Page 14 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Present Day

Las Vegas, Nevada

Alex

The sun was almost up by the time they made it into Vegas. Or maybe it just felt that way, among the neon lights of the Strip

with the traffic streaming by—sidewalks full of people venturing home or venturing out. Tired cocktail waitresses changing

shifts as the city turned over but never slept.

Alex’s feet were blistered and her wrist was sore, but the thing that hurt the most was her pride.

She was a seasoned operative—a trained professional. 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.

Utterly exposed and completely without backup.

Unless you counted him.

“Just act naturally,” King had the audacity to say.

“Yes.” Alex rattled their connected hands. “So natural.”

Her wrist hurt. The cuff was too tight, and the constant pulling and tugging had left her skin red and bleeding. He looked

down at it and stumbled slightly.

“Fine. Here.” He sounded like he’d just agreed to cosign a loan when he interlaced their fingers. It took the pressure off her wrist, but other parts of her felt a different kind of ache, and Alex didn’t know which was more painful.

“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.”

“Yes. Excellent.” She gathered his inside-out jacket around her and held it more tightly. “Great plan! It’s not like there

are surveillance cameras . In Las Vegas.”

“I’m trying to help here, Sterling.”

“I’m capable of helping myself, King.”

“Clearly.” He stopped walking. “So help yourself, then. Go on. Be my guest.”

“I’d love to. Except.” She held up their cuffed hands as if seeing them for the first time. “Where did those come from?”

“Put those down.” His voice was so low, it was almost a growl.

“What? You want me to hide our handcuffs?” she shot back, a tad louder than necessary. A group of college guys was walking

by—bleary-eyed and smelling like smoke and bad decisions—but they perked up at the words, and Alex couldn’t help herself.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to know that I woke up in Vegas!” she exclaimed, even louder. “Handcuffed to you!”

The college guys gave a chorus of “right ons” and “way to gos,” so Alex threw her free hand out as if to say, I rest my case . They were out of earshot when she added, “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.”

The silence was dark and heavy as they put their heads down and kept walking.

“What?” he asked.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. That’s what has me worried.”

“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.”

She stopped, and for a moment, she just stood there, staring. “Was that... a joke?”

“I’m not sure.” He actually looked sheepish. “I’ve never made one before.”

It wasn’t true, of course. Most people never knew that Michael Kingsley III could be funny. He could be kind. He could make

soup and mend wounds and clothes and people. He was more than his family and his memory, but Alex was the last person who

would ever say so, so she just whispered, “Don’t do it again.”

“Very well.”

“We need to find some way to open these.”

He looked around. “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.”

“Yes. True.” He swallowed hard and, to Alex, it felt like victory. He was looking around. “I suppose...” But as he trailed

off, everything changed. His posture and his tone and even the way the air crackled and buzzed around him.

“What?” she asked, but she already knew. She didn’t actually need him to say—

“We have company.”