Page 48 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Six Years Ago

Berlin, Germany

Alex

When Alex woke, the sky was gray again and the sun was going down, sinking low over the rooftops to the west. She should have

been mad at herself for sleeping away the day. The Agency was going to be looking for her, asking questions. There were reports

to file and briefs to give, but when she threw off the covers, a sharp stab of pain surged through her midriff and her whole

body vibrated like a piece of tin that had been hit with a hammer. She could almost hear the clang .

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

King was leaning against the doorframe, arms across his chest. Those long legs crossed at the ankle as if some Hollywood director

had told him to stand there until they got the light just right. But it was the look on his face that made Alex go a little

woozy: worry and frustration and fear all trying to hide behind a crooked grin.

This was King At Home, and she got the feeling that very few people ever had the luxury of seeing him here, with his bed-mussed

hair and long-sleeve tee. Old sweatpants and mismatched socks.

“Morning, Cowboy.”

For a split second she wanted to pull the words back because maybe he didn’t remember the bar and that first night. Maybe

she should have pretended she didn’t either. But then a hint of pink tinged his cheeks, so Alex tried to get out of bed.

“If I offer to help, are you going to try to kill me?”

“Maybe.”

“Good.” He laughed because, evidently, King At Home did that. “That means you’re back to normal.”

He walked toward the bed and put a hand on her forehead. Alex leaned against the cool, soft weight of it because she couldn’t

help herself. It felt like the first time someone had touched her in years.

“That’s better.”

Was he talking about her fever or the way she leaned against him? Alex didn’t know. Didn’t exactly care.

Then he bent down and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. She didn’t think. She just blurted—

“I want...”

You to kiss me.

You to hold me.

You to tuck me back in and let me sleep for five more years.

“To take a shower.”

He rose slowly but smiled as he told her, “Stay here.”

A moment later, she heard the sound of water running.

There was a bandage around her waist and a small Band-Aid on her arm. Alex looked around the room, really studying it for

the first time. She spotted a bag of saline and an IV drip hanging from the bedframe, a plastic trash bag full of bloody gauze.

It looked more like a hospital room than a bedroom, and, for the first time, Alex saw the situation clearly. The pain in her

side made so much more sense and so did the look on his face when he walked back to the bed and said, “Come on.”

She just wasn’t expecting him to swoop her up into his arms.

“I can walk, you know? I’ve been doing it for a while. I can even do it in heels.”

He shouldered the bathroom door open wider, then set her on the marble countertop of the most beautiful bathroom she’d ever

seen.

“You were out for three days.”

“I... Oh.” That couldn’t be right. He had to be lying. But he wasn’t. She could see it in his eyes, because there were two things she knew for a fact about Michael Kingsley: he didn’t lie, and he didn’t forget.

So she looked around the bathroom instead, at the antique tiles and ornate light fixtures. She didn’t know anything about

architecture, but she thought it was probably built after the First World War and, miraculously, not destroyed by the second.

The largest clawfoot tub she’d ever seen was half full of sudsy water, and the air was thick with steam.

“Those bandages are watertight, but it’s probably best not to soak too long.”

Alex knew it was silly, but nothing had ever looked as good as that warm water, so she slid off the counter and tried to walk

toward it.

“Easy,” he told her, hand on her elbow, his chest at her back.

She was wearing one of his white dress shirts. It hit her at midthigh and the sleeves were rolled up. She must have looked

like death warmed over, but that’s not how he was looking at her.

“Do you want me to...” He made the universal motion for turn around , but Alex didn’t even have to think about the answer.

“No.”

She was far past modesty at that point. He’d already seen her. Dressed her. Cleaned her wounds. He’d saved her.

“Good,” he blurted. Alex started undoing buttons, but her hands didn’t want to work right. “I mean...” He was blushing.

“I don’t want you to fall. Head injuries are...” The fabric parted. “Worse. They... bleed. And... bad. They’re bad.

And...” Alex was stepping toward the water. “Here.”

He held her as she sank slowly in, watched her settle against the rolled lip of the tub like he knew he was supposed to leave

but his feet weren’t taking orders at the moment.

“Sit up.” She didn’t even want to argue, and that’s how she knew she’d almost died. When she heard the water turn on again,

felt the gentle spray from a handheld nozzle, it felt almost sinful, the way the warm water sluiced down the line of her spine.

“Close your eyes,” he told her, and then the warm water brushed against her scalp and down her filthy hair.

“Lean back against me.” She let her head fall back and rest against the palm of his left hand while he gently worked shampoo through the strands with his right, and Alex forgot about nudity and wounds and mortal enemies.

She wasn’t thinking about Russian bad guys or missions or feelings that were too dangerous for the CIA.

There was just King and the hot water and the feeling of big, strong hands that had no right to be that gentle. The water

seeped into her battered bones, and it felt like coming clean in a way she’d never been.

“I’m okay now.”

It took a long time for him to whisper, “I’m not.”