The Blonde Identity (18)

She and Sawyer scooted back just as a woman came up a staircase, a young man on her heels.

The woman, Melanie, stopped on the little deck and looked back at the younger man. “The Michaelsons’ flight was canceled because of the storm.”

“But they shipped their luggage ahead. It’s here. What should I . . .”

“Take it to storage. Oh, and bring up a case of white? Lorenzo’s running low.”

The young man must have said something, but the words were lost on the wind and soon there was nothing but the sound of birds overhead and the water lapping against the hull and . . . silence.

The deck below them stayed empty, and Sawyer studied her, a now-or-never look on his face as he slid over the edge. Maybe she really was afraid of heights, she realized as she looked down and he looked up, impatience all over his face.

“Come on,” he whispered.

“It’s high.”

“It’s not even ten feet.”

“That’s high!”

“You’ve jumped off two bridges in the last ninety minutes!”

“People were shooting at me! Guns are scarier than heights. It goes guns”—she drew an imaginary line in the air then dropped her hand ten inches—“heights. Everybody knows that!”

“I have a gun,” he mumbled under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering pushing her overboard. But instead he held up both arms like she was a toddler who was refusing to go down the slide. Oh, how she wished there were a slide.

“Come on.” He cast a nervous glance in the direction of the disappearing woman. “I’ll catch you.”

Maybe it was the words . . . Maybe it was the gesture . . . Maybe it was the tone . . . But somehow she believed him. Sure, it was probably just because a sprained ankle or broken leg would slow them down even more. But why didn’t matter. It was enough that it was true, so she inched toward the edge.

“Any day now . . .”

And rolled onto her belly.

“Oh, we’re doing it this way,” he said, stepping closer.

And lowered herself down as far as she could go.

She was just starting to contemplate how long her arms could hold her when she heard a chuckle and felt the cold wind on the back of her thighs.

“Uh, you may want to drop . . .”

“In a second.”

“Okay. But just so you know your skirt got caught on something and I’m looking at your—”

She let go. She fell.

And, sure enough, he caught her.





Chapter Sixteen





Her


The balcony led to a vacant room that must have been a restaurant. It was all glass and chrome and rich, soft leather. She wanted to lie down in the round booth in the corner and sleep for a thousand years. She wanted to make snow angels on the plush carpet.

Carpet angels, she thought. Those had to be a thing.

But she stayed behind Sawyer because if she was in front of Sawyer there was no guarantee he wouldn’t look at her butt again and he’d probably seen enough of that for a lifetime. So behind Sawyer it was.

And Sawyer kept moving. Through the nice, empty restaurant and out the doors, then down the walkway that ran along the edge of the ship, water rippling beside them.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Stay on my six. Keep your head down and don’t engage. The water is cold but not freezing. If you have to, jump. Then—”

“Head to the nearest Metro station, take the first eastbound train three stops and wait.”

He looked back at her, an annoyed gleam in his eye. “I’m trying to decide if you’re being sarcastic.”

She actually had to think about the answer. “You know? I think I might always be a little sarcastic?”

He looked like he preferred being shot at as he mumbled, “Great.”

They crept farther down the deck, but eventually he raised a fist into the air as if she was supposed to know what that meant.

“What does that—” She heard it then, the tinkling of glasses and the low hum of small talk floating up from somewhere below.

“Back up,” he said and she spun, but it was too late. The woman from before was already heading toward them, a very skeptical look on her face.

“Hello. I’m afraid you’re on the wrong deck, the captain’s reception is in the promenade lounge—one floor down.”

She saw his hand inching toward his waistband—and the gun. Not that he was going to use it . . . Surely he wasn’t going to use it! But it was probably like breathing to him. Like saying excuse me whenever you heard a sneeze. But still . . . gun! And she couldn’t help herself, she lunged between him and the woman who was carrying a tray of . . . ooh! Shrimp!

“Yes. Right. We were just exploring the boat. Or ship? You call it a ship, don’t you? I get so confused. Jet lag! Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” She cast a too-big grin over her shoulder at Sawyer.

“Yes,” he said coldly.

She watched the woman—Melanie—take in her ripped tights and too big coat. Their tired eyes and windblown hair. “I thought I knew everyone on board, but . . .”

“Oh!” She didn’t know where the words came from—she just knew it was too late to hold them back. “We were running soooooo late. First, our flight was canceled. The weather! Who knew Paris got blizzards? Then we got a different flight on a different airline into a different airport. But the car service had a flat tire—we are never using them again, let me tell you. And, well, long story short, we made it! Didn’t we, sweetheart?”