Page 65 of The Blonde Identity

“Edward?”

“The terrible man my family made me marry on my nineteenth birthday even though he’s old enough to be my father...” Zoe explained like she couldn’t believe Sawyer had forgotten the very best part.

“Damn it!” The key wasn’t behind the front wheel, so he went to try the back.

“What are you...”

“She said the key was here. Maybe it fell...”

He was hunkered down on the ground, searching the snow, when he heard it. Or maybe he didn’t hear it at all. Maybe he felt it, like someone walking over his grave. But before he’d even turned around, he knew what he would see passing on the street: Range Rovers. He knew what he would hear: the hum of motorcycles and the low, guttural sound of Russian curse words on the wind. Because Kozlov’s guys were there.

How had those fuckers found them so quickly? He didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because, ultimately, it didn’t matter. They were there. And soon every agency in the world would follow.

“Zoe, I want you to listen to me very, very, carefully.” He slowly stood then turned up the collar of her coat and handed her the backpack.

“No.” She was already going pale and shaking her head because Zoe was no fool.

“I’m going to walk back to the street and take care of some things, and I need you to get on the other side of the car and wait three minutes—one hundred and eighty seconds. Count them. Then get up and walk the other direction. Don’t run.”

“No!”

“Walk. And don’t look back.”

“Sawyer—” There were tears in her eyes and her voice cracked. Her voice cracked and that broke him.

“I put a piece of paper in your pocket. There’s a phone number on it—a service I use. I want you to go back to Emiline’s and tell her your ex is after us. Hide. If I don’t come for you in forty-five minutes, get out of town. Tomorrow morning, call that number. If there’s not a message from me, then you start running, sweetheart. You run and you don’t look back.”

“Sawyer.” She grabbed his hand as if she could keep him there, like she wasn’t just afraid to let him go—she was afraid to lose him. Like she needed him, wanted him, cared for him. Not Sawyer the spy but Sawyer the man. And in that moment, Zoe made him wish he could have more—be more. She made him believe in happy endings. She made him wish there could be one for him.

“You promised.” He heard the swooping, pulsing sounds of a helicopter flying overhead and knew the agencies were coming—the agencies were there. They were all out of time. In so many ways.

“You’re gonna do great, sweetheart. Go. I’ll be fine.” He forced a smile and turned toward the street—he started to walk away. Heshouldhave walked away. But he stopped. And said, “Fuck it.”

“Langu—” she started, but he was already pulling her into his arms and pressing her up against the snowy car. Lips touching, tongues seeking, skin caught between fire and ice.

When he pulled back, her eyes were dazed and her lips wereparted and he had no idea if she even heard him when he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I’ll find you.”

And then he went to buy her some time because it was all he had left to give.

Her

The asshole was going to make her a widow before she’d ever been married, and that alone made her want to kill him.

Tears she didn’t remember crying streaked down Zoe’s face as she watched Sawyer walk toward the end of the alley, drawing the guns from the waistband of his jeans.

Darn, the man could wear a pair of jeans.

But Zoe had to shake the thought out of her head; she had to think! When he glanced over his shoulder and gave her an irritated glance, she remembered.

“Oh. Right!” Then she scampered to the other side of the SUV and hunkered down and started counting.

One. Two.

The idiot was going to get himself killed.

Three. Four.

What kind of man can give a girl a kiss like that and then just walk away?

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