The Blonde Identity: A Novel

When she saw the signs for the Metro she felt a small glimmer of hope. Metros have seats, after all, and shelter and vending machines. And she had some euros burning a hole in her pocket. “Ooh! Are we going to take a train?”

But Mr. Never Gets Tired Guy didn’t even answer. He just kept walking, past the escalators and over a bridge and down a steep embankment. And then he was pulling at a chain-link fence, squeezing between the rusty wires like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“So that’s a no on the train then,” she said, numbly following him to the underside of the bridge. The snow was deeper there, blown into drifts by the wind. But they were out of sight, at least, and she leaned against the cold stone arch, shivering with her hands in her pockets, admiring the view. Turns out, in Paris, even the graffiti was lovely.

She could feel his gaze on her, though. Appraising and more than a little warm as he ducked his head and looked at her over the turned-up collar of his peacoat. There were big flakes of snow in his dark hair, and everything about him looked like he’d just stepped out of an ad for really expensive man perfume. She could see it now: Covert—the new fragrance by Calvin Klein.

Maybe in her real life she was used to handsome men looking at her. But probably not. She felt her face go hot in the cold air. She was half dead and who knew when she’d last brushed her hair, so she felt pretty certain this wasn’t the good kind of staring. But there was no use trying to read a face that the Central Intelligence Agency had trained to be unreadable.

“What? I’m just resting. Is resting allowed?” she asked because even though she didn’t want to sit in the cold, wet snow, she could lean, so she was going to lean as long as possible.

She didn’t expect him to say, “You’re doing great, you know?”

His gaze was more intense now, and something about the kind words and gentle tone . . . They broke her. “Then you must have a concussion, too.” Her voice cracked. Her eyes burned. And, suddenly, his face morphed from wry appreciation to dude who is terrified a woman is going to start crying.

“Don’t . . . No. It’ll come back. Your memory . . . It’ll . . . Don’t worry.”

“Yeah.” She wiped her eyes and forced a smile. “I’m sure once I see something familiar . . . I mean, as soon as we find Alex . . .” She let the sentence trail off, waiting for him to say something. It was obviously his turn to say something! But he stayed quiet. And somehow the silence was a warning. “We are going to find Alex, aren’t we?”

“Sure.” He pulled the knife out of his sleeve and turned his attention to a big metal box covered with scary-looking stickers. Which was better than looking at her, evidently.

“Wait. You do have a plan to find my sister, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Then what is it?” She pushed off the wall and prowled closer, but he stayed silent. “Well . . .”

He exhaled a weary breath. “We don’t have to find Alex. When the time comes, Alex will find us. Okay?”

Except . . . it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t even a little bit okay. “So just to be clear . . . the plan is you have no plan.”

“Look.” He wheeled on her, and for the first time, he seemed just as cold, just as tired, just as cranky as she felt. “Alex doesn’t need us. Alex doesn’t need anyone. While we’re out here getting our asses handed to us, Alex is curled up somewhere warm and dry, sharpening her knives and biding her time, which is exactly what we’re going to do just as soon as we get someplace safe.”

And that’s when she realized he wasn’t just looking at the big metal box, he was using the butter knife to unscrew the lid.

A lid that was covered with stickers that said things like RESTER DEHORS!

Keep out, her tired brain translated.

HAUTE TENSION!

High voltage!

DANGER!

Danger!

Okay, so maybe the last one wasn’t all that impressive, but that didn’t keep her from blurting, “Did I tell you I speak French?”

“Congratulations,” he said, but he didn’t even glance in her direction. He was too busy prying open the box that obviously wasn’t supposed to be opened. And, suddenly, she was terrified for entirely new reasons. She took a wobbly step back.

“So . . . uh . . . those signs say that this box is very, very dangerous, and, oh, that is a lot of wires . . .” Yes. Dozens of wires. Hundreds of wires! “So maybe you should put the lid back on the scary box and—”

He looked at her. “Or I could do this.”

And then he slammed the metal knife into the wires and circuit boards. Screams filled the air, echoing off the stone archway and dissolving into the snow as terror shot through her veins like the electricity that was shooting through . . .

Wait, she realized a moment later, he wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t shaking or falling to the ground or smoking. Really, he should have been smoking by that point! But he wasn’t. No. He was laughing! And she realized that he might still die because she might kill him.

“You!” she shouted as he used the knife to pry the guts out of the big Box of Death. “Why aren’t you dead? How? That’s—”

“Fake,” he said, still chuckling while she just stood there, gaping like an idiot. “Lady, there are very few things that are universally feared, and death by electrocution is one of them.” He gave a rueful smirk as he revealed a compartment that was hidden behind all those (evidently fake) wires. “Which makes them a great place to hide . . .”

He made a ta-da kind of gesture as he pulled out a backpack and unzipped it, pausing to inspect giant wads of cash and passports. And guns. So many guns.

“What is that?”

“It’s a Go Bag,” he explained as he slipped it on. “So go.” He gestured for her to lead the way, but she just stood there.

“That was mean,” she said and he gave her the kind of grin that had probably been working for him for ages, little boy charm on a hot guy face. Forget the guns, that combination alone was lethal.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He smirked again and glanced down, looking up at her from beneath his dark lashes.

“I thought you were being fried like an egg. I thought you were dying. I thought . . .” Her voice cracked again and, suddenly, his expression softened. The little boy smirk faded into genuine remorse-slash-guilt-slash-regret-slash-oh shit! Please tell me she isn’t going to cry again.

“Hey. It’s okay.” He reached for her and she pulled back.

“You’ve probably been waiting to play that joke on someone for ages, but—”

“No,” he said quickly, but the look that crossed his face wasn’t anger or impatience. It was surprise. Like he’d only just realized—“I don’t joke. With anyone.” He gave a quick, quiet laugh like I’ll be damned then looked at her. “I guess that makes you special.”

His grin was warm and soft, but when she spoke, her voice trembled. “Just . . . don’t die on me, okay? Fake or otherwise.”

“Hey.” He reached out—hand lingering too long in the air—like he might want to hug her but he didn’t know how, so he rubbed the back of his neck instead. “I’m sorry. I won’t do any kind of dying. I promise.”

And, like it or not, she believed him.