The Blonde Identity: A Novel

You’re not Alex.

The words were still out there, floating like the snow and twice as cold. She looked at him—Mr. Hot Guy. And she thought about changing his name to Mr. Annoying Guy. Or Mr. Just Shot a Dozen Men in the Street Guy. She briefly considered Mr. Just Saved My Life Guy, but she didn’t like that one as much for obvious reasons.

Because he was looking at her like he’d just remembered the gun was in his hand. And he was glad to have it there. Like it might be useful.

The hand flexed. The gun shifted. And his grip on her arm tightened. She thought she might bruise.

“Let me go.”

She was definitely going to bruise.

“Who are you?”

“Let me go!”

In the next moment, a wall was at her back and the man was in her face. Chest against chest. Him breathing out while she breathed in, surrounded by a fog of warm breath and cold terror as his voice dropped lower.

“Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

Her lip quivered as she admitted, “I don’t know.”

He let go of her arm. (Good!) But then he moved his hand (as in the gun-free hand . . . as in the best-case-scenario hand) to her throat. (Not good!)

And he brought his mouth closer to her ear and whispered, “Try again.”

He was so much taller than she was. Even in her uncomfortable boots. Broader too. Not bulky. Not like the kind of guy who thinks all his troubles will be over as soon as his neck and his biceps are the same circumference as his thighs. More like the kind of guy who owns a truck and everyone hints around whenever they need something moved.

He seemed . . . competent. Freakishly competent. Scarily competent. And strong. Really, really strong. A fact she couldn’t help but remember when the hand around her throat began to squeeze.

“I’m not going to ask again.” The words hinted at impatience, but he had the look of a man who could wait all day. Immovable object, meet very, very stoppable force.

“I don’t know!”

Her eyes were hot, but she didn’t cry. She wasn’t exactly sure why she wasn’t crying. She felt like crying. She felt like curling into a ball or maybe digging that snow cave. Maybe she was just too tired and hungry—and, let’s face it, probably concussed—for a proper breakdown. Yeah. That was it. Everyone knows that to do a breakdown properly, you need snacks.

“I don’t—”

“Stop lying.”

“Do I look like I’m lying?” she shouted. “Your hand is on my jugular, how’s my pulse? Look at my eyes. Look at my freaking tights.”

“What?” he said because a pack of thugs in the street he could handle, no problem, but the word tights was throwing him for a loop.

“Do you think I’d be walking around like this if I had someplace to go? If I knew . . . I don’t know!” she shouted even louder. Rage bubbled to the surface—like maybe there was a little fight left in her after all. Like there was a little of her left. If she could just remember where to find her.

She took a deep breath and met his gaze and was surprised, somehow, to realize that his eyes were blue. His eyes were pretty and soft and looked like springtime, but the rest of him was the coldest day of the year.

She tried again. “My entire memory goes back approximately”—she did the math in her head—“three hours? Four hours? When did you yell at me . . . the first time?” But she didn’t really wait for an answer. “That’s as far as I go.”

He huffed then, a humorless sound. “So . . . amnesia? That’s your story?”

“It’s not a story.” She turned her gaze away. “It’s the truth.”

He sunk his hands into her hair, cradling the back of her head in a way that should have felt really, really good. And sexy. And maybe kisslike. Yes. This definitely felt like a prekiss or midkiss or postkiss kind of situation, with those big strong hands running through her hair, except—

“Ouch!” Pain shot through her, sudden and quick, and she changed his name to Mr. Doesn’t Know His Own Strength Guy because he kept probing, searching. “That hurts!”

And finally he stopped. “You have a head wound.”

“Ya think?”

He didn’t let go, but at least he stopped pressing where it hurt. His gaze dropped from her head to her eyes to her lips, and when he spoke again, the word was a whisper. “Fuck.”

“Langu—”

“I thought she was lying.” He squeezed his eyes tight and looked down at the icy ground.

“Who?”

“Alex.” He looked at her like she was a puzzle and a missing piece. Both. “I didn’t think she really had a twin.”

He let her go and pushed away and, suddenly, it was colder without him blocking the wind and pressing all his muscly warmth into her. But then she processed what he’d said.

“Wait . . . Twin?”

He was looking at her oddly, like maybe he was the one who’d hit his head and woke up to find himself in a very bad dream.

“She used to say ‘be grateful I’m the bad twin.’ I thought she was lying.”

She gave a nervous laugh. “Don’t you mean joking?”

He glared. “Alex doesn’t joke.”

“But she lies?”

For the first time, he smiled. “Better than anyone.”