The Blonde Identity: A Novel

“The Duke of Hottington!” she exclaimed. “The Duke of Hottington . . . is your father! Gasp!”

He shook his head and flashed his quickest smile—the one he didn’t even know he had. “I don’t understand any of the things that you just said.”

“I couldn’t remember his name so I called him . . .” She trailed off and waved the words away. “Never mind.”

She looked at Sawyer’s rolled-up shirtsleeves, dark stubble, and tired eyes. She remembered walking through the streets of Paris and making a list, calling him the hottest guy she’d ever seen. She was wrong, of course. He was more than that—so much more. And she tried not to think about the suitcases he’d had collected—the jet that was waiting to take her away.

She didn’t want to think about any of the things that were real, so she just said, “Am I going to have to use your courtesy title now? Are you Viscount SexyPants? Is that—”

“We really should have someone check out that head wound.”

“But . . . you’re not British,” she said, like that was the only thing that mattered when, in fact, it was the only thing that didn’t.

“I am, actually. I’m both. My father was MI6. Is MI6. And my mother was American. I didn’t mean to lie. But by the time I realized you thought I was CIA it felt like it was easier to just go along with it. I’m sorry.”

Apprehension filled his eyes—like he wasn’t asking forgiveness for what he’d done. He was asking for what he was doing.

“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?”

Sawyer did that thing where he grinned down at the ground, and Zoe’s heart really did stop beating. Which was a good thing. Maybe that would keep it from breaking.

“Was any of it real?” The words slipped out and her voice cracked. Everything cracked. Because the jet was still idling . . . Still waiting . . . Still ready to take her to the other side of a whole, entire ocean. “Was any of it . . .”

“Oh, lady. All of it was real.” His palm was warm against her cheek, and she wanted to throw herself into his arms and burrow in like . . . the kind of animal that burrows, she thought, cursing herself for not being able to come up with a far better analogy. But her eyes were too wet and her throat was too hot and everything was too much, all of a sudden.

It was too much and not nearly enough.

So she slipped her arms around him and felt the rise and fall of his chest—the pressure of his fingers as his hand cradled the back of her head. It was exactly what he’d done in Paris, but this time it was a different kind of pain shooting through her.

“Don’t cry, lady.” He wiped her wet cheeks and looked down into her eyes, and she saw the truth. He wasn’t sending her away because he didn’t love her. He was sending her away because he did. “I swore I’d do what’s best for you. Always. And you’ll be safer . . .” Far away from him.

Spies don’t get a happy ending, she had to remind herself. Right before she asked but what if they could?

“Come with me.” She pulled back and looked up at him.

“What?”

“Get on the plane. Now. Just . . . come with me.”

He stumbled back like he’d been hit. “I can’t—”

“Can’t?” The word was sharp and ragged. It was going to make them both bleed. “Or won’t?”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t have to. Zoe saw the truth in his eyes—that she could fight Kozlov and Collins and even Alex. But she was no match for the little boy who was still lining up dominoes on the cabin floor, waiting for them to all fall down. So she didn’t even try.

“Okay then, Mr. Spy Guy.” She forced a smile. She cocked a hip. “I know you must be busy—”

“Zoe—”

“Bad guys to shoot . . . Safe houses to blow up . . .”

“Sweetheart, please—”

She couldn’t let him speak. She couldn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t stop him or save him or change him. So Zoe did what she’d been doing her whole life: she saved herself.

“I’ll say my goodbyes and get out of your way.”

Was that pain on his face? Or fear? Maybe sadness. She couldn’t tell. She’d known so many Sawyers by that point, but she had no idea how to read the man in front of her. Her eyes started to burn when she realized she never would.

So she leaned against him one last time, felt his arms go around her, and breathed him in.

“Thank you. For the dancing and the lingerie strangling and the . . . all of it. Thank you.” She went up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingered a heartbeat longer than she should have. “I’ll never forget you.”

And then she walked away.

Him

Sawyer’s brain wasn’t working right. Neither were his legs. But his heart was the most messed up of all as he stood there, telling himself it was for the best.

His life was always changing and ever dangerous. Kozlov might have been dead, but there was always some new Kozlov, waiting in the wings. He loved her, but Zoe deserved more than a lifetime of constantly looking over her shoulder. Zoe deserved everything.

Someday, she’d meet a nice man with a nice job and they’d go on nice dates to nice places where absolutely no one would try to kill her. Sawyer already hated the bastard.

He felt a presence beside him but didn’t turn.

“That drive is going to do a great deal of good,” his father said but Sawyer couldn’t take his eyes off Zoe. “From what I can tell, we’ll be able to roll up most of Kozlov’s organization and a few other relevant parties. You should be proud of yourself.”

Sawyer didn’t feel anything. His goal was to never feel anything ever again.

“She’ll be safer in the States, you know.” Away from Sawyer. “She has a life there.” Apart from Sawyer. “She deserves a chance to go back to her world.” Without Sawyer. “And you deserve . . .”

“What do I deserve?” Sawyer snapped.

He knew what his father would say. That they were from different worlds and destined for different lives. That he barely knew her. But his father was wrong. Because Sawyer did know her. He knew her smiles and her laughs and her gambits. He knew her silly eccentricities and her fears. And he knew who he was when he was with her. He liked that guy—was just getting used to being him. And he was going to miss him so much when she was gone.

I’ll never forget you.

Sawyer squeezed his eyes shut and wondered how long it would take to get very, very drunk. Then he felt a grip on his shoulder.

“You deserve to move on,” his father answered slowly. Without Zoe. “It’s hard to do this job if your heart’s not in it.”

Sawyer brushed off his father’s hand. “You’re only saying that because you never loved my mother.”

“No.” His father’s voice was ragged, like he was barely brave enough to admit, “I’m saying that because I did.”

Sawyer wanted to turn and gape but he couldn’t look away from the woman who was almost to the plane. She might stop. She might turn around. And he didn’t want to miss it.

“The world is full of bad guys, son.”

“I know—”

“So when one of the good guys gets a chance for a happy ending, he should take it.”

Sawyer started to lash out—to rage. He wanted to make someone bleed, but then he heard the words. “What?”

“You should take it.”

“What . . .” Sawyer was hearing things—seeing things. From the moment he saw his father in that chopper he’d known this moment was coming—that he’d have to let Zoe walk away. Make her leave. Keep her safe. He’d known that love and covert operations don’t mix. He’d known it his whole life, but his father was standing there, looking at him in a way he never had before. Somber and pensive and . . . wistful.

“I thought she was better off without me.” His father’s voice cracked. “Your mother. But if I could do it all over again, I’d do it differently, son. I’d do it all differently.”

Sawyer’s blood went cold. “You don’t mean that. You can’t . . .”

“I didn’t appreciate either of you until it was too late. For me.” He looked down at a watch that was way too flashy for a secret agent. “But by my calculations, you have about two minutes . . .”

Sawyer didn’t say another word. He just ran.

Her

“Zoe!”

The jet was twenty feet away now. She could make it. All Zoe had to do was climb those stairs and look out the window and wait for the credits to roll on her grand adventure. She could do her crying later. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind she’d cry for the rest of her life.

“Hey, lady.” Zoe heard the words on the wind and felt sure she must have dreamed them. “Zoe, wait! Stop!”

And then she did stop even though “keep moving” was right there—it was number six on the list.

“Zoe?” And there he was, tall and dark and dangerous. He was so dangerous in so many ways she’d never expected.

“Did you . . . uh . . . forget something?” She tried to make her voice sound normal. She tried to force a smile.

“This.” The kiss was quick and soft and sweet. It wasn’t the kiss that came at the end. It was the kiss that came at the beginning, and that’s what made her give up any pretense of not crying. Of not breaking. The jerkface.

And then his breath was on her wet cheeks and he was pulling her against his chest. She hated that, too—that she was going to get his shirt all wet. At least the sky was dark. It looked like rain. Maybe he wouldn’t know they were tears.

His hands cradled her face, gentle and warm and strong. “I can’t ask you to stay, sweetheart.”

She pushed free and glared up at him. “Oh, you’ve been very clear—”

“But I can’t let you get on that plane—”

“Then why did you order it?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream, so she did a little of all three.

“Because I’m in love with you.”

“Well, I’m in love with you, too!” They were doing that thing again where the closer they got, the louder they shouted, tension reverberating between them like a wave until, finally, it crested, crashing over Zoe. Sweeping her out to sea. “But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Oh, sweetheart. It’s the only thing that matters.” He tried to dry her eyes with his sleeve because she was crying harder now. Stupid traitorous eyes.

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she said.

“We’ve been over this. You’re my everything.”

And that was the part that broke her. Maybe it was stress or exhaustion or the sheer weight of the past few days finally leaving her body, but she let him pull her closer.

“So if the offer still stands, I’d like to get on the plane with you. And go home. With you. And be with you. For however long you’ll have me.”

The words were sinking in—the reality and the promise and the realization—“I don’t know where my home is.”

“Then we’ll go to mine,” he told her.

“Where’s that?”

“Wherever you are.”

She leaned her forehead against the hard wall of his chest and felt his arms wrap around her—pull her tight. She didn’t want to see his face when she admitted, “I know the bad guys are gone, but I’m still scared, Sawyer. Because I still don’t know who I am.”

Forget the tears, she was going to get his shirt all snotty. If he still wanted her after this . . .

“I do. I know you. You’re the woman who is strong and tough and funny and sexy as hell. You’re mine, lady.” He smoothed her hair. “Remember that morning at the cabin? When you said I made you sleepy? Well, you didn’t. You made me forget. About all the bad things that have happened and the even worse things that I’ve done. You made me forget. So please. Please let me spend the rest of my life helping you remember.”

He touched his forehead to hers and she felt herself get wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and safety and hope. The sky opened up overhead but she didn’t even feel the rain.

“What about Kozlov? And all the Little Baby Kozlovs waiting to grow up and take his place? What about your job and . . .”

“First, never say the words ‘little baby Kozlovs’ ever again. Second, I’m out, lady. I talked with my dad, and . . . It’s time someone in our family got a happy ending. Now, if you don’t love me anymore . . . Or if you love me but you still don’t trust me, okay. I’m just asking for a chance. Just the chance to spend the rest of my life earning you.”

And, oh, how they broke her, the perfection of those words and that moment and that man. And they scared her. Because—

“What if I’m not enough? What if you walk away from your very important life doing your very important job and you wake up one day and think I gave all that up . . . for her?”

“I’ve risked more for less.”

“What if it turns out I’m just a woman with a night guard who hasn’t washed her hair in a week and whose entire friend group is fictional?”

“Then that’s exactly who I want.”

She remembered the man on the mountain, reaching for her, anchoring her. Keeping her safe. She remembered holding on and never, ever wanting to let go.

“I’m never going to be Alex.”

And then he laughed—she actually felt it in her chest and on her lips. “Thank goodness.”

“What if . . .” But she couldn’t think anymore. Couldn’t worry. Couldn’t wonder. So she said, “What if I have to get home to my husband?”

He bristled and glared, but managed to say, “Pretty sure Alex would have mentioned if you had one of those.”

“Or my boyfriend. My big, brooding, territorial—”

“I can take him.”

“How about my seventy-two cats?”

“I love them.”

“My nine iguanas?”

“Not a problem.”

“What if I’m addicted to knitting and blew all my money on extremely high-end yarns?”

“I have savings. And I look amazing in sweaters.”

Yeah. He probably did, she thought as he wrapped her in his arms and blocked the rain she didn’t even feel anymore. The jerkface.

“I don’t know what your life was, sweetheart. We’ll figure that out together. I just have one question. What do you want your life to be?”

Zoe must have had an answer to that question at some point. A dream home and a dream guy and a dream life. She’d made her whole life about the pursuit of happy endings, but as she looked into the eyes of a man who had thought he’d never have one, she saw her blank past and empty future for what they were: clean slates. And fresh starts.

So they stood there—a woman with no history and a man with way too much—and there was really only one thing to say. “I think I’d like to be Mrs. Michaelson?”

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver ring. “That can be arranged.”