The Blonde Identity: A Novel

Like a fucking moron.

Never mind the dent it made in their emergency cash, he should have felt like a fool standing on that polished dance floor, slipping a ring onto the finger of a stranger. But as they walked toward the honeymoon suite, Sawyer couldn’t bring himself to get mad about it.

She couldn’t go undercover without a ring, and if she smiled when she saw it—well, that wasn’t his problem.

“Oh, hello, neighbors!” Marc and Anthony were unlocking the room next to theirs. “Now you two keep it down over there tonight.” Marc gave them a wink as Sawyer put his hand on Zoe’s back and ushered her inside.

“Oh. Uh . . . Okay!” she called back as the door clicked shut and her cheeks turned pink.

She blushes, Sawyer reminded himself. When was the last time he had known someone who could actually, literally blush?

“Well, I guess we convinced them.” She held up her hand and the ring caught the light. “Good job with this. It looks almost real.”

“It is real,” he said a little too quickly.

“Oh. Well . . .” She was stuttering and stammering and, if possible, turning even redder. “I’ll give it back to you. When it’s over. You can use it the next time you need a fake wife.”

But Sawyer was never going to have another wife—fake or otherwise. That wasn’t how his life worked—how his world worked—and, suddenly, the honeymoon suite felt too small and the boat felt too hot and something was wrong. His gut had kept him alive for years, and he could feel it then—the absolute certainty that if he stayed there he was going to get hurt. He was never going to recover.

So he headed for the door. “I need to check the perimeter.”

She smiled the smile that meant he was an idiot. Because he was. Only an idiot would have gotten her a fucking ring.

“Do you mean you’re going to go walk around the ship?”

“Yes.” He stepped toward the door. He should sleep on a deck chair, that would show her.

“No!” she called. “It’s freezing out there!”

“That’s okay.” He grabbed the long cashmere coat he’d found in Mr. Michaelson’s suitcase. “I won’t be long.” He looked at her. “I promise.”

Zoe went into the bathroom and he slipped on the coat, lingering for a moment over a small pile of things on the dresser. She must have emptied her pockets after Paris because he saw the tube of lip balm. A few euros and a crumpled tissue. And that little card she’d thought they should use to find shelter at her old hotel. Had it really just been two days before? It seemed like a lifetime. He’d felt like another man then.

And that’s exactly what scared him.

Her

It was impossible. Literally. There had to be some law of physics that stated that if last night’s negligee was the teeniest, tiniest negligee in the world, then tonight’s negligee couldn’t be even teenier or tinier. That had to be a law! Didn’t it?

But that didn’t change the fact that it appeared to be true. Very, impossibly true.

And, worse, it didn’t change the fact that she . . . uh . . . liked it? A lot. And there was a small part of her that wondered if maybe Sawyer might like it too? Maybe he’d stare? Or stammer? His jaw might tick and his hands might flex and then . . .

She caught sight of the ring in the mirror and tried to remind herself it was all pretend.

Pretend ring and pretend husband. But the tingles in her fingers were very, very real. And they were terrifying. And she knew she had two options: crawl beneath the covers and pretend to be asleep when he got back? Or—

She fluffed her hair and walked into the bedroom, strategically positioned herself on top of the covers—just a little bit—and told herself she might as well enjoy being Mrs. Michaelson. For a little while. Because eventually, she was going to have to go back to being herself. Whoever that might be.

Him

The deck was empty and the moon was full, but the wind really was freezing. Sawyer turned up the collar of Mr. Michaelson’s coat and walked beside the railing, trying to outrun his thoughts.

So much of his training was about not having to think, to stop, to process. He had spent years honing his instincts and perfecting his skills, but somehow he’d ended up on a luxury river cruise anyway. In a tuxedo.

Fuck. His. Life.

From the front of the ship he could see a bridge approaching. Maybe it would be low enough that he could just reach up and grab on? He could leave. He should leave. Write a note telling her to stay in the cabin and order enough room service for two. The crew would believe it. He’d seen the knowing looks on Marc’s and Anthony’s faces. No one would question a thing if the honeymooners stayed in bed for the next six days.

Zoe could go on being Mrs. Michaelson. She could be safe inside their moving bubble. For a little while.

He should do it.

But bubbles burst. Always. And then what? She’d reach her destination and wander straight into Kozlov’s arms or a CIA sting. Or both. He really couldn’t rule out the possibility of both.

A shadow passed overhead, temporarily blocking out the moon, and he looked up at the bridge that he didn’t even try to grab, at the lifeline he didn’t take, wondering if his biggest threats were out here or in there. With her.

He was heading to the other end of the ship, trying not to think about the answer, when he slipped in some water on the deck. No. He looked down. Snow. There was snow on the deck.

No.

His blood went cold.

There were footprints.

He turned and let his eyes follow the snowy steps to where they began, right in the center of the deck. Then he looked back at the snow-covered bridge disappearing in their wake, and Sawyer didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t theorize or strategize.

He just ran like hell.

Her

She fell asleep.

Zoe didn’t know much about her real life, but she clearly wasn’t a great seductress because when she finally heard the door open she was definitely asleep and there was definitely a little drool on her chin and she had definitely gotten cold at some point and pulled the edge of the bedspread over her teeny tiny nightie, covering up all the good parts.

“I was starting to think you forgot about me.” She stretched but had to smile when the bed dipped behind her and a hand caressed the delicate skin of her neck, whisper soft and smelling like snow.

“I could never forget you . . . Alex.”

And then the hand on her throat began to squeeze.