The Blonde Identity: A Novel

The first time Sawyer ever went undercover he had to live with a group of violent extremists whose leader hadn’t left their own private mountain in six years. Eventually, Sawyer got what he needed but his exfil went to hell and he ended up sleeping in a cave for nine days.

Damn, he missed that cave—would have given anything to be there rather than here. There was no polite chitchat in the cave, no nosy women saying things like “I’m so glad you made it! Welcome aboard the Shimmering Sea!” which, he gathered, was the name of the ship that, as far as he could tell, was strictly a river vessel and wouldn’t go out to sea at all.

Well, at least the Shimmering Sea came with booze. And . . .

“Food!” His wife practically dove for a tray of crab puffs.

Cramming one in her mouth, she turned her back on Melanie and whispered, “For the record, if I’m allergic to shellfish, and this kills me? It was how I wanted to go.”

The woman—Melanie—couldn’t have heard, but she was still staring. Maybe it was their windblown hair and bloodstained clothes, but she had a curious gleam in her eye as she said, “Well, you must have had quite the ordeal.”

“You have no idea.” Sawyer reached for a glass of something that looked very old and very expensive and took a nice, long swig.

But then Melanie’s expression changed. There were practically little hearts in her eyes as she exclaimed, “It would have been a shame for you to miss your honeymoon!”

Sawyer choked on his thirty-year-old scotch. “Our . . .”

“Honeymoon!” his wife said, reaching for him. “Because we’re married. And in love. So in love! And—Ooh!” She reached for a tall glass of champagne. The little bubbles were still floating toward the top, trying to escape. He knew exactly how they felt, he thought as he plucked it from her hand.

“Hey! I was drinking—”

“Concussions and alcohol don’t mix, darling,” he said, and then he drained it.

Melanie’s eyes went wide as she noticed the bruise on his wife’s temple—the streak of dried blood in her hair. “Oh no! What happened there?”

And for once his blushing bride had the sense to . . . well . . . blush.

“Oh . . . I . . . See, it was . . .”

“The Mile High Club,” Sawyer cut in. “Harder to join than it sounds.” Then he commandeered a whole tray of tiny meatballs.

“Oh. Well.” Melanie turned bright red. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just . . .” She stepped away. Which was just as well because his wife was staring at him like maybe looks really could kill after all.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Her hand connected with his stomach and he winced.

“Ow. You know, I think you’re getting stronger.”

“That nice woman is going to think that you . . . That I . . . That we . . .”

Sawyer didn’t even try to hold back his laugh. “You should have thought about that earlier, Mrs. Michaelson.”

He shouldn’t have loved the blush of her cheeks—that rushed little intake of breath. A part of him was still looking for his exits and sizing up the crowd, but another part couldn’t take his eyes off the woman who had turned the approximate color of cocktail sauce.

He’d never tried to tease Alex. Probably because Alex would have cut his tongue out. But he liked making this woman blush and stammer and squirm. Luckily, he didn’t have to think about why because Melanie was heading toward them, a pair of room keys in her hands.

“Here you are. Sorry we didn’t have them for you right away. We’re just so glad you made it! You both seem so . . . in love?” Melanie probably didn’t mean for it to sound like a question.

“Oh, yes,” his blushing bride said. “I love being Mrs. Michaelson. Gonna make him carry me over every threshold on this ship. Really, I’m just so happy I could pee myself.” But then she stopped, inched closer to Melanie, and lowered her voice. “No. Seriously. I could pee myself.”

Melanie straightened, back on the job. “Well then, let’s show you to your suite.”