Page 22 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Present Day

Somewhere Over Nevada

Alex

“This was a mistake,” Alex said for the fourth time in ninety minutes.

“You are more than welcome to walk to the island... except... wait. It’s an island. ” At some point during the past six years, King had become someone who looked at home on a private jet on its way to a private

island, and Alex didn’t know what to make of it. “So if you have a better plan, my dear...”

“I’m not your dear.” Instantly, Alex wanted to pull the words back. It was the kind of thing she used to say... before

they dropped their guards. Before everything changed. Before Scotland.

“You said we were the only people we can trust,” she insisted.

“And here I am... trusting you .” On anyone else it might have sounded smug, but on him it was just normal.

She ran a hand over a leather cushion. It was probably made from the skin of some endangered animal. It was almost disgustingly,

criminally soft. “Well, the last I checked, your penthouse apartment was being shot up by a bunch of armed commandos.”

“There were only two commandos.” He sounded unimpressed.

“So, tell me... Exactly how is this ”—she motioned at the glossy interior of the even glossier jet—“any different than a penthouse in the sky? A very crashable,

explodeable, vulnerable-to-surface-to-air-missiles... penthouse?”

“Are you finished?”

Alex had to think. “Hijackable penthouse!” She was a little too proud of that last one, but King just looked tired and annoyed.

“This penthouse ”—he made quote marks with his hands—“is not mine.”

“Neither was the last one.” Alex thought that was a very good point, but then she spotted a basket of snacks and decided that

if she had to die at thirty thousand feet, at least she could go out with a belly full of Pringles.

“The plane isn’t mine either, and no one will know you and I are on it.”

“See, the problem is”—she plopped a chip whole into her mouth, cherishing the crisp salty taste and the scowl on his face

as he waited for her to chew—“we are back to you ”—she pointed for effect—“and me . Not being able to trust anyone .”

He looked annoyed, mainly because she’d made something of a point. Which Alex took as something of a win. “The owner owes

me a favor. This individual is very private.”

Another chip. Another question. “Who?”

King snatched the Pringles from her hands and took a handful, as if to say, These are mine now. You have lost your Pringles privileges.

“They. Are. Very. Private.”

Alex took a deep breath, suddenly bored, and stole her chips back. Only the crumbs were left, but the joke was on him because

the crumbs were the best part. She tipped the canister up and drank them down. “Must be some favor.”

King turned to the airplane’s window. “It is.”

“I’m going to go count the parachutes...” Alex got up and gestured to the back of the jet.

“You do that.”

“For when we get shot out of the sky.”

“I assumed.”

“Because this is a bad idea .”

“Suit yourself.” He wasn’t even paying attention and she almost missed the man who used to look at her like she was nothing but a mistake.

Because that guy, she understood. That guy was calm, cool contempt, but this guy was indifference.

Alex wanted to throw him off that airplane just to make him scream.

“I’m going to get some sleep.” He started lowering his chair to a flat position, then touched a button and the cabin lights

went dim. Alex should have felt more at home there, in the darkness and the shadows. It’s what her life had been for years,

neither black nor white, good nor evil. Her whole world was gray, but the man in the other chair was gunmetal. Darker and

harder and even in the darkness, she had to look away.

She couldn’t face him when she said, “Do we need to compare notes?”

“What notes?” The words were like ice. She hoped he broke a tooth.

“It’s called a cover, King. They taught us about them. At spy school.”

“Don’t call it...” She watched the shadow shake its head. “We have our cover.”

She flicked on the reading light over his seat and Alex watched him squint against the glare. “We had a cover. Nine years ago. It’s not like it’s fresh on our—”

“Eight,” he corrected.

“What?”

King looked her dead in the eye and she wished she could turn the light off. Grab a parachute and jump. She wanted to turn

the hourglass over and make time run the other way, because his eyes were as dark as the voice that said, “It was eight years,

four months, and five days ago. And I remember every word.”

The plane hit a patch of rough air and dipped suddenly. Or maybe Alex’s stomach did that all on its own, but that didn’t change

the fact that she had to steady herself as she dropped onto the armrest of the seat across the aisle.

“Yay. Congratulations. I’m sure if they test us on the timeline, we’ll be set.”

“Indeed.” He opened a compartment and pulled out a blanket, opened it with a flick of his wrist.

“Do we have kids?”

“What?” Oh, that got his attention.

“They’re going to ask. About that. And about a million more things and—”

“Oh, I stand corrected, it’s going to be incredibly difficult to convince people that ours is a marriage in trouble.”

But he still didn’t get it. Michael Kingsley was, without a doubt, the most brilliant person she had ever known. He was also

the dumbest, and it was all Alex could do not to roll her eyes.

“The problem isn’t that eight years, four months, and five days have passed and we still hate each other, Kingsley.” She stood

and started down the narrow aisle. “The problem will be getting anyone to believe we made it this long.”

She heard him roll over, call out, “They believed us just fine the last time.”

But Alex had to stop. And remember.

“That was before.”

He pushed up on an elbow and looked at her. “Before what?”

He knew. He knew, but he was going to make her say it.

Alex turned off the light. “Before Scotland.”