The Blonde Identity (21)

“Oooh yesssss.”

“Don’t—”

“Here. Take a little bite.” She offered him the plate. “Just a nibble.”

“No nibbling. There’s no nibbling in covert operations!”

She picked up an olive and took the world’s daintiest bite then looked at him from beneath her lashes. “Your loss,” she whispered, and Sawyer’s mouth went dry.

“Come on.” He coughed and choked. “We’ve got to . . .” But she was already pulling the bedspread around her and turning over and over before giving another long, low sigh.

“Oh, this feels good.”

“Stop. You’re messing it up.”

“Of course the bed’s getting messed up.” She flashed a cheeky grin. “We’re on our honeymoon.”

“No. We’re—”

“It’s so warm”—she kept rolling—“and tight and—”

He made a sound that was part groan and part moan and, suddenly, she wasn’t the only one feeling tightness in the lower half of their body. “We have to get off this ship!”

“Why?” She tried to sit up, but she’d wound herself into the middle of a blanket burrito and now she was stuck. Which served her right. At this rate, Sawyer was going to need a cold shower. “Why can’t we stay right here?”

“We just . . . it’s not safe.”

“Fine.” She pulled her arms free and propped herself up on her elbows. She’d stopped making those erotic cheese and blanket noises and was, instead, staring daggers. He almost longed for the time when she was deeply in love with a piece of brie. It was better than being on the receiving end of a look that reminded him of Alex. “Do you know where my sister is?”

Because Alex. It would always come back to Alex and his mission and his job and his life. Beautiful women with pink cheeks and doe eyes had no place in Sawyer’s world, and he couldn’t let himself forget it.

“Well, do you?” She crossed her arms.

It was hard to make himself admit, “No. I don’t.”

“Do you know where we can find that flash drive?”

He was a little too quiet for a little too long before he swallowed. “No.”

“Do you have access to a nearby safe house that absolutely, positively will not blow up when we get there?”

That time, Sawyer had to think about the answer. There was a place they could go—a place that was secret. And safe. And a day’s drive away. But he hadn’t been there in decades, and he was really hoping to keep the streak going a little longer—preferably for the rest of his life.

“Well . . . is there?” she prompted, and slowly, he shook his head.

“No.”

“Do you have any idea how to stop this Kokopov—”

“Kozlov.”

“—person and end this thing?”

She sat there for a long time, willing to wait him out and make him say it. “No. I don’t.”

“Then where are we going to go? Huh? What are we going to do when we get there? We don’t know anything! Except my feet hurt. And my head hurts. And right now—at this moment—one hundred percent of my memories are about running, and I can’t . . .” Her lips quivered and her voice cracked and, with it, his defenses, his resolve—maybe even part of his soul. “I just can’t . . .”

“Hey.” He dropped down on the bed, but she was still too far away and wrapped up in way too many layers.

“I don’t know who I am!”

“I know.” He inched closer but she didn’t fall into his arms, which . . . well . . . he didn’t want her to anyway.

“I don’t know what happened to me or how I got to Paris or why or . . . I don’t know anything except this bed is very big and these sheets are very soft and those little cheeses are very good, and I just need something good, Sawyer. I just . . .” She wasn’t crying. It was like she’d lost her tears when she lost her money and her memories and her name. “I don’t know who I am.”

There were several hours of daylight left, but it was suddenly dark inside the honeymoon suite. Shadows lined her face, and he’d never felt more defenseless than when he sat there, watching her demons win.

Sawyer couldn’t tell her who she was. He couldn’t track down her memories. He might not even be able to track down her sister. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do something.

He looked around. There was a pad of paper and a pen by the phone, so he got up and grabbed them, tossed them on the bed beside her. “Do me a favor and get this pen to work, will you?”

At first, she just sat there, looking up at him like he was very much a useless man. Then she pulled the lid off with her teeth and spat it halfway across the room, a do I have to do everything? look on her face, but he leaned against the table, crossed his arms, and tried not to smile and call her a smart-ass.

“So let’s say we go with your plan, what then?” he asked her.

“I don’t know,” she whined. “What were we going to do if you hadn’t blown up your second favorite safe house with a snowball?”

“The snowball didn’t actually . . .” He rubbed a hand across his face as he trailed off. “I don’t know. I probably would have kept checking safe houses. Called up some old friends . . . or enemies.” He gave an ironic laugh. “Maybe her archnemesis has heard from her.”