Page 11 of The Blonde Identity

“Well, I have amnesia, which meansnothingis familiar. So—” She gave him a double thumbs-up and wished it were a different finger.

“Hey!” He was jogging after her.

“I’m trying to make a dignified exit here!” she snapped back.

“Was that before or after you humped a snowbank?”

She turned abruptly, suddenly grateful for her anger. Really, it was the best medicine. Her body was full of adrenaline and rage.

“Hey!” he shouted. So much for the low profile. “If you want to get yourself killed, fine. You want to spend the foreseeable future being waterboarded? Be my guest. But I can help you. I am offering to help you. Come on.” When he spoke again, his voice was soft and low. “Let me help you.”

“Why?”

“So you’ll be safe.”

“What do you care if I’m safe?”

He looked up at the snowy sky and drew a deep breath. “I guess I’m just trying to be the good guy.”

“I thought the good guys were trying to kill all the people who look like me?”

“Yeah.” She started to change his name toMr.Looks Hot When He SmirksGuybecause she got a little dizzy when he said, “Well, lucky for you, I’m not all good.”

Chapter Eight

Her

So that was how she ended up following a strange man with a gun through the predawn streets of Paris, stumbling along, trying to match his long strides with her own.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We have to get off the street.” He pushed her down a snowy alleyway and glanced back over his shoulder. “Streets bad. Shelter good,” he said like she was a kindergartner, which wasn’t fair at all. Most kindergartners know their own names.

The wind seemed stronger then, snow swirling like a tiny blizzard, and she was momentarily grateful for his broad shoulders and deep voice. Even the slightly condescending tone she could handle because anger was like a fire now, her only source of warmth.

She wanted to ask him his name or his story. She wanted him to say it was going to be okay. She wanted to demand more details about this destination—this plan. But she also didn’t want to jinx it because getting off the street meant no more walking and no more walking meant no more icy toes and uncomfortable boots. And maybe even no more shooting if a girl wanted to aim superhigh.

“So I don’t suppose we can just... I don’t know...asksomeonewhere my hotel is and pop by real quick?”

“You want topop bythe hotel they may or may not know about?” He didn’t actually laugh, but he gave the kind of breath that went with one. “Yeah. That’s the one place we willnotbe going.”

He peeked around the corner of the alley then took off walking down the snowy street, totally indifferent to the fact that she was probably down to six functioning toes by that point.

“But my clothes!”

“We’ll get you new clothes.”

“My passport!” she tried.

His laugh was as cold as the wind. “Yeah. You’re definitely going to need a new passport.”

“But—” She stumbled, sliding on the ice, and a strong arm wrapped around her, anchoring her against his side, and for a moment they just stood there, her trying to figure out why he smelled so good and him no doubt wondering whether or not he should just walk away. She was shaking and wet and half dead with fatigue. She wouldn’t have blamed him.

“I...”I want to know my name. I want to know where I live. I want to wash my face and brush my teeth and pull on at least three pairs of socks.I want stretchy pants and warm beverages and answers.She wanted answers more than anything else, but he was right—of course he was right. She could keep complaining and die or she could keep walking and survive, and right then the choice seemed pretty simple. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Let’s go.” She could keep walking. She could do this.

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