The Blonde Who Came In from the Cold (The Blonde Identity, #2)

by Ally Carter

Dr. Abrams was a pro, so she stayed silent, waiting for Alex to get uncomfortable and start jabbering to fill the void because most people hate silence and they hate awkward. But Alex wasn’t most people. Alex would’ve sat there until she starved to death before she said another word.

She still had paint under her nails from camouflage class and bruises on her wrists from the zip ties.

Alex didn’t talk to Zoe because Alex didn’t talk to anyone. Not about this—that would have violated more rules and laws than she could count. But she didn’t tell her sister about anything else, either, Alex realized. She and Zoe were identical in ways that went beyond DNA. The same nature. The same nurture.

Usually, Alex loved those exhibits. There were tubes of lipstick that were actually cameras and cameras that were actually guns.

It was the only part of spy school that was actually like the movies, and Alex felt at home among those things that were so much more than they appeared. They were like her, she told herself, but at the moment, she just felt achy and out of place, like something was wrong.

It might have been easy to call Michael Kingsley a kiss ass, but he wasn’t. If anything, it was like the instructors wanted to impress him.

She had always been the top of her class because she was the person who tried the hardest. And now he was top of the class, even though, as far as Alex could tell, he didn’t try at all.

She’d always seemed omniscient and all-knowing—more angel than agent—and, not for the first time, Alex got the feeling that this might just be some elaborate game—a silly lark.

The furniture was modern, and the finishes were chrome, and the whole thing felt like it was made of ice even though the sun was almost scorching as it burned through the wall of windows.

But King looked like a man who had never been embarrassed in his life. If anything, he just looked angry.

“This is a team sport, and like it or not, the two of you have to learn to play. Together.”

“is to swap our stones for theirs and then get out. We have people in place who can track the stones and see where they go.”

“Precisely.” The word was clipped and left no room for debate. “Which is why I personally requested the two of you.” “To do what? Exactly?” King asked, because there was obviously more to the story. “Easy, Michael. You’re going to buy a very large emerald.” She smiled at Alex. “For your wife.”

She should have been beyond making mistakes by that point, but evidently, she’d made a big one. Otherwise, Alex never would have ended up limping down the Las Vegas Strip— With him. Caught with no plan and no intel and no resources. Except him.

“We need to get off the street and find a phone,” she said. “We need”—he emphasized the word—“to keep our heads down and keep walking.”

“It’s Vegas.” She huddled into the warmth of his jacket. “Waking up after a night you can’t remember is practically a rite of passage. They literally make movies about it.”

“Ooh! I’ve got an idea. Maybe we can use the stick up your butt to pick the locks!” “It’s too big, Sterling. You know that.”

“Shouldn’t be hard. We just need a clothes hanger or paper clip or—” “Sex shop,” Alex filled in. “What? It’s Vegas. They’d have handcuffs. And keys.”

The people after them weren’t exactly subtle, but then again, neither were King and Alex as they fell into step together, wishing for heavier foot traffic. For the cover of darkness. For some kind of distraction or disaster. Anything that would help them disappear.

He pressed a kiss against her hairline as she rested her head on his shoulder. Because that was the cover. Only people in love would be out all night, dressed as they were and holding hands.

There were too many sounds and lights and people. Every part of her was overwhelmed by every part of it, and Alex was grateful for the man holding her hand. King was an anchor in that moment. He was the only thing she needed to focus on as they ran down the aisles that seemed to sprawl and spread, and she had to admit he was right about one thing: a person could get lost in here. Maybe they could get lost in here.

All spies are chess players, but Merritt was a grand master. King knew she was a dozen moves ahead and well aware of the endgame and she wasn’t going to share. But, in the meantime, King had other problems. Specifically, he had three: There was the mission. There was the woman. And there was the hat.

“Could you have found a bigger hat? Perhaps one that doubles as a hang glider or maritime vessel?”

She was brighter than the sun and more refreshing than the breeze, and every person who laid eyes on her spent a moment wondering who she was or how King got lucky enough to be the man holding her hand.

“Oh, darling. I can’t help drawing attention to myself. I’m adorable.”

“I remember everything.” King regretted the words as soon as they were out, but Sterling just smirked up at him. “Because I’m special?” The tease was back in her voice. “Because I’m cursed.”

His buyers are coming to town tomorrow morning. You need to get him to open the safe so we can see if our stones are in there. Then, if you get a chance, make the switch. If you don’t, we’ll send a black bag team in to do it tonight. For right now, we just have to get eyes on those stones.”

She pointed through the glass to an emerald that was deep green and perfectly clear and the color of the little rings that circled the blue of King’s eyes. Alex hated it instantly. She also wanted it desperately.

It was the size of a postage stamp and easily worth six figures,

“My wife does not wear baubles.”

Sometimes covers were shelters, and sometimes covers were keys. Used properly, they could get you in anywhere (even the most exclusive jewelry store in South America). They could unlock anything (even that store’s state-of-the-art safe). But, most of all, covers were reality—at least for a little while—so Alex couldn’t help but feel grateful that King’s cover was “American Asshole” and they didn’t have to work too hard to make it stick.

She didn’t need Merritt’s dossier to know this man liked his women like he liked his cars—fast and sleek and meant for far younger men with better reflexes. Alex could tell from the way he watched her.

She could see the sky getting dark outside, but, mostly, she was aware of the way Lozano kept glancing at the door, nervous and distracted, even if he didn’t want to show it. He was subtly shifting side to side, and his left hand kept brushing over his jacket pocket, as if to make sure something was still in there. Something the size of a small pouch. Something heavy. Something he might have already taken out of the safe.

“It’s nothing.” She cupped his face. “I just got a little lightheaded.” She glanced at Lozano. “It happens sometimes now. Because of the baby.”

Is that a thing?

Some hired muscle got out and opened the back door for a man who was far older than King had been expecting. Dark hair. Dark suit. Dark glasses. The man stopped and scanned the street, and King swore he would remember that face—he had to. They didn’t have a name, but this was better than nothing.

“Because from where I’m standing, the buyer’s muscle is extremely interested in us right now. And interested—in case you didn’t know—is bad.”

“We’ll be safe here,” he said simply. “And you know this because . . .” She had never seen Michael Kingsley look guilty—not until he glanced away and muttered, “Because I own it.” It actually took a moment for the words to land. “You what?”

On instinct, Alex looked at the door, like maybe she should turn around and walk away. Like maybe she was safer on the street than she was with him. She’d spent the last year telling herself she’d gotten good at hiding. But she was wrong, evidently. The red ring around her wrist was proof that someone had found her.

There were dark spots on the edge of Alex’s memory, looming like a total eclipse that stretched across her mind. She remembered waking in her little cottage, groggy because she’d stayed up too late, one-more-chaptering herself until she finished a book at four a.m. She remembered making a grocery list and being out of coffee. She remembered . . . home. And solitude. And silence.

I remember two days ago.” She turned and looked out the window. “I lost two days,” she whispered, but the reflection in the glass just stared back, indifferent and uncaring. She wished he’d go back to hating her. It was so much better than this.

“Just because I don’t remember being in Vegas doesn’t mean I wasn’t here when they grabbed me.”

He didn’t even like Monte Carlo. He didn’t gamble because he couldn’t keep himself from counting cards, and Michael Kingsley was far too noble to cheat. He barely drank, and he wasn’t a fan of crowds, and there was literally no reason for the man she knew to have an apartment here. But that just meant one thing: she didn’t know him anymore. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Like I said, no one knows I own this place. Technically, I don’t own this place. And it’s sitting on top of a fortress. I’m not an easy target here. But, more than that . . . someone tracked you down, and so help me”—he

“I just lost forty-eight hours,” he said, “but you’ve been missing for a year.”

Do you really want to make that call and explain where you’ve been for the past year and why you ran and what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into now?”

The Agency might not know where she was yet. There might be a chance she could take the stairs to the lobby and disappear onto the Strip and into the desert and lose another year of her life. But it wasn’t the last year that bothered her. It was the last forty-eight hours. It was the dark shed and the handcuffs and the man on the other side of the wall.

Spies live and die by their senses. It was something King had known for as long as he’d known what to call them. He knew to trust only what he could see and smell and taste and feel, but right then, he was more concerned about his hearing. He was standing, too still, in the penthouse, listening to the sound of running water, not knowing if he wanted it to stop or run forever.

She could kill him with a look, slice him to ribbons with a word.

The other man started for Alex in the kitchen and she reached for the hot pan. Butter ran down the side and streaked across the floor as she swung it. There was a sickening sizzle as hot pan met face, and the man screamed and fell to the floor, unmoving.

In a flash, he pulled the knife from the dead man’s leg and hurled it across the room, right at the chest of the man with the burned face who was up and lunging for Alex. The man staggered forward—one step. Two. Then he dropped on the spot. Dead.