The Blonde Identity (11)

“Just try to look natural,” he told her.

“None of this is natural!” she shouted, then gave the quietest scream he’d ever heard.

“Okay. Maybe try a little harder than that.”

He pulled her tighter against him and felt her sink into his side. Maybe because she understood the cover but more than likely because she was simply exhausted. Hell, even he was tired and he wasn’t walking around on stilts and with a concussion.

He wouldn’t have blamed her for complaining or arguing or just lying down in the street and giving up, but she kept walking on those impossible heels, and he knew, suddenly, that Alex wasn’t the only tough one in the family. With every icy step his respect for her grew a little more.

“So what was that back there?” she asked when they reached the end of the block.

He didn’t let himself look back. “Kozlov likes motion-sensitive booby traps—the kind that go boom with a little vibration.”

“Boom?” she echoed, sounding very young and very sleepy. Damn concussions.

“Boom.”

“So now we go to one of your other safe houses? Maybe one that’s close? And warm? And full of food and first aid essentials?”

She sounded so hopeful—like there was some place on Earth where they’d both be truly safe. But Sawyer had learned a long time ago that safety wasn’t just an illusion—it was a lie. And it would get you killed.

“Now we go to Plan B.” He steered her toward a sidewalk café. The tables had been cleared of snow and set with crisp white linens but no one looked twice as he pulled a butter knife from a tray and slid it up his sleeve in one smooth motion.

“Plan B requires a knife!”

“Calm down. It’s a butter knife. On a scale from one to machete, butter knife is down . . .” He gestured toward the ground and risked a glance at her.

“That’s what has me worried.”

Honey-colored hair fell across her shoulders in a wave, and the beret sat on her head at a jaunty angle that served to hide her growing bruise. She was bundled tightly inside that cashmere coat, the belt tied with a flourish, so all in all she didn’t look like a woman on the run. She didn’t even look like Alex, which was the idea, of course. But it made him forget who she was and why she was with him.

That’s the risk you run with covert operations—not that you’ll forget your lies but that, someday, you’ll start to believe them.

They weren’t a couple out for a walk in the snow. They hadn’t woken up naked and sated and spooned together beneath the weight of a warm duvet. And yet there she was—gazing up at him with her big green eyes and rosy cheeks . . . She looked so pure and good that it was like biting into something way too sweet. Sawyer wasn’t used to it. He felt his breath catch. But that was probably because of the cold. Or the smoke. Or both.

She pulled the balm from her pocket and ran it across her lips—rubbed them together for good measure.

Yeah. It was definitely both.

“Trust me, there’s no need to be worried,” he told her.

“Oh?” She brightened.

“You should be terrified,” he said then pulled her toward Plan B, praying like hell that he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.





Chapter Ten





Her


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.