The Blonde Identity

by Ally Carter

Here’s the thing about waking up with no memory in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, in the middle of Paris: at least you’re waking up in Paris.

Really, the only bright side was when she realized that her dress had pockets.

“Yeah.” She started to change his name to Mr. Looks Hot When He Smirks Guy because she got a little dizzy when he said, “Well, lucky for you, I’m not all good.”

“Uh . . . can I ask you a question?” “Yes. That is a gun in my pocket.”

She thought about giving him a little more space but didn’t. Because when cuddling with a hot guy is a matter of life and death, you just go with it.

Alex always looked like she was in on a secret. But Zoe looked like she was in on a joke—like at any moment she was going to say knock, knock and the whole world was going to lean close enough to whisper who’s there?

“You won. And nothing on this earth is sexier than a woman who told death to fuck off.”

“Did you just break an assassin’s nose with a telephone?” Her eyes were wide. “I think so?” He absolutely beamed. “Good girl.”

“I wanted you safe because I’m in love with you!”

“I love you.” Her voice was softer and her eyes were closed. “But I don’t trust you anymore.”

“You don’t have an accent.” “Don’t I, love?” And there it was. The accent. “No. Gasp. Put that thing away.” “What?” “You can’t just go around with an accent like that. And with your shirtsleeves rolled up? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”