The Blonde Identity (86)
Not a danger bang, the little voice in the back of her mind whispered. No. But that didn’t mean it was forever.
Six days after passing out in Paris Zoe was finally waking up. To the real world. And her real life. To whatever was supposed to happen next. She didn’t have to run anymore, but that didn’t mean she knew where to go. Chances were good no one was going to shoot at her tomorrow, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t scary. Her entire memory was about trying to stay alive, but Zoe was just starting to realize she had no idea how to live.
Without Sawyer.
She honestly didn’t know whether to be heartbroken or furious as she followed Hots into a hall then past a railing that looked down on a massive space teeming with people. It looked like something from the movies—a command center filled with screens and computers and people yelling things like, “Where’s my satellite?”
Was Sawyer down there? she wondered. Had the CIA dragged him back to Langley? Was he under arrest? Or did he just not care?
“We’re right out here.” As Hottington pushed open a big metal door, a cool wind blew against her face and it occurred to Zoe that she had no idea how long she’d been in that windowless room. She didn’t even know where she was, she realized as soon as she stepped outside and saw the big, nondescript building on the edge of what looked like a private airport. A jet was idling on the tarmac a hundred yards away, and it was all Zoe could do not to dig in her heels because something was wrong. Something was missing. Someone was missing.
Because Sawyer had told her he loved her; but then he’d had somebody pack her bags and ordered a plane. He’d told her he loved her. And now he wasn’t even going to say goodbye. Was this goodbye?
The jerkface.
“I have to tell you, Zoe”—Hots was still beside her, wheeling her luggage—“I’m impressed. You handled yourself extremely well. I doubt even Alex could have done better. I’ll have to read your books.” He gave her a smile, and Zoe felt herself start to blush because the Duke of Hottington had that effect on a girl.
“And”—he stopped and leaned closer—“I must say, I’m especially grateful to you for looking out for our man on the inside.”
It must have been the fatigue because Zoe wasn’t exactly sure what he was saying. “Excuse me?”
“He’s one of the best MI6 has ever had. So thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if we’d lost him.” A mischievous glint filled his eye—one that spoke of inside jokes and flirty touches and the kind of charm that could make a woman’s pants just melt away. It was all overwhelming and . . . familiar. So familiar that she struggled against a sudden wave of déjà vu.
And maybe that’s why she didn’t see him—didn’t feel him—until a deep voice said, “He has to say that. He’s my dad.”
Chapter Sixty-Five
Her
Zoe was aware, faintly, of Hots saying something about luggage and airplanes, but she wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy watching Sawyer walk across the tarmac, running a hand through thick hair that would someday go salt-and-pepper like his father’s. His father . . .
“The Duke of Hottington!” she exclaimed. “The Duke of Hottington . . . is your father! Gasp!”
He shook his head and flashed his quickest smile—the one he didn’t even know he had. “I don’t understand any of the things that you just said.”
“I couldn’t remember his name so I called him . . .” She trailed off and waved the words away. “Never mind.”
She looked at Sawyer’s rolled-up shirtsleeves, dark stubble, and tired eyes. She remembered walking through the streets of Paris and making a list, calling him the hottest guy she’d ever seen. She was wrong, of course. He was more than that—so much more. And she tried not to think about the suitcases he’d had collected—the jet that was waiting to take her away.
She didn’t want to think about any of the things that were real, so she just said, “Am I going to have to use your courtesy title now? Are you Viscount SexyPants? Is that—”
“We really should have someone check out that head wound.”
“But . . . you’re not British,” she said, like that was the only thing that mattered when, in fact, it was the only thing that didn’t.
“I am, actually. I’m both. My father was MI6. Is MI6. And my mother was American. I didn’t mean to lie. But by the time I realized you thought I was CIA it felt like it was easier to just go along with it. I’m sorry.”
Apprehension filled his eyes—like he wasn’t asking forgiveness for what he’d done. He was asking for what he was doing.
“You don’t have an accent.”
“Don’t I, love?” And there it was. The accent.
“No. Gasp. Put that thing away.”
“What?”
“You can’t just go around with an accent like that. And with your shirtsleeves rolled up? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Sawyer did that thing where he grinned down at the ground, and Zoe’s heart really did stop beating. Which was a good thing. Maybe that would keep it from breaking.
“Was any of it real?” The words slipped out and her voice cracked. Everything cracked. Because the jet was still idling . . . Still waiting . . . Still ready to take her to the other side of a whole, entire ocean. “Was any of it . . .”