The Blonde Identity (23)

She raised her arms and stretched. Hair smushed. Cheeks red. She’d gotten hot, he realized, but that must have come as a relief after twelve hours of freezing.

“So are they going to kill me now or did you talk them into coming back to kill me later?”

If it hadn’t been for all the damn mirrors he wouldn’t have even known he was smiling—wouldn’t have known to stop it.

“No.” He rolled the massive suitcases into the room. “It was the butler.”

“We have a butler!” She shot upright but swayed a little.

“Hey.” He bolted toward the bed.

“Head rush,” she said. “I’m fine.” And he believed her because she was already clawing her way out of the blankets and heading toward the suitcases.

“Darn it. They’re locked,” she said, like that was that—no force on earth can possibly bust through the locks that come standard on overpriced luggage. Then she remembered. “Wait! You’re a spy! You can pick locks! Ooh!” She was already pushing the smaller of the two bags in his direction.

“Twelve hours I keep you alive and the thing you’re impressed by is that I might be able to get into those suitcases?” he complained but reached for his kit.

“First, I’m pretty sure that we kept each other alive. I was very instrumental in plans B, C, and D-point-one. Second, are you saying you can’t get into these suitcases? Because—”

The first bag was already opening with a pop.

“Ooh! Excellent.” She dropped onto the floor—onto her knees. “You know, you’re more helpful than you look.” She was staring up at him with her bed-mussed hair, and it took him three full seconds to remember that he should have been insulted.

“This is what you consider helpful?”

But she was too busy throwing clothes across the bed to answer. Pants and blazers and ties. She was like a tiny tornado ripping through a department store that caters to dudes who have a regular caddy at the club.

“Shoot. This one’s yours.” She reached for the other, even larger, suitcase and—with otherworldly strength—pushed it in his direction. “Do me. Do me.”

He audibly groaned. “You need to—”

“What?” she asked, looking way too innocent for a woman who was currently eye level with his crotch.

“Never mind,” he said, and two seconds later, the lock sprang open.

What followed was a whirlwind of silks and cashmeres and satin. A whole lot of satin. He tried very, very pointedly not to look at the satin. But it was hard, what with the low sounds of pleasure that were coming from the back of her throat. “Ohhhh. Yes . . . Oh, that feels so good. Oh, look!”

“I’m not looking!” he said a little too quickly.

“Flats!” She was pulling a pair of shoes to her chest and rocking them like a baby.

“Are they your size?”

“I don’t care. They’ll fit me. I’ll make them fit me.” She closed her eyes. “I love being Mrs. Michaelson.”

He had to admit, as covers went, he’d had worse. They were warm and dry and had plenty of food and water. And they were technically moving. For now. Plus, he hated to admit it, but there’s a limit to what the human body can take. Every operative knows that fatigue doesn’t just make you slow, it makes you sloppy. And in Sawyer’s world, sloppy almost always makes you dead.

Zoe must have read his mind because she eyed him. “Did you sleep?”

He bit back a laugh. “Wasn’t sleepy.”

Maybe he was losing his touch—or maybe she was just getting to know him—because she arched an eyebrow. “Liar.”

She gave him a mocking side-eye glance, and, damn, she looked better. Alive. Skin flushed and eyes bright. And a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that she should have looked more like Alex now that she wasn’t dead on her feet, but somehow, she looked even less like her sister.

Alex always looked like she was in on a secret. But Zoe looked like she was in on a joke—like at any moment she was going to say knock, knock and the whole world was going to lean close enough to whisper who’s there?

He’d never known anyone so alive, and he suddenly felt it like a weight in his chest—like he’d never be able to forgive himself if he couldn’t keep her that way.

“Do you mind if I take the first shower?” Zoe was already grabbing a tiny green bottle of mineral water from the tiny fridge and pulling together an armful of Mrs. Michaelson’s tiny clothing.

“Knock yourself out,” Sawyer said. A moment later, the door clicked shut and the water turned on and he just stood there, trying not to think about a wet, naked Zoe on the other side of the wall. It might not have been so bad if he hadn’t noticed the tuxedo staring back at him from the pile of clothes, taunting him, like it was waiting for 007 to come and claim it.

“Fuck James Bond,” Sawyer said to no one but ten thousand versions of his own reflection. He wasn’t going to be that kind of spy—that kind of man. He wasn’t going to seduce Zoe—use Zoe. Not if his life depended on it.

But then a sound echoed through the quiet room. A crash. Breaking glass.

And a woman’s scream.

A moment later, he was vaulting over the bed and bursting into the bathroom only to be hit by a cloud of steam. Zoe was just a blonde blur in the haze.