Page 66 of The Blonde Identity

Five. Six.

She hated him. But most of all she hated this, kneeling, hiding, being sheltered and protected.

Seven.

She hated it so freaking much.

Eight. Nine.

A part of her had to wonder if that was the first time she’d sat alone, crying, hoping that a guy would call.

Ten.

She really, really hoped it would be the last.

Eleventwelvethirteenfourteen.

She had to do something! Help. Distract. Covert. She needed to covert her butt off, but she could hear the helicopters circling overhead so she pressed closer to the SUV, hiding. Waiting.

When a big chunk of snow fell off the vehicle’s window, Zoe risked a peek through the frosty glass, hoping to get a glimpse of Sawyer, but what she saw instead was an unlocked door. Then Zoe stopped thinking. She just threw open the door and crawled inside.

The keys had to be there somewhere!They had to, she thought, climbing into the driver’s seat, searching.

“Come on come on come on.”

He would be almost to the street by that point, to the Range Rovers and the goons and the guns. So many guns. She opened the backpack and started digging. There had to be something she could use to... what?

That’s when she saw the knife. And looked at the steering wheel. And something in her mind wentclick.

It wasn’t a flashback. And it definitely wasn’t a memory. But for one split second it happened—the feeling of someone else being in control of her body, of autopilot kicking on and conscious thought going dormant as her hands flew, popping open the dashboard and grabbing for the wires and the knife.

She had just enough time to think,I’m probably going to electrocute myselfwhen the car started.Did I do that? Did I dream that?But exhaust was fogging up the chilly air and a radio was blasting, and when she tapped on the windshield wipers they pushed aside a layer of heavy snow.

And Zoe knew exactly what she had to do.

Him

If there had been a little more time Sawyer might have made a list of the hardest things he’d ever done.

There was the drinking contest with the Turkish arms dealer who was a lot tougher than she looked. The week he’d spent in alivestock car on a train through Argentina. The mission Alex simply called Operation Mustache. But nothing in his whole life had ever been as hard as walking away from Zoe. Still, if he bought her enough time to get out . . . then, well, it was worth it.

So Sawyer cocked his guns and took a breath and... spun. Ready to shoot because something was coming down the alley toward him—fast. He took aim but didn’t fire because he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

It looked like a tank covered with snow. No. An SUV. No.TheirSUV. And it was flying in reverse. He actually had to dive out of the way before it slammed to a stop and the passenger door flew open; and there was Zoe, leaning over the seat. Eyes bright. Skin glowing. The single-most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen as she yelled, “I know how to hot-wire cars!”

For a moment he just stood, heart pounding, skin sweating, not sure whether he should laugh or cry or kiss that sly smile right off her face. So he just dove in and shouted, “Drive.”

Chapter Forty-Two

Her

Sawyer didn’t actually let her drive. The jerkface. But Zoe couldn’t be too mad because the SUV was warm and the seat was big and she could lean back, feet on the dash, gazing out at the mountains and valleys that were frosted with snow and filtered through twilight.

They’d made it out of town, and he kept the speedometer at exactly three kilometers over the speed limit because, according to Sawyer, anything slower looks suspicious and anything faster gets you stopped.

Most of the snow had blown off the hood, but some of the windows were still covered in frost, giving the light an icy blue haze that made it look like something from a dream. And maybe it was? She had a head injury, after all.

But Zoe wanted to at least pretend the man behind the wheel was real—the way one big, rough hand gripped the steering wheel and his eyes scanned the road, looking for anything that could possibly hurt her.

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