Page 32 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Seven Years Ago

Amalfi Coast, Italy

Alex

Alex didn’t see King for a year, so she died her hair a deep, dark red because it was the boldest color she could think of—guaranteed

to make her stand out in ways a good spy never would. She told herself she was doing it to spite him, but, the truth was,

Zoe had a book deal. Her twin was going to be a published author, with her picture on the back cover of (hopefully) a million

novels. She’d be going on tours and doing interviews, and they needed to look as unidentical as possible from that point forward,

so Alex experimented with center parts and lip injectors.

She did a stint undercover in Quebec and brushed up on her French, then started perfecting her Russian. But, mostly, she tried

to stay busy.

She took up knitting.

She gave up knitting.

She got really good at shoving knitting needles into the necks of sparring dummies.

She reread all of her sister’s favorite novels and had dreams about telling some mystery man the plots of every one while

she sat on kitchen counters she’d never have and he made food she’d never eat.

She imagined laughing.

But that just made her cry.

And she didn’t think about Michael Kingsley every hour.

It was merely every day.

***

When the letter showed up in her mailbox, Alex didn’t bother asking how it had reached her. The Agency knew all her safe houses,

but the thin envelope didn’t look like it came from Langley. There was no name. No address. No stamp. Just a one-way ticket

to Italy and a note that said: See you soon .

So by the time Alex found herself standing on a crowded pier, looking out over the Mediterranean’s choppy waters, it was almost

a relief to turn up the collar of her coat and say, “Hello, Merritt.”

A ferry was making its way toward them, churning along, full of tourists and commuters and people in love. Alex found herself

uncharacteristically annoyed by the thought of it.

“Hello, darling. Come give an old woman a hug.”

For the first time since she’d known her, Margaret Merritt looked her age. Alex didn’t like the way Merritt walked up the

ramp to the ferry, hunched over in a way that had nothing to do with the chill. Her skin was a little too pale and her eyes

had lost that touch of sparkle. Maybe it was a cover. A ploy. Or maybe time catches up with everyone eventually, even people

who have lived their whole lives hiding in plain sight.

When they finally made it on board, Merritt looked Alex up and down and told her, “You look tired.” She wasn’t being rude—that

wasn’t in Merritt’s nature. Things like fatigue simply mattered in their world. People needed to be quick—sharp. On it. And Alex hadn’t slept well in a year. Since the bungalow and the breeze and the deep breaths on the other side of the bed.

“Thank you for coming.” Merritt made room on a bench as the rest of the seats filled up on the ferry.

“Anything for you. You know that.”

“I do.” She sounded adorably smug and almost like herself. Maybe the old lady look was a cover, after all? Maybe... Merritt

coughed. “I’ve been better.”

Oh. Oh no.

The ferry was about to pull away from shore. They were draw ing up the gangway and the seats were almost full as Alex looked around, a little more obvious than she should have been. Maybe she was getting old too. Or maybe she was just getting sloppy.

“Is he coming?” She toyed with a thread on her sleeve.

Merritt smirked. “He’s already here.”

***

They found him on the top deck near the aft of the boat, leaning against the railing and looking over the rocky shore. Houses

were nestled among the cliffs like birds that had made their nests there. The roads were steep and narrow, and the beaches

were covered with rocks, but there was a reason those cliffs were sprinkled with mansions and the water was dotted with yachts.

It was one of the most beautiful playgrounds in the world, but the man at the back of the ferry looked like he’d seen better.

He seemed almost bored. And maybe that’s why all the women (and a few of the men) on the top deck watched him out of the corner

of their eyes. He was the kind of man it would feel amazing to impress.

When Alex stepped toward King, he turned and leaned against the rail, watching as the wind blew her hair—too wild and too

red—around her face. “You changed it.”

“Let me guess. Too bright? Too bold? Too—”

“I like it.” He shifted and looked down at the water. Like he didn’t trust himself to look at her. “It suits you.”

“Is that an insult?” Alex cocked her head. “Because it didn’t quite sound like one, but I might be rusty.”

King made a sound that was almost a laugh, and she wanted to ask a million questions. She wasn’t prepared to see him smile.

“It’s good to see you, Sterling.”

Did he... mean it ? It actually sounded like he meant it, but Alex might have been wrong. She was probably wrong.

“Are you feeling okay? Head injury? Personality disorder? Ooh! Did they finally perfect face-swapping technology, because if they did...” He was laughing. At her. With her. Like she was... amusing. “Okay, now I’m worried. What’s going on with you?” she asked, but he just looked at her

like that was one secret he’d never tell.

“Okay, you two, cut it out,” Merritt ordered. “We’re attracting attention. Act like you like each other.”

Alex expected King to blame her hair. Or her clothes. Or maybe just her in general, but instead he tugged her close and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before wrapping her up tight. “Better?”

he whispered, but Merritt just stood there, a curious look in her eye.

“Slightly.”

People were still looking, but now they stared at Alex, jealous that she got to snuggle up to Michael Kingsley and burrow

into the warmth of his wool peacoat and broad chest. She half expected someone to try to throw her overboard.

And then he maneuvered so that she was standing against the rail, pressing against her from behind, arms bracketed around

her like it was his job to keep her safe. As if Alex hadn’t been keeping herself safe since she was five years old and realized

no one else was going to do it because everyone else had to worry about Zoe.

Instantly, Alex bit back the thought. It wasn’t fair—to her parents or her sister or, especially, King. She had no right to

read anything into that moment. He was just doing his job because covers were survival and survival was the game, so Alex

didn’t say a thing as he put a hand over hers on the railing, intertwining their fingers, as if the two of them had been tangled

together for years. She smiled when she realized it was true.

“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come all this way to play matchmaker?” King almost sounded bored.

This time, it was Merritt’s turn to look out over the water and the cliffs like she would have given anything to be a regular

person on that ferry, going to or from a regular life. But when she spoke, the words were steel. “Recognize anyone?”

She pulled a photograph from her pocket and King took one glance. “That’s him. The buyer in Cartagena.”

“It is.” Merritt smiled like she was going to give King a gold star. “He’s been using those emeralds well. In addition to various large purchases from our friend on the island, he’s had his fingers in all kinds of nasty pies.”

“Who is he?” Alex asked.

“His name is Viktor Kozlov.” Merritt’s voice was too low to carry on the wind, but she gave an almost imperceptible glance

at the people on the top deck. Families and tourists and couples who, unlike King and Alex, were actually in love.

“So he’s Russian,” King whispered. He sounded like he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but Merritt gave

a dry laugh, like Kids today... So sweet... So naive...

“Of course he’s Russian. And he’s been a very busy boy. Smarter than average. More ruthless than most. He has a weakness,

though.”

“He’s a man,” Alex blurted, and Merritt smirked.

“He is.” Merritt seemed a little more like herself when she said, “And as such, he’s been in the market for a mistress.”

“ No. ”

The word was so sharp—so sudden—that Alex expected to see a flash of lightning. The word was charged , and maybe that’s why it took her a moment to realize the arms around her were going tight. It was like a switch had flipped

and everything about King froze solid. Like he turned to stone.

“Absolutely not.” King’s arms turned to granite around her, but he kept his gaze on Merritt. “She won’t do it.”

“Who won’t do what?” Alex felt lost and she didn’t like it. She was trying to pry free, but he was too big and too strong

and too... angry?

“Alex is not going to go undercover as Viktor Kozlov’s plaything.” Wait. What? “She won’t—”

“Maybe I will?” Now she was the one getting angry.

“ You won’t. ” His voice was iron. It wasn’t a premonition.

It was an order, and Alex didn’t like what it was doing to her.

She was ready to breathe fire, but she was also.

.. touched. For the first time in a long time, someone was looking at her like they cared?

Wait. Was that what caring looked like? Felt like?

She had to be mistaken. But before she could ask for clarification, Merritt laughed.

“Of course Alex isn’t going to be the mistress.” Merritt gave an indifferent shrug with one frail shoulder.

“I’m not?”

“He’s already found one. And he bought her a lovely little place to hide away in.”

When the ferry went around a bend in the shore, they saw it. Alex followed Merritt’s gaze to the stark, steep cliff on the

far side of the little inlet—the rocky beach and olive trees. And the most beautiful house that Alex had ever seen.

“Why are we here, Margaret?” King asked because he knew there was more to the story.

“I thought the two of you might like to break into it for me, but if you would rather not—”

“I’ll do it.”

The arms pulled away, and Alex didn’t realize how cold the wind would feel without them.

“May I talk to you?” He was glaring down, hand tugging, like he had to get her away from Merritt before she could spout any

more bad ideas.

But bad ideas were Alex’s favorite kind sometimes, so she leaned close to Merritt and whispered, “What’s our time frame?”

“Now!” King tugged. He wanted to drag her away, but Alex wanted to be difficult, so she stayed right where she was, confident

that he wouldn’t cause a scene. Because King was genetically opposed to scene-causing. “Sterling. Do you see that?” He pointed

to the house that was slipping away as the ferry moved on. “The fortress with the fences and walls and literal cliffs? And...

is that a guard tower?” He squinted into the distance.

“Oh, come on...” She rolled her eyes. “It’s not that hard.”

“It is incredibly hard.”

“We can do this.”

“I know we can.” He ran a hand over his face.

His shirt was open at the collar and his coat was unbuttoned and his hair was just a little longer than it used to be.

Maybe it was the sea air, but it was almost wavy.

He looked like someone who was a little mysterious and a lot dangerous, and Alex couldn’t help herself: she liked it.

“She can send a black bag team for this.”

“Can you?” she asked, and Merritt had the good taste to look slightly guilty.

“I would rather not.” She’d chosen the words with so much care that Alex had to wonder what she wasn’t saying.

“Sterling.” King’s voice was low. And dark. And careful. “This isn’t like the island. They don’t need us for this.”

“Actually, Michael, I do.”

They both turned and looked at Merritt. She was old and weak and growing weaker. They would have gone anywhere for her—done

anything. Even this. But King just asked, “Why us?”

It was an odd thing, to watch someone shrink in front of your eyes, but that’s what Merritt did then. “Because all the people

I trust are dead. Because I am an old woman, and I’m alone. Because there’s one more thing I need to mark off my to-do list

before it’s too late.” It physically pained her to admit, “Because I’m too old and too weak to do it myself.”

Alex was young and strong and in her prime, but she still knew the feeling, and so she said, “I’m in.”