The Blonde Identity (52)

For a moment he just stood, heart pounding, skin sweating, not sure whether he should laugh or cry or kiss that sly smile right off her face. So he just dove in and shouted, “Drive.”





Chapter Forty-Two





Her


Sawyer didn’t actually let her drive. The jerkface. But Zoe couldn’t be too mad because the SUV was warm and the seat was big and she could lean back, feet on the dash, gazing out at the mountains and valleys that were frosted with snow and filtered through twilight.

They’d made it out of town, and he kept the speedometer at exactly three kilometers over the speed limit because, according to Sawyer, anything slower looks suspicious and anything faster gets you stopped.

Most of the snow had blown off the hood, but some of the windows were still covered in frost, giving the light an icy blue haze that made it look like something from a dream. And maybe it was? She had a head injury, after all.

But Zoe wanted to at least pretend the man behind the wheel was real—the way one big, rough hand gripped the steering wheel and his eyes scanned the road, looking for anything that could possibly hurt her.

“What?” he asked after a while.

“What what?”

“I can feel you staring,” he said, but he never even glanced her way.

“I was just thinking . . . you know . . . I could be a car thief.”

He didn’t laugh, but she saw his lips tip up. She’d started to learn that, from Sawyer, that was the same thing. “You aren’t a car thief.”

She took her feet from the dash and turned to him. “The Fast and Furious franchise had to have been inspired by someone—”

“You are neither fast nor furious.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’m probably more of a regular thief. You know, the kind that steals diamond necklaces while wearing ball gowns.”

The lips moved again, and she hated how warm that gesture made her. “I’d hardly call that a regular thief.”

“I probably strap them to my thigh with a garter belt . . .”

The big hand gripped and regripped the steering wheel and he swallowed like he had something in his throat. “Yeah.” Sawyer coughed. “That could be . . . uh . . . it.”

Zoe didn’t even try not to smile.

When they passed a road sign she tried to see how many kilometers it was until Zurich, but it wasn’t listed. In fact, she hadn’t seen it on any of the signs, which made her ask, “How far are we from Zurich?”

She thought he was probably doing the calculations in his head because it took him a long time to say, “We can’t exactly take a direct route.”

“I know, but we’ve been driving for hours . . .” She sounded like a grouchy child who really needed a juice box and some cheesy crackers. Which, come to think of it, Zoe really wanted some juice and cheesy crackers.

“Then take a nap.”

“I will. As soon as you tell me when we’ll get to Zurich.” But there was something in the set of his jaw, the look in his eyes.

“We’re not going to Zurich—”

“You promised!”

“—yet, okay. We’re not going to Zurich yet.”

“Maybe it’s the half-dozen intelligence agencies after us, but it feels like we’re in a time-sensitive situation here.”

“We are! It is!”

“Then—”

“We slept on a floor last night,” he reminded her. “We’re wearing clothes I stole from a laundromat. And I’m pretty sure we both smell like river water. So, no. We’re not going to one of the most secure banks in the world . . .” He looked at her. “. . . yet. We’re going to take hot showers and get a good night’s sleep, and then we’re going to think this through before we do anything. Okay?”

He was saying all the right things for all the right reasons, but Zoe couldn’t shake the feeling that there was way more to the story.

So she twisted in her seat and took off the heavy sweater. It was too hot and she was too frustrated. She didn’t realize her shirt was gaping open until she felt his gaze on her—on the scars that covered her chest.

“It’s not what you think,” he told her.

“Oh?”

“I was staring at your boobs,” he said, and she couldn’t help herself—she smiled.

“See. That was a well-delivered lie. Good job.”

“Thank you.”

She could go hours without thinking of the scars and wondering exactly what had tried to kill her and was it ever going to come back and finish the job? But it was out there now and Zoe couldn’t help it.

“You know, I keep thinking, I should probably get another low-cut dress? Maybe a halter top?”

“Well, you won’t get any complaints from me but you might get cold.”

“True.” She gave a sad smile. “But maybe then people would stop trying to kill me. No one would mistake me for Alex then, would they?” She gave a sad laugh, honestly not sure whether or not she was joking.

Zoe didn’t realize she was rubbing the scar until she caught him staring, and she pulled her hand away like it had burned her. “I don’t know why I keep doing that. I guess my muscle memory isn’t the butt-kicking kind?” And she couldn’t help but feel incredibly disappointed.