Page 47 of The Blonde Identity

She dove behind the bed as the patio doors shattered.

Freezing wind gushed inside, curtains whipping and snapping as Sawyer lunged for the man, pressing him against the bed while the two of them hit and kicked. The headboard banged against the wall, a rhythmicthump, thump, thumpthat led to someone banging back—Marc’s low voice shouting, “Keep it down over there, you lovebirds!”

Sawyer had a hold of the assassin, and the assassin had a hold on the gun, and the gun was pointed right at . . .

“Zoe!” Sawyer yelled as the shot fired.

In the next moment, Zoe was rolling over broken glass, but she didn’t feel the pain somehow. She was too busy remembering how Sawyer had told her that Kozlov and his men will always find a person’s weakness, exploit it, use it, kill them with it if they have to.

And Zoe knew that, right then, Sawyer’s biggest weakness was her.

When she saw the backpack on the floor, she stopped thinking and dove for it.

“Sawyer!” she yelled, standing and tossing one of the guns in his direction, but she missed, and as he lunged for the weapon she realized her mistake.

Because she was in front of those broken doors now, glass cutting into her feet, curtains and hair whipping around her, and absolutely nothing else standing between her and the railing, and the river.

And the Russian launching himself in her direction.

Beefy arms around her waist like a vise. Railing slamming into her back like a bat. And freezing wind on all her skin not covered by an almost nonexistent nightie.

“Zoe!” Sawyer bellowed, but Zoe could feel herself bending over the rail. She was going to break in two. She was going to black out. She was going to die.

Which was her very last thought before the world turned upside down. And black. And very, very cold.

Chapter Thirty

Her

Apparently, Zoedidknow how to swim. But she was going to drown anyway. Or at least that’s how it felt as the cold sent a shock through her system, freezing water like fire on her skin, numbing her fingers and burning her toes. Her whole body wanted to curl into a tiny ball and sink to the bottom of the river. Zoe had to make herself kick. She had to make herself fight. And fight. And fight some more because she hadn’t gone over that railing alone.

The man’s fist was tangled in Zoe’s hair. She’d liked it so much better when Sawyer had done it—back when her biggest problems were no money, and no memory, and no name. She hadn’t appreciated just how much she’d gained in forty-eight hours, but Zoe didn’t even know where her next breath was coming from as the man pushed her head underwater, and she felt... nothing.

Not her hands or her legs, not her skin or her bones, just the overwhelming sense that she was about to explode if she couldn’t breathe.

She had to breathe!

She’d spent all afternoon learning hand-to-hand combat from an actual spy but he hadn’t covered “How to Not Drown in a Freezing River” in the intro course. Zoe wanted her money back.

So she made herself stop. And think.

The current was just as strong for him. The sky just as dark. The water every bit as cold. Zoe had nothing to stand on, but neither did he, so she pulled her legs up, twisting them around his arms and his neck, using every ounce of her strength to break his hold and surge to the surface.

She gasped for air, desperate to fill her lungs, but she couldn’t stay there. Staying there meant dying there, so she took the deepest breath she could and dove, desperate to hide, to escape.

But hands were groping in the darkness, and Zoe felt herself jerked back against the current. She couldn’t even feel him except... wait. He didn’t haveher. He had a fistful of that skimpy nightgown. So she kicked and clawed and twisted, trying to get free. But the man was too strong and Zoe was too weak—too frail. And she was all alone. She was all alone, her broken brain said. And that was going to be what killed her.

But, suddenly, there was a hand on her shoulder. There were eyes in the dark.Sawyer, a part of her screamed. Sawyer was there, reaching for the delicate neckline of the beautiful nightie.

And ripping it right off her body.

So the good news was that she was free. The bad news was that she was also very cold and very tired and (aside from a pair of panties) very, very naked.

For a moment, they stayed there, staring into each other’s eyes, treading water in the darkness, a silent conversation taking place between them.

Well, those are my boobs.

I’m not looking.

---