyes bright. Skin glowing. The single-most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen as she yelled, “I know how to hot-wire cars!”

For a moment he just stood, heart pounding, skin sweating, not sure whether he should laugh or cry or kiss that sly smile right off her face. So he just dove in and shouted, “Drive.”