The Blonde Identity (64)

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and looked up at him, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So what you’re saying is . . . there is a spy school?” It was supposed to be a joke, so why did Zoe feel like crying? And, worse, why did Sawyer have to see it? Stupid Elite Spy School—

“Hey, it’s okay.” His hands were warm and gentle as they cupped her face. She felt his thumbs brushing across her cheeks, wiping away the tears that were seeping out of the corner of her eyes. Stupid, stupid eyes. She had to make them stop, but Sawyer was just right there, so tall and strong and—

Something snapped inside him. She saw the moment it happened because he reached for her hand. “Get back in the car. We’re leaving.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Of course I have to do this.

“We can find another way.”

There is no other way.

“We have other options.”

We’re all out of other options.

She thought the words but couldn’t say them—she couldn’t say anything, so she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him a little too hard for a little too long, and when she pulled back, his breath was a whisper on her lips.

“Don’t go,” he said. “We can run. We can hide. Put Zurich and Kozlov in our rearview mirror and never look back.”

It was so tempting, to run, to pretend. She’d woken up in Paris, a woman with no past, but as she stood in that dark square in Zurich, all she wanted to be was a woman with a future. And there was only one way that could happen.

“I have to know why I had that card. I have to help Alex. I have to figure out who I am,” she said, but she saw something in Sawyer’s eyes, pain and fear and heartbreak.

“Zoe.” He pulled her closer and she felt his breath on her skin. “You don’t have to do this for her.”

“I’m not.” She kissed him again, soft and quick. “I’m doing this for us.”

Then she walked away. High heels. Tight leather. A sway that didn’t really go with her particular body but she kept it anyway, words like a mantra in the chilly air.

“I’m Alex. I’m a spy. I’m a badass. I’m—” She slipped on some ice and fell. “I’m okay!”





Chapter Fifty





Her


“Welcome back . . . madame.” The man in the alcove on the other side of the doors looked polished and professional and . . . scared. Yup. Very, extremely frightened. Wide eyes and pale skin and a voice that cracked every so often. “I’m afraid . . . That is to say, the time is . . .” He gulped. And the next part came out all at once. “We will be closing soon but whatever madame needs we will accommodate.”

“Oh, I know you’re closing soon. I won’t be long!”

“Don’t forget, you’re Alex.” Sawyer’s voice was a warning in her ear, so Zoe stood a little straighter but she couldn’t decide what to do with her hands because they were always there, hanging off the ends of her arms. And speaking of arms . . . where were they supposed to go? Maybe—

“If madame would follow me . . .”

The man was looking at her pointedly, gesturing for her to follow him through a metal detector. He held out a basket.

“What’s this for?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “It is for your . . . uh . . . metal items, madame.”

“I don’t have any . . .”

“Your knives, madame.” The man lowered his gaze and his voice. “You will need to leave your knives.”

“Ohhhhh. My knives!” Zoe said as if it had somehow slipped her mind that she was a dangerous spy who was always armed to the teeth. “I . . . uh . . . left them in the car. You know how it is. These pants don’t have very good pockets. Which is what’s wrong with pants. I’m more of an A-line dress kind of—”

“Okay, Alex,” Sawyer whispered in her ear and she stopped talking.

“No knives today! So should I just . . .” She motioned to the metal detector. “I’ll just hop on through—”

“No hopping,” Sawyer warned. “Do not—”

She hopped. She couldn’t help it.

The attendant looked surprised when not a single alarm was triggered, but he quickly collected himself and led her to another room. This one was larger, grander. But it still didn’t look like a bank. More like the lobby of a hotel where a sitting US senator would take an extremely high-end prostitute, or so Zoe thought as the greeter handed her off to a woman in a burgundy blazer.

“Welcome back, ma’am.” The woman had a crisp British accent and sounded like someone who had once worked at Buckingham Palace but left for this place because it was more exclusive. “Your number, please?” She slid a pen and piece of paper across the marble counter.

Zoe hadn’t been expecting that and, for a second, it threw her. She picked up the pen and started to write but it felt off somehow, like she was in a play and had missed her cue so she blurted out the line that no one was waiting for.

“I’d like to see my box. My safe-deposit box. Which I have in this establishment—”

“Easy,” Sawyer soothed. “You belong there and you’re doing great. Just take a deep breath.”