Page 43 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Six Years Ago

Berlin, Germany

King

King couldn’t sleep anymore, so he didn’t even try. He never enjoyed doing things he wasn’t good at. Some things got better

with practice, of course. But sleeping just got harder, so he sat in the shadows of the penthouse apartment that had once

been his grandfather’s favorite safe house. He nursed a scotch and looked out the window at a city that felt like it was still

drawn in black and white.

It felt haunted. Like at any minute, he’d have to shoot a line from the balcony and fly over the wall. Like the Cold War wasn’t

over.

Like it was a war he’d never win.

King knew he should get up, go out. Maybe find a woman. But that thought only made him wince. Not because it would be hard—it

wouldn’t. They’d go back to her place for a while and then he’d come back here, and after he’d probably feel better, sleep

better, think better. And it was the last thing in the world he was going to do.

Because no matter who he found or what she looked like...

When the sound came, it was a dull, distant thud that King almost didn’t notice. If he had been a different kind of man, he

might have thought it was a ghost. He was just starting to tell himself it was probably nothing at all when it came again—hard,

but fleeting. More pound than rap. And King reached for a weapon as he eased toward the door.

Very few people knew he was in Berlin. Even fewer knew about his grandfather’s old penthouse or King’s current plans.

Maybe it was the ancient pipes, he was telling himself when the pounding came again, softer now.

And fading. Disappearing in the distance, getting farther away even as King inched closer to the door.

He didn’t check the peephole. He just cursed himself for waiting to put up the cameras as he cocked the gun and threw open

the door. And stopped breathing.

Because the figure in the door was leaning against the frame, face pale, hands shaking. Breathing hard and clutching her side

like she’d just sprinted a mile at high altitude.

Alexandra Sterling shouldn’t have been there. She would never have come there—not to him. Not unless...

“Mercy.”

And then she fell into his arms.