Page 27 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Alex

Technically, their room wasn’t a room. It was a bungalow. But as Alex took in the small building tucked between the tall trees

of the jungle and the black sand of the beach, she couldn’t help but think it was actually the most opulent shack she’d ever

laid eyes on.

There were dark wood floors and high arching ceilings. Between the rattan fans making lazy circles overhead and the breeze

blowing off the ocean, it was no wonder the sheer white curtains kept billowing and dancing in the moonlight. Like ghosts.

But that wasn’t what Alex was afraid of. Because while the room had a tiny fridge stocked with two bottles of champagne, and

there were two bathrooms (one was outdoors) with two fluffy white robes and two sets of slippers—two oversize chairs and two

mints on two pillows...

There was only one bed.

For a moment, Alex just stood there, looking at it numbly, wishing she could talk to Zoe, because her sister was the only

person Alex knew who would actually appreciate the situation. She was also, unfortunately, the last person Alex could ever

tell.

They were on different paths now, but maybe they always had been? Like whatever cosmic or genetic fate had split them in two

in the womb was still there, standing between them. Alex had thought that being away from her sister would get easier now

that it was a matter of national security, but that didn’t change the fact that...

“There’s only one bed.”

Alex didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until she heard another voice ask, “What’s that?”

“Nothing.” It was sloppy, standing there, saying things aloud, forgetting that she wasn’t alone, so Alex went to her CIA-issued suitcase and threw it open. There was a screwdriver in her cosmetics case, and Alex got to work, checking inside vents and unscrewing light switch covers and—

“What are you doing?” The man had the nerve to sound bored.

“It’s called clearing the room?” she whispered. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“You don’t have to do that.” King was hanging up his shirts. All white. All expensive. All a thread here or a dart there from

being identical.

“Of course I have to do this. It’s protocol, or did you forget that, Mr. Photographic Memory?”

“You don’t have to do that because I already did it.”

“We just got here!”

Oh, she hated him. Even in this he had to be first.

“I did it with this.” He pointed to his wristwatch and held out his arm. He had annoyingly nice arms. Big bones with those

ridiculous forearms displayed prominently with his sleeves rolled up. But then he bent down and took off his shoes and that

was the thing that threw her. It was so... human. For the first time, she realized that a part of her had always wondered

if King might actually be a robot.

She looked back at the device on his wrist. Alex was instantly leery. And jealous.

“What’s that?”

“Bug detector. Among other things. It finds anything that’s wired and blocks anything that’s wireless.”

“Where did you get it, and why didn’t they give me one?”

“I made it.” He sounded almost bored.

“You made it?” Did the words come out more mocking than she’d intended? Yes. Did she take them back? Not even a little bit.

But King, the jerkface, just shrugged . “I make things.”

“You make things ? What? In your Evil Genius lab?” That time, she really did mean to sound mocking and she wasn’t even ashamed of it.

“Everyone needs a hobby.” Then he turned back to straighten White Shirt number 10 (this one was linen).

“The room is clean, Alex.” There was something in the way he looked back at her, soft and a little indulgent.

“I wouldn’t take a chance...” He trailed off, like there was more to that sentence, but he caught the words and pulled them back.

“I wouldn’t take a chance.” There was a period that time.

It wasn’t even up for debate. “Go take a shower. Or do your nails—”

“ Do my nails? ”

“Or...” There was a shelf of old paperbacks by the wet bar. The literary equivalent of take a penny, leave a penny , and he pulled one off the shelf at random and tossed it in her direction. She caught it one-handed. “Read something.”

“I’ve read it.” Alex tossed it back. He caught it with his nondominant hand because, even in that, he had to top her.

“No, you haven’t.” He tucked the book back in its place.

“End of chapter seven,” she said flatly. “The heroine shoots the hero in the leg.”

For a moment, King just stood there, blinking. Then he started flipping through the pages, searching. Desperate to prove she

was lying. When he finally found it, he stopped and looked at her, and Alex didn’t even try not to smirk.

“You’re not the only one with a good memory, you know?”

He turned back to the shelf and reached for another one, but it was all Alex could do not to roll her eyes. “She pretty much

falls in love with him in chapter five because he buys her a foot warmer. Which, by the way, just proves how low the bar is

for most men, romantically speaking.”

He picked up another paperback, but Alex just crossed her arms and said, “Her Scottish ones are better.” King was looking

at her like she’d just sprouted a third eye. “What? Everything is better in Scotland. The heroes wear kilts and live in castles.”

She wiggled her eyebrows just to mock him. “Come on. If you’re going to have a fictional man, he might as well have a kilt.

And a castle.” Alex thought that was an excellent point, but King didn’t look convinced. He just stared at the shelf, bewildered.

“Have you read all of these?”

No, she hadn’t read them all. In fact, she hadn’t read anything fun in a very long time. But that didn’t change the fact that—“I used to read romance all the time to my...”

And then she stopped. Alex didn’t know what was worse, the look in King’s eyes or the memory of Zoe lying in a hospital bed,

too weak to turn the pages. Alex had done that to her. It was Alex’s fault.

“Sterling...”

“Myself,” Alex lied. “When I was bored or alone. You should try it. Reading for fun. It makes one a more empathetic person.” She stuck her tongue out, then went to the bathroom and closed the door. She turned the shower on full blast and

gripped the edge of the sink and tried not to think about why she didn’t want to look in the mirror.

“Alex?” There was a gentle knock. “Open up.”

“What is it?” She jerked open the door, and there he was, soft eyes full of something that looked a lot like worry.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She went to close the door again, but he blocked it in a way they didn’t have to teach at spy school.

“Alex—” he started, but it was already too late. It was already too much.

“Don’t call me that.”

“There aren’t any bugs. We can—”

“You call me Sterling. Or Alexandra when you want to be especially mocking. We’re not friends, Kingsley. We are partners.

Temporarily. Because Merritt and the Agency and the freaking country need us to be. But we are not... I appreciate you

stooping to working with me, and I’m sorry I’ve been forced upon you— again . But we are not friends. I would think someone with an eidetic memory could remember that much.”

Alex would have given her life savings to know what he was thinking in that moment. Not that she cared. Except she really,

really cared. And she hated that most of all.

He backed up three whole inches but didn’t let the door close. “Tell me who you read them to.”

She didn’t know why he cared. She really didn’t know why it mattered. But he was looking at her like she mattered. Like she was the only language he couldn’t speak—the only code he couldn’t crack. She was the photograph his mind

couldn’t hold on to, and he needed to know the answer to this question. Like this small piece of information was the key to her cipher and he needed to find

the thing that would finally make her make sense, and Alex couldn’t help herself.

She whispered, “My sister.”

The air was hot and thick with steam. It filled her lungs. It was getting hard to breathe, but she could see him clearly.

“ Zoe. ” It was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine that had been running for two years suddenly come to its ultimate conclusion.

The last piece fell into place in his mind. “Zoe’s your sister.” It wasn’t a question, and King seemed almost giddy with the

possibilities. “Is she older? Younger?”

“Younger.” That could have been the end of it— should have been the end of it. But something made her add, “By seven minutes.”

And then Michael Kingsley, Boy Wonder of the CIA, just stood there, totally dumbfounded while the pieces came together in

his mind. “You’re a twin. You’re... Are you fraternal?” She shook her head, and he let out a gasp. “Identical?”

“That’s most common alternative, yes.”

Then he leaned against the doorframe, like his legs couldn’t quite support his weight. “Sweet mercy. There are two of you.”

For a moment, it almost sounded like a compliment.

“She doesn’t know,” Alex blurted. “About me. About this... She doesn’t know what I do, so you can save whatever lecture

you were going to give me about—”

“I’m not going to give you a lecture.” He looked cool, even in the stuffy room, eyes taking in her face, like he was wondering

if maybe she and Zoe had pulled a Parent Trap , like maybe she was an entirely different person and he was mad that he’d somehow missed the clues.

But then his expression changed. Something occurred to him, and Alex honestly didn’t know what he was thinking until he whispered, “So I guess you told me yours...” He didn’t have to explain.

Alex thought about the not-quite-game she and King had been playing for the better part of two long years. “I did. So is this

the part where you tell me about Nikolai?”

“No.” He couldn’t look at her.

“Because it’s need-to-know?”

“Because it’s way too painful.” Then he turned around. He closed the door. And Alex didn’t ask a single question.

***

When she got out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, King was lacing up his hiking boots. “I’m going to go take a look around.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“It’s our only idea.”

Maybe it was all in her head, but it felt like he was trying to not face her.

Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning outside—a boom of thunder. And then the hardest rain that Alex had ever heard slammed

down on the roof of the bungalow.

“King! Wait,” she called before he reached the door. “If you insist on going out in this, I’ll go with you.”

“No, Al— Sterling.” He half stumbled over the word. “Get some rest. I won’t be long.”

Lightning flashed again, and Alex didn’t want to admit it, but it scared her. She didn’t want him out there. Getting hurt

or getting lost.

“We’ll look in the morning. Come on. Come to bed.

If you get caught in a mudslide or fall down a mountain and bust your head, Merritt will blame me.

And then she’ll kill me. And then we’ll both be dead and the CIA will never recover.

” There was something strange about his face—like he was amused in spite of himself and that amusement made him angry, which just pleased Alex even more.

“Fine.” She knew better than to force his hand and make him dig in his heels.

“Do whatever you want, but I’m going to bed, and you can join me or—”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” King said like it wasn’t even a debate. Not even a question.

“Fine. If you’re committed to the chivalry act. But just so you know, I’d rather share the world’s largest bed than be in

the field with someone whose body isn’t operating at full capacity because they were too stubborn to get a good night’s sleep.”

She turned off the light and turned onto her side. The bathroom door opened and closed and then the shower turned on. She

was almost asleep ten minutes later when she felt the bed dip.

“Just so you know,” he whispered, “the chivalry isn’t an act.”

The worst part was, she already knew it.