The Blonde Identity (33)

“Zoe . . .”

She slammed her palm into the glass, so he reached around her to release the latch. The door slid open, and she rushed outside and gripped the rail.

“I could be wrong,” he told her, but she just stood there, pulling frigid air into her lungs like she wanted to freeze herself from the inside out.

“That happen a lot?” She cut a look over her shoulder.

“More than I’d like.” He wasn’t making a joke and he didn’t smile.

“Is there anything . . . Is there anything I can do to help her?”

He’d lain beside her all night, listening to her breathe and coming up with plans—dozens of them—one after the other. But there wasn’t a single option where she wasn’t likely to get hurt, and Alex would hate him if he got her sister killed. Worse, he was pretty sure he’d hate himself. So that’s what made him say, “No.”

His hands were on her shoulders then, turning her, making her look at him—making her see.

“I may be wrong, Zoe. Alex is smart and ruthless and . . . If I was going to bet on anyone, it would be her. They may not have her. Hell, she may have them, for all I know. I just . . . I just want you to know that in this business . . . in this life . . . people like Alex—and me—we don’t get a happy ending.”

She looked at him with more pity and compassion than he’d seen in decades. “Then what do you get?”

Not you, he thought. I’ll never get you. He wasn’t sure where that thought had come from but, in the end, it didn’t matter.

“If we’re lucky? Another mission.”

“Okay.” She belted the robe tight and looked out over the icy landscape. “And us?” Us? Us? There is no . . . “Then what do we do? What do I do? Where do I go? What . . . What do I do?”

As a spy, there were three questions Sawyer asked every moment of every day.

Who can I trust?

What do I need?

And how do I get out?

What he hated more than anything was that, when he looked at her, the answers to those questions were as blank as her memories.

So he drew a deep breath and said, “Does Mrs. Michaelson have anything besides skimpy lingerie and backless dresses?”

She choked out a laugh, her breath foggy in the cold air. “You have something against lingerie and dresses?”

Sawyer bit back a grin. “I do not. But they’re not exactly appropriate for what I want to do next.”

She sounded genuinely leery when she asked, “What’s that?”





Chapter Twenty-Six





Him


“You want my hands where?”

“You heard me.”

“I’ll hurt you.”

“Lady, you wish you could—”

And then she hurt him. Not that she meant to. But she was stronger now that she was rested, and the kick, well, he didn’t exactly see it coming.

They were back on the top deck, but the crew had raised the sunshade and set up the folding chairs. A few people dozed while others chatted, but no one paid any attention to the honeymooners sparring at the front of the ship. The wind was stronger up there with nothing to break it, but Sawyer didn’t mind. He liked being able to see what was coming.

But as he looked at the woman in his arms, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the real danger was already there.

“What if I try this?” Zoe swung her elbow and he ducked, dragging her hands behind her back and pulling her close. It wasn’t the first time he’d shown her a type of hold. But it was the first time he didn’t want to tell her how to break it.

“How do you get out?” he whispered in her ear.

“Kick to the knee?” She tried it. “Headbutt?” He evaded.

Then he whispered, “You could flip me.”

“Noooooo.” Zoe glanced over her shoulder, wind in her hair, cheeks pink from the cold and the exertion. She didn’t look like Alex then, not even a little bit. And, suddenly, he knew that she was far more dangerous to him than her sister would ever be because, sometimes, when he looked at her, Sawyer forgot. His mission and his training and his life. She made him forget he wasn’t Mr. Michaelson and he never, ever would be which made her the most lethal twin of all.

“Show me! Show me!” She practically bounced she was so excited.

“You have to get close. Closer.” He pulled her toward him. “Grip tight.”

“Here?”

He felt her smaller hand on his arm. “Yeah. Tighter. Now step in and—”

In the next moment he was flying through the air and landing with a thud on the deck, staring up at her.

“Oh my gosh! Maybe I am good at this. Maybe I’m a professional cage fighter. Maybe—”

He swept her leg and brought her down—hard—landing on top of his body.

His hands cradled her ribs, and he could have sworn he felt her shiver. He wanted to hold her tight and keep her warm, but he just said, “You aren’t a cage fighter.”

She looked down at him from beneath the curtain of honey-colored hair. “Well, my job is definitely dangerous with a lot of authority. Like FBI agent. Or junior high school principal.”

“Yeah.” His hands itched to slide—to move. He watched her lips as she licked them. “That’s probably it.”