Page 24 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)
Eight Years Ago
The Island
King
King should have stayed on the airplane.
On the mainland.
In bed.
He never should have answered Merritt’s call or, for that matter, followed in his father’s footsteps. But perhaps his biggest
mistake was letting Alex go first down the airplane’s stairs. He had to watch her tip her face up and squint against the sun,
wind in her hair, as a voice called, “Welcome to Cupid’s Arrow!”
“Kill me now,” King must have mumbled, because Alex looked back at him, blinking and wide-eyed.
“That could be arranged, you know?” she whispered, too low to be heard over the sound of the waves and the idling jet. And
then she turned away from him, as if blown by the breeze, and everything about her tightened—her shoulders and her tone. It
was like a magnet hovering over a pile of metal shavings. Something snapped into place—from the line of her shoulders to the
set of her jaw as she slipped on a pair of dark glasses.
She wasn’t Alexandra Sterling anymore.
She was Mrs. Donna Dixon.
And she was angry.
“We are so glad you made it. How was your flight?”
King might have forgotten about the other woman, if he’d been a different kind of man.
She was somewhere on the soft side of middle -aged, long flowing dress and big flowing hair that was a little too red to be natural.
She looked like the kind of woman who would very much like to join a cult if only she could find one with adequate amenities.
And maybe that’s what she was building here, he had to think, as she eyed their jet and inched closer.
“Welcome to the place where your inner cupids will renew the arrow of love.” The woman brought her hands together and bowed
as if she’d just recited some ancient and sacred text and not the biggest bit of gibberish that King had ever heard in his
life.
It was all he could do not to roll his eyes, but Alex didn’t have that problem.
“Hello, I’m Donna. This is my husband”—she made a half-hearted gesture in King’s direction—“Dimwit.”
“David,” King put in, but his dear wife wasn’t in the mood to bother with technicalities.
“That’s what I said,” she muttered just loudly enough to make sure the words would carry.
He held out a hand for the woman. “David Dixon, nice to meet you.”
“Charmed.” The woman eyed him up and down like maybe she might be better off if David were back on the market. King couldn’t
help but chuckle when he saw Alex bristle.
“Donna and I are thrilled to be here. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
“Sweetheart?” She wielded the word like a whip. And then her lips quivered and her eyes went misty. Even her skin changed
color.
King was raised among the best spies to ever live. He’d studied at the foot of the masters, dining on tales of clandestine
missions and covert operations. It was not at all hyperbolic to say that his grandfather alone changed the trajectory of the
world. That was Michael Kingsley’s bloodline—his legacy. His fate. But King had never—ever—seen anyone do what Alex did then.
She wasn’t pretending to be Donna Dixon from Denver. She was Donna Dixon. And she was on the verge of tears.
“That’s not what you called me last night.”
“Darling.” King kept his voice low, turning his body as if that might make the words more private. “We’ve been over this—”
“You mean while you were under someone else?”
“I have never cheated on you!” King shouldn’t have been so offended, but he was. Her hair blew around her in the breeze and
the ocean air was dewy on her skin and King felt his heart stop beating. “I haven’t looked at another woman since I met you.”
The words turned to acid on his tongue. “So help me, I’d give anything to be lying.”
King looked away and slid on his own dark glasses. Looking at her was like staring at the sun.
“Oh my.” The voice brought him back. “Don’t we have our work cut out for us?” The stranger slapped her hands together like
This should be fun . “My name is Flora. I like florals.” The woman gestured to her long, flower-covered dress as if they might have missed it.
“I will be your personal cupid.”
She gave one of those ridiculous bows again while, behind them, the staff started unloading a mountain of luggage from the
cargo hold of the plane. The designer suitcases alone were probably worth ten grand, not to mention the clothes and accessories
(and gear) contained within them. King only hoped it was enough. Because he had to get into that compound and then off of
this island before something killed him, and at the moment, he wasn’t sure which was more dangerous—the arms dealer on the
other side of the mountain or the woman who was standing right beside him, staring daggers.
“No offense, Flora, but I’m starting to worry this island might not be big enough for the two of us.” Alex looked at King
like she might slice right through his carotid with her gaze and save herself the hassle of a messy divorce. “Is there, like,
a hotel on the other side? A Ritz maybe? I’d even do a Four Seasons? Can I check in there?”
“Oh no!” Flora’s serene expression turned to panic. “You must never go to the other side of the island.”
“Why?” Alex got a devilish gleam in her eye. “Is it clothing optional? Because that wouldn’t be a problem.”
King tried not to swallow his tongue.
“No,” Flora was saying. “Nothing like that. Just”—she cut a nervous glance between them, eyes pinballing back and forth like
she didn’t know where to put the lie to make it stick—“zoning issues.”
“Zoning?” King asked. “I thought the island was private.”
“Oh, it is!” Flora’s voice had taken on that too-pretentious-to-be-real tone again. “It’s just... well, it’s more semiprivate . We have this side of the island.” She pointed from the rugged line of mountains that split the island down the center to
the black sand beach and lush green jungle. “Why would we venture over there when we have paradise here? Besides, I doubt
you could even reach the other side. The mountain is... high.” She looked up at it like she couldn’t think of any other
word. “And there are cliffs and rockslides and, besides, you’ll have plenty to keep you busy right here. Now kiss.”
At first, King thought he must have misheard her because the words ran together as if they were one thought—one sentence.
As if she hadn’t just said—
“Kiss!”
“I’m sorry, what?” King demanded, and the woman rolled her eyes as if he were the one being ridiculous.
“It’s tradition, here, at Cupid’s Arrow”—she did the ridiculous bow again—“that I ask all of my lovers”—she gestured at King—“to
begin their time here by kissing their lovelies.” She gestured toward Alex. “Everyone kisses when they arrive and then again
as they leave and as much as possible in the middle.” She gave an exaggerated wink. But, just as quickly, grew serious. “I
need to see what we’re working with.”
What she was working...
“Well, lover ...” Alex lingered on the word. She was enjoying herself far too much as she turned to him. “She wants to see what you’re...
working with.”
King had been in and out of covers for the past two years but it had never felt so easy.
He didn’t even have to think about what he was doing.
In fact, for the first time in his life, he didn’t think at all.
He just slipped an arm around her. “You know exactly what I’m working with.
” And then King just... forgot. About everything—the plane and the mountain and the way the Atlantic lapped against black sand and glistened in the sun.
Even Flora seemed to fade into the background as Alex went up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.
That was it. Just a brush. Just a whisper. It should have been enough. But it wasn’t. And when their lips parted, he felt
her fingers in his hair and he slid his hands down her waist, gripping and grabbing and holding on, needing... something.
More.
More heat. More pressure. More time. More—
Alex pulled away and King let her go, and for a moment there was nothing but the sound of his heart and the lapping of the
waves and Flora’s breathless whisper.
“Well, I suppose we can work with that.”