Page 12 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Nine Years Ago

Cartegena, Colombia

Alex

“Hello. Checking in. Reservation for Shriver.” Alex made herself smile—but not too big. She gave details—but not too many.

She made eye contact—but not for too long. Most of all, she studied her surroundings—but not too overtly. In short, Alex tried

to remember every single thing she’d learned at the Farm—and in the six months after. But mostly, she tried not to throw up,

because it’s one thing for a girl to dream about her first solo mission, it’s another to stand in the lobby of a luxury hotel

in Cartagena and say, “Molly Shriver? I’m—”

“Yes, Mrs. Shriver.” The man was young and trim and almost painfully efficient as he typed away at a keyboard. “Welcome to

Cartagena!”

Alex didn’t try to speak to the young man in Spanish because Molly Shriver, aspiring jewelry designer–slash-influencer-slash–spender of other people’s money , didn’t speak Spanish. Alex had spent weeks working on that cover, and it wouldn’t do to ruin it within the first five minutes.

So she looked around. “The hotel is so pretty.” An ornate crystal installation was suspended from the towering ceiling, catching

the light and filling the lobby with tiny rainbows that twisted and swirled and seemed to float across the shiny white floors

and sleek modern interior. “Ooh. Would it be possible to, like, sit on that dangly thing and get some videos?”

“No!” Judging by the panic in the guy’s eyes, Molly Shriver wasn’t the first person to have that idea. She was guessing one or two had even tried it.

“Darn. Had to ask!” Alex gave a giggle and then she slumped against the counter and tried not to look nervous. It would have

been better not to be nervous, but the op details had been need-to-know and, evidently, Alex hadn’t needed by the time she left Virginia. She was supposed to check into this hotel and wait for further instructions. She had her cover

and her legend and her mind—those were the only things a good operative really needed. Everything else would be waiting for

her here. A weapon. A villain. A—

“—husband.”

Wait. What?

“I’m sorry?” Alex leaned closer to the guy who looked up from the screen and flashed a smile. Loud, techno music boomed out

of hidden speakers, filling the air and echoing off all that chrome and glass. She’d misunderstood him. There was simply no

way he meant—

“Your husband has already checked in.”

It was ninety degrees outside with eighty percent humidity, but it was suddenly freezing—what with the air conditioner on

her skin and Alex’s blood turning to ice.

This was supposed to be a solo mission. This was supposed to be her solo mission. But maybe there had been a change of plans? Maybe she was meeting Tyler? She liked Tyler. Didn’t she? He was

fine. She could work with Tyler. Or someone else. Some stranger. Maybe an older operative who was experienced and knew his

way around the Colombian coast? Yes. That was it. She was going to go upstairs and meet some seasoned operative and not—

“Hello, sweetheart.” There was a hand on her back and a solid presence at her side—a pair of warm lips brushing against her

cheek as a familiar voice said, “How was your flight?”

It had been six months since she’d seen him.

Hardly enough time for a massive change, so Alex didn’t know why she stood there, staring at Michael Kingsley.

His hair was a little longer and she wondered if it was as soft as it looked—if maybe Mrs. Shriver was the kind of person who would run her fingers through those silky strands.

And then pull them until he cried like a baby.

“Did you miss me?” His voice sounded like hot tea with too much sugar.

“Yes. But I can reload and try again.”

He gave a dark chuckle, then leaned down and brushed a kiss across the top of her shoulder. One of those ridiculously competent

hands started rubbing circles on the small of her back—against the bare skin left exposed by her dress and, in that moment,

Alex wanted to kill the inventor of the halter top.

She had goose bumps, and she hoped he couldn’t feel them—see them. It was the air-conditioning. It was. But the guy behind

the counter was looking at them with hearts in his eyes. Like Alex had entered the hot-guy lottery and King was the winning

ticket.

“We’ll just take that key now,” King prompted, and the guy blinked.

“Of course. Penthouse elevators to the right. It’s a wonderful room. For newlyweds.”

“Oh. Yay.” Alex looked up at King. “I’m so excited, I could scream. But that’s for later, isn’t it, sugar lips?” The look

on his face almost made it worth it. Almost. Then she gave the clerk a wink and didn’t protest too loudly when King started dragging her across the shiny lobby and into

the even shinier elevator.

He swiped the card and the doors slid closed, and the next thing she knew, King was pressing her against the mirrored interior.

Leaning close as he whispered, “Not. A. Word.”

“I know.” She wanted to bite his lip off—and not in the sexy way.

He was looking down into her eyes. Fingers running through her hair, a whisper-soft brush against her neck. “There are no

doubt cameras everywhere. Possibly audio.”

“Not. A. Moron.” She echoed his earlier cadence and pushed against him, but he didn’t budge. It was highly annoying. He was annoying, with his stupid shoulders and stupid hands. Stupid stubble covering that stupid jaw.

“Did you forget your razor?” Alex asked him.

“Did you forget the other half of your dress?”

Alex didn’t want to smile, so she pinched one of his nipples instead.

“Ow.” But he didn’t move and didn’t wince, and his gaze didn’t even start to waver. “What are you doing here... sweetheart?”

She was going for the nipple again when he grabbed her hand and interlaced their fingers, pushed her arms over her head and

pressed her against the wall more fully—all of him pressed against all of her. From the camera in the corner, they either

looked madly in love or insanely hot for each other. Or both. Probably both. They were as indecent as you can be with your

clothes on, and Alex didn’t like that one bit.

“Me?” She tried to reverse their positions, but he dropped his hands to her waist and lifted. And then Alex had no choice

but to wrap her legs around him. And squeeze. Like a snake. “What are you doing here? This is supposed to be my...” Cameras. Audio. “Vacation. I worked hard for this vacation.”

“No. It’s my vacation, so I’m going to ask one more time—”

The elevator stopped. The doors opened. And Margaret Merritt said, “Well, it’s about time.”