The Blonde Identity (36)

She caught sight of the ring in the mirror and tried to remind herself it was all pretend.

Pretend ring and pretend husband. But the tingles in her fingers were very, very real. And they were terrifying. And she knew she had two options: crawl beneath the covers and pretend to be asleep when he got back? Or—

She fluffed her hair and walked into the bedroom, strategically positioned herself on top of the covers—just a little bit—and told herself she might as well enjoy being Mrs. Michaelson. For a little while. Because eventually, she was going to have to go back to being herself. Whoever that might be.





Him


The deck was empty and the moon was full, but the wind really was freezing. Sawyer turned up the collar of Mr. Michaelson’s coat and walked beside the railing, trying to outrun his thoughts.

So much of his training was about not having to think, to stop, to process. He had spent years honing his instincts and perfecting his skills, but somehow he’d ended up on a luxury river cruise anyway. In a tuxedo.

Fuck. His. Life.

From the front of the ship he could see a bridge approaching. Maybe it would be low enough that he could just reach up and grab on? He could leave. He should leave. Write a note telling her to stay in the cabin and order enough room service for two. The crew would believe it. He’d seen the knowing looks on Marc’s and Anthony’s faces. No one would question a thing if the honeymooners stayed in bed for the next six days.

Zoe could go on being Mrs. Michaelson. She could be safe inside their moving bubble. For a little while.

He should do it.

But bubbles burst. Always. And then what? She’d reach her destination and wander straight into Kozlov’s arms or a CIA sting. Or both. He really couldn’t rule out the possibility of both.

A shadow passed overhead, temporarily blocking out the moon, and he looked up at the bridge that he didn’t even try to grab, at the lifeline he didn’t take, wondering if his biggest threats were out here or in there. With her.

He was heading to the other end of the ship, trying not to think about the answer, when he slipped in some water on the deck. No. He looked down. Snow. There was snow on the deck.

No.

His blood went cold.

There were footprints.

He turned and let his eyes follow the snowy steps to where they began, right in the center of the deck. Then he looked back at the snow-covered bridge disappearing in their wake, and Sawyer didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t theorize or strategize.

He just ran like hell.





Her


She fell asleep.

Zoe didn’t know much about her real life, but she clearly wasn’t a great seductress because when she finally heard the door open she was definitely asleep and there was definitely a little drool on her chin and she had definitely gotten cold at some point and pulled the edge of the bedspread over her teeny tiny nightie, covering up all the good parts.

“I was starting to think you forgot about me.” She stretched but had to smile when the bed dipped behind her and a hand caressed the delicate skin of her neck, whisper soft and smelling like snow.

“I could never forget you . . . Alex.”

And then the hand on her throat began to squeeze.





Chapter Twenty-Nine





Him


Sawyer was going to wake up the whole ship and he didn’t give a single, solitary damn as he ran the length of the deck and down the stairs, feet pounding on teak and then plush carpet, room numbers flying by fast but not fast enough.

He was probably wrong, he told himself.

It was probably nothing, he swore.

There’s no way Zoe was actually in danger.

He lied.

And he knew it. He knew it like he knew his heart was fire and his blood was gasoline. Like he knew it was his fault for staying in the safe, cushy confines of the ship. He’d stopped running. He’d stopped hiding. He’d stopped listening to the voice in the back of his head that told him there were no safe places or happy memories, only the missions you live through and, ultimately, the one you don’t.

So Sawyer kept running.

And he prayed he wasn’t too late.





Her


The good thing about being an amnesiac is that when your life flashes before your eyes it doesn’t take very long.

So when the big man began to squeeze, what Zoe felt were Sawyer’s hands on her throat that afternoon, gentle but strong. What she heard was Sawyer’s voice, saying, Tuck your chin down to protect your windpipe. Put your hands here. Put your foot there. Leverage your hips up and—

“Flip.”

Zoe’s voice was full of gravel as she watched the big man fly off the bed and land on the floor. She tried to scramble away, but she was still tangled up in the blankets and a calloused hand grabbed her ankle, pulling her back.

She reached for the bedside table. Clawing. Grabbing. She had to try something . . . She had to do something . . . So when her hand landed on a solid object, she didn’t think. She just grabbed it and swung.

Russian curses filled the air. Blood splattered, red dashes across dark mirrors. But then the door flew open and Sawyer was standing in the dim light of the hallway, looking from Zoe, breathless on the bed, to the big man bleeding on the floor.

“Did you just break an assassin’s nose with a telephone?”