Page 30 of The Blonde Identity

“Do you mind if I take the first shower?” Zoe was already grabbing a tiny green bottle of mineral water from the tiny fridge and pulling together an armful of Mrs. Michaelson’s tiny clothing.

“Knock yourself out,” Sawyer said. A moment later, the door clicked shut and the water turned on and he just stood there, trying not to think about a wet, naked Zoe on the other side of the wall. It might not have been so bad if he hadn’t noticed the tuxedo staring back at him from the pile of clothes, taunting him, like it was waiting for007to come and claim it.

“Fuck James Bond,” Sawyer said to no one but ten thousand versions of his own reflection. He wasn’t going to be that kind of spy—that kind of man. He wasn’t going to seduce Zoe—useZoe. Not if his life depended on it.

But then a sound echoed through the quiet room. A crash. Breaking glass.

And a woman’s scream.

A moment later, he was vaulting over the bed and bursting into the bathroom only to be hit by a cloud of steam. Zoe was just a blonde blur in the haze.

“What—” he started, but as he stepped toward her, he heard a crunch and looked down. The floor was wet and covered with shards of green glass.The bottle broke, his mind filled in, but Zoe looked like she didn’t hear a thing, see a thing, as she stood there, staring at a mirror that was completely fogged over.

Oh, and she was naked.

Well, notpreciselynaked. Just mostly naked. She was seventy-five to eighty percent naked, a part of his brain calculated. But she was alive. And even though a part of him realized he could uncock the gun, another part of him knew that the thing that had made Zoe cry out was still in there. And Sawyer was going to kill it.

“What happened?” He expected her to grab a towel—maybe one of the plush robes hanging by the shower doors—but she just stood there in her bra and panties, staring at that fog-covered mirror. “Zoe—”

“I don’t know,” she said—to him or to her own reflection, he wasn’t really sure.

“You don’t know what?”

He turned off the shower and the room was suddenly too quiet—the air too clear—and he saw what Zoe would be seeing for hours—days. Maybe the rest of her life.

“I don’t know how I got them.”

She tentatively reached up to touch the scar that ran in a line between her breasts. There were others too. Along her ribs. Down her back, skirting along the edge of her bra. She probably hadn’t seen that one, but he could. He wanted to reach out and trace it, smooth it away with his fingers, but he was too afraid to move—to speak. You shouldn’t wake a sleepwalker, they always said, but no one ever talks about what to do when you catch someone having a nightmare while wide awake.

“I don’t remember. Doesn’t this seem like the kind of thing... I don’t remember!” she screamed, but she wasn’t scared—she was furious. At her body and her mind. “I—”

“Stop!” he blurted when she started to move, and she froze, embarrassed. It was like she suddenly realized that she was seventy-six percent naked in front of a man who was more or less a stranger.

“I—”

“Don’t move,” he said, softer now, as he grabbed a robe and threw it over her shoulders. Then he scooped her up into his arms. They were eye to eye in the steamy room and her body was like a coil that was wound way too tight. He was afraid she was going to snap. “Broken bottle. Bare feet.”

So she didn’t fight him as he carried her into the bedroom and sat her gently on the bed. She looked a little nervous, though, as if suddenly worried that being carried in a bridal suite might make them married in truth.

“Can’t have you injuring yourself again.” It was meant to be a joke. It was meant to make her smile. And she did, but the light didn’t reach her eyes.

“I’d only slow you down.”

“That’d be a shame.” Then he went to clean up the glass because he’d rather throw his favorite gun overboard than call housekeeping, but when he was finished, he couldn’t decide if he was supposed to sit beside her or kneel in front of her or just get the hell out and let her be alone.

“I... I don’t remember.” She was still staring into those blasted mirrors like maybe the story was written on her skin and if she just looked hard enough, she might figure out how to read it. “I keep thinking I’m going to see something or hear something and it’s all going to come back, but... They scared me. I turned around and saw something, and... My own skin scared me.” She looked up at him. Her voice cracked. “And nothing came back.”

“Hey. It will.” He’d spent a lot of time learning how to kill, but right then he needed to know how to soothe and so he just sat there, afraid to touch her. He didn’t want to be the thing that made her shatter.

She looked down and suddenly realized that the robe was gaping, scars peeking through.

“Oh.” She jumped to her feet and tried to pull the robe closed.

“No. Don’t.” He didn’t mean to stand—to reach out—but he was already grabbing the edges of that robe and holding them tight, wrapping her up in a cocoon of soft cotton and not letting her move an inch until he’d told her, “Something tried like hell to kill you, lady. And you survived it.” He turned her to face the largest mirror—her back to his front—as he looked over her shoulder and into her eyes. “Youwon. And nothing on this earth is sexier than a woman who told death to fuck off.”

She closed her eyes, like she didn’t just need to hear the words—she needed toabsorbthem through her skin and into her bloodstream, like that was the fastest way for them to reach her heart.

But when she finally opened her eyes, her gaze met his in the mirror. “Does my sister... Does Alex have...”

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