The Blonde Identity: A Novel

So it turns out, if you plan a hostage exchange that results in the death of a rogue CIA operative, a criminal mastermind, and two henchmen, people are going to have a lot of questions. Or so Zoe thought as her life became a blur of snow and ice and whirling blades, badges and empty rooms and truly terrible coffee. Question after question, person after person, until Zoe started to wish she’d grabbed a parachute and followed her sister off that mountain.

“You must be tired.” The man on the other side of the table had probably given his name in the helicopter. She assumed he was MI6 because his accent was crisp and smart and he looked like the kind of man whose official title was His Grace, the Duke of Hottington—but everyone called him Hots for short—because that’s where Zoe’s mind went after eight cups of coffee.

“Where’s Sawyer? I really need to talk to—” Was he in trouble? Had he been arrested? Given a medal? Zoe had no idea. She just knew she needed Sawyer and a bathroom and not necessarily in that order. “Can I please talk to Sawyer?”

“In a bit.” Hots gave her the kind of self-deprecating smile they obviously taught at spy school. How else could he and Sawyer both be so good at it?

“I won’t keep you long. But I do need to show you something.” He laid a picture on the table. She looked down on snow and rocks and a bright blue strip of fabric discarded on the ground. “Our team found this at the base of the mountain.”

The parachute was ripped.

“She’s okay,” he rushed to add. “Or, at least, we assume so, because . . .” Hots dropped something else onto the table. “A courier delivered this an hour ago.”

The flash drive.

Hottington leaned closer, studying Zoe in the harsh overhead light. And Zoe heard it—“Courier? Why wouldn’t she bring it herself? Why—”

“I don’t know. But Alex is alive, Zoe. And no one is chasing her anymore. She’s alive, and, eventually she’ll stop running.”

Zoe didn’t realize how heavy that worry had been until she let herself put it down. It almost didn’t seem real, but Kozlov was dead and Collins was gone, and Alex was alive. Alex was going to be okay. So why did Zoe feel so awful?

“Miss Sterling?”

It took an embarrassingly long time to realize he was talking to her.

“Wait. Is that . . .”

Hottington ran a hand through thick, wavy hair that was a little more salt than pepper, but it looked good on him because he had a Y chromosome and life was inherently unfair. He studied her confused expression and realized—“You didn’t know your last name, did you?”

She shook her head because, evidently, she’d forgotten how to speak, too.

He put his elbows on the table and leaned a little closer—a posture that screamed you didn’t hear this from me.

“Officially, our friends at Langley insist the serum Agent Collins injected you with doesn’t exist. But, unofficially, they assure me it isn’t fatal and, in time, could largely wear off.” He toyed with the edge of the photograph. “Zoe, do you mind me asking, what do you remember?”

She thought about hospital beds and Christmas mornings and Alex pushing her on the tire swing in their backyard. She could recall the smell of new books and the sound rain makes on rooftops. But, mostly, she remembered Sawyer. Dancing on the Shimmering Sea and fighting for the last piece of bacon and—

“Ms. Sterling . . .”

“Right. Yes. Uh . . . Collins brought me to Paris. He said Alex was in trouble and he needed me to Parent Trap my way into the bank.”

Hots choked back a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Parent Trapping? It’s a classic identical twins trope that . . .” Oh, she wished people would keep up. “Anyway, I told him no one would believe I was Alex. Then he gave me the shot and said that in thirty minutes even I wouldn’t know who I was. So I grabbed his gun and got away. I woke up later. In the snow.”

“And that’s where Agent Sawyer found you?”

Agent Sawyer. Zoe tried not to think about the look in his eyes when Hottington and his swarm of commandos appeared overhead.

“Yes. That’s when Agent Sawyer found me.”

She looked around the nondescript room in the nondescript building and fought the feeling that she was once again waking up with no clue where she was or what was going on. She was once again waking up alone.

“What happens now?” Hots probably thought she was asking about Kozlov or Collins or Alex. He didn’t know she was talking about dinner. And where she was going to sleep and when she was going to go home and what was she going to do when she got there?

And Sawyer. She still hadn’t seen Sawyer. Talked to Sawyer. “Will Agent Saw—”

There was a knock on the door, and a young woman entered, rolling a large suitcase and carry-on.

“Excellent! Thank you, Sims. Right on time,” Hots said then turned to Zoe. “Agent Sawyer asked that we go ahead and retrieve your luggage from Paris. And there’s a jet standing by to take you home.”

The words sounded fine, but then she heard them. Luggage. Jet. Home. “Agent Sawyer . . . asked for that?”

“Oh yes.” Hots gave an indulgent smile. “Insisted on it. We’ll have more questions for you, eventually. But for now, you can relax. You’re safe, Zoe. You’re free. You must be eager to get back to your old life.”

Her old life.

“Now, come on. Let’s get you on the jet.”

On. The. Jet.

“But I thought . . .” Zoe trailed off, because what did she actually think was going to happen? That she and Sawyer were going to ride off into the sunset together? Covert and undercover and kiss for the rest of their lives? It was ridiculous. It was insane. It was . . .

Not a danger bang, the little voice in the back of her mind whispered. No. But that didn’t mean it was forever.

Six days after passing out in Paris Zoe was finally waking up. To the real world. And her real life. To whatever was supposed to happen next. She didn’t have to run anymore, but that didn’t mean she knew where to go. Chances were good no one was going to shoot at her tomorrow, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t scary. Her entire memory was about trying to stay alive, but Zoe was just starting to realize she had no idea how to live.

Without Sawyer.

She honestly didn’t know whether to be heartbroken or furious as she followed Hots into a hall then past a railing that looked down on a massive space teeming with people. It looked like something from the movies—a command center filled with screens and computers and people yelling things like, “Where’s my satellite?”

Was Sawyer down there? she wondered. Had the CIA dragged him back to Langley? Was he under arrest? Or did he just not care?

“We’re right out here.” As Hottington pushed open a big metal door, a cool wind blew against her face and it occurred to Zoe that she had no idea how long she’d been in that windowless room. She didn’t even know where she was, she realized as soon as she stepped outside and saw the big, nondescript building on the edge of what looked like a private airport. A jet was idling on the tarmac a hundred yards away, and it was all Zoe could do not to dig in her heels because something was wrong. Something was missing. Someone was missing.

Because Sawyer had told her he loved her; but then he’d had somebody pack her bags and ordered a plane. He’d told her he loved her. And now he wasn’t even going to say goodbye. Was this goodbye?

The jerkface.

“I have to tell you, Zoe”—Hots was still beside her, wheeling her luggage—“I’m impressed. You handled yourself extremely well. I doubt even Alex could have done better. I’ll have to read your books.” He gave her a smile, and Zoe felt herself start to blush because the Duke of Hottington had that effect on a girl.

“And”—he stopped and leaned closer—“I must say, I’m especially grateful to you for looking out for our man on the inside.”

It must have been the fatigue because Zoe wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying. “Excuse me?”

“He’s one of the best MI6 has ever had. So thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if we’d lost him.” A mischievous glint filled his eye—one that spoke of inside jokes and flirty touches and the kind of charm that could make a woman’s pants just melt away. It was all overwhelming and . . . familiar. So familiar that she struggled against a sudden wave of déjà vu.

And maybe that’s why she didn’t see him—didn’t feel him—until a deep voice said, “He has to say that. He’s my dad.”