Page 17 of The Blonde Identity

“What’s wrong?” She was looking up at him. Again. He could see the cops out of the corner of his eye, coming closer, so suddenly, he stopped thinking and pushed her against a shop window.

The glass was cold but her skin was warm as he pressed his palms against her cheeks, cradling her face, blocking her from view and looking into those green eyes that seemed to be asking a question there was only one way to answer.

“For the cover,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

Except he didn’t. Actually. Technically. Mouths didn’t touch. Lips didn’t part. But his nose brushed against hers and their heads tilted, faces fitting together—his body leaning against hers like a shield and a blanket and a promise, sayingI have you; I’ll protect you; I’ll keep you warm. And safe. And more...It almost certainly looked like more.

It was the kiss equivalent of the junction box—something fake and deceptive, screamingKeep away! Don’t look too closely!But he could smell the scent of her lip balm (cherry) and the moment was thick with foggy breaths and roaming hands and the privacy that comes from being lost inside another person. She gripped his shoulder and shifted her hips like she preferred him to the cold pane of glass at her back, and so he held her tighter. Longer. And when she gave a quick little intake of breath that faded into a long, deep sigh, a jolt of lightning went through him—like he was finally feeling a spark.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but when he pulled back, it took an embarrassingly long time for him to remember—“There were... uh... cops.”

“That’s okay.” She was tugging on her beret. She was rubbing her lips. But when she spoke again, she sounded smug. “I told you that was how you undercover.”

***

By the time they reached the Seine the streets were thick with tourists, and Sawyer felt himself start to breathe.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a taxi,” he told her.

“Really?” She looked like he’d just said he’d buy her a pony if she was a very good girl, and Sawyer, a known curmudgeon, bit back a grin.

It was the most exposed they’d been and yet it felt safe for that split second, with the gilded statues standing guard at the edges of the bridge and the Seine rushing beneath them and the tourists all around.

They were almost okay. They were almost safe. They were almost gone. But the alarm bells that lived in the back of Sawyer’s mind—the ones that had kept him alive for the last ten years—were starting to quiver. Then vibrate. Then blare. Because two Range Rovers were turning onto the bridge.

Instantly, he ducked his head and whispered, “Don’t panic. And don’t engage. If we get separated, go to the nearest Metro station. Take the first train east, three stops. Get off. Wait.”

“Why?” Her eyes went wide and terror filled her face because she might have been a civilian, but she wasn’t a fool. “What are you—”

Which was when the shooting started. The sound of gunfire didn’t belong on that snowy street, but it was there, reverberating off the bridge and icy water. Windshields shattered and people screamed. Vehicles started pinging off one another like bumper cars as they tried to escape, stalling the progress of the SUVs. But Kozlov’s goons were already out and heading their way.

“Go!” The Glock was heavy in his hand as Sawyer pushed her toward the far end of the bridge, dodging behind the blocked cars for cover, clinging to some hope that this wasn’t the way he was going to die. He had hoped for something far more noble and much, much later.

But then the motorcycles appeared on the other end of the bridge, blocking the way. They were officially surrounded.

“Uh...” She grabbed his arm and backed away. “That’s bad, right?”

“Yup,” he told her as he pulled out a second gun because sometimes quantity beats quality and he was all out of ideas.

As they hunched behind a Mercedes, he studied the woman who hadn’t asked for this, trained for this, chosen this life at all. It wasn’t her fault. But she was going to die there just the same. She was going to die unless he saved her. And, suddenly, he really, really wanted to save her.

“Get low. Stay low. And run like hell.”

Then he rose and started to fire. A moment later, he risked a glance in her direction but she was already gone. He fought against the wave of unexpected disappointment, reminded himself that it was a good thing—the right thing. That maybe she’d get clear. Maybe she’d survive. Maybe...

But then he felt a presence at his back and saw a shadow on the snow—rising, blocking more and more of the sun until he found himself turning, staring up at the woman who was standing on the icy railing, looking to all the world like some kind of avenging angel. Or crazy person. Really it was a toss-up.

Kozlov’s goons must have been as surprised as Sawyer felt because, for a second, no one fired—no one moved—as she stood surrounded by the blinding white light of sun on snow.

“Or I could do this,” she said.

Then she threw out her arms. And jumped.

Chapter Twelve

Her

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