Page 49 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

Alex

The apartment was, in fact, art deco. Lovingly restored and preserved by King’s grandfather and then his father and now by

King himself. High ceilings with ornate moldings and glossy hardwood floors. Tall windows with no curtains and rooms with

no furniture. It was the apartment of a man who had everything he needed but nothing he wanted, and Alex tried to reconcile

that with the man she thought she knew. Not for the first time, she tried to make King make sense.

There was only one closed door, so, of course, once she was clean and dry and steady on her feet, she opened it. She wasn’t

prepared for what was waiting.

“What’s all this?”

It was probably supposed to be a guest room or maybe—in another life—a nursery. But King’s version had nothing to do with

art deco. Instead, there were long metal tables and walls of monitors. The lights were off but the whole room glowed red and

green, like Technology Christmas. It was a maze of devices and wires and whiteboards covered in scrawl.

Some might have wondered if that was what the inside of King’s mind looked like, but Alex knew better. King’s mind was straight

rows and laser-printed labels, alphabetized shelves and color-coded files. King’s mind was perfect. This room, though—this

was where King could let his mind go free.

She was just starting to tell herself that she shouldn’t be there when she saw it—a stone that was small and green and precious.

And then, instead of feeling cold in Berlin, she was hot in Cartagena.

She was watching Merritt hand King a little bag full of emeralds.

She saw him dump them out on his palm and then examine one small stone.

That small stone.

“I dropped one. In the hotel room that first day,” a voice said from the door. He’d put on a pair of jeans and a dry shirt,

but his socks were still mismatched and that one detail made her want to cry, but she didn’t have any idea how to explain

it, so she just pointed a finger at him.

“No, you didn’t. You palmed it. You stole it!” she accused. Or teased. Even she wasn’t sure of the difference.

He gave a guilty grin. A little shrug. And then the shy confession of, “I tinker.”

The words didn’t make any sense—at least not at first. But then she watched the way he scanned the room. It was his domain,

but it was like he was seeing it for the first time because he was seeing it through her.

Alex ran a hand over the glossy shelves. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“It clears my mind. Working with my hands. Doing things. Building things.”

“And this?” She held up the emerald.

“I might have made some improvements.”

“Oh.” She wanted to mock him but she couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Does it play music? Sync to the cloud?”

“It’s waterproof now. Better range.”

“Very convenient.”

“Almost unlimited battery life.”

“Excellent.” But she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. “You stole it.”

He smiled down at his feet. “I stole it.” He looked like a little boy who was sheepish and guilty but absolutely going to do it again because getting caught would be worth it.

“Are you hungry?” Alex hadn’t thought about it until then, but she wasn’t hungry.

She was ravenous. “I made soup. If you don’t like it, I can make something else.

Or go pick something up,” he said as she followed him through the nearly empty rooms.

“You don’t have furniture.”

“I have a pot. And some flatware. A couple of bowls.” It was almost cute, how defensive he sounded.

And then it felt almost normal, the way she settled onto the lone chair at the lone table and watched him move around the

old-fashioned kitchen. He heated the soup in his one pot and then poured it into his two bowls, and then they ate in near

silence as he leaned against the counter, watching her every move.

She ate two bowls because, of course, Michael Kingsley was an excellent cook. She was just contemplating how wise (or embarrassing)

it might be to ask for a third when he said, “You talk in your sleep.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. Not because she didn’t know. She’d spent her whole childhood sleeping on the other side of

the room from Zoe, after all. But no one else had ever mentioned it before.

“In German. You speak German. When you sleep.”

Oh. “That’s probably because I dream in German.”

His head shot up in surprise. “You do?” It was like it was the first thing she’d ever said or done that had actually surprised

him.

“And French,” she added.

“Not English?”

“Sometimes. But mostly... it doesn’t matter. My head translates so fast, they all sound the same”—she tapped her temple—“in

here.” King was looking at her oddly, studying her in a way she’d never seen before, as if she’d just become more mysterious,

but also, at the same time, suddenly made sense. “What?”

“Nothing,” he blurted a little too quickly. “I just thought I was the only one. I didn’t know...”

And something about that made Alex bristle. “That I was qualified.”

“No. That you were like me.”

Alex was many, many things, but like King? Never.

She wanted to ask him what he meant—if it was a compliment or an insult, if she should have been offended or enraged. But

she couldn’t think of the words—not in any language—so, instead, she just said, “My mother was a language teacher. And we

lived... everywhere. My father’s job took us all over. Engineer,” she filled in before he could ask. “And everywhere we

went, Mom would make us learn the new language, but she also wouldn’t let us forget the old one. For a while, she had a rule

that we had to speak Latin at the table.” Alex had to smile at the memory. She and Zoe had made so many Caesar salad jokes.

She smiled down at her empty bowl, and for the first time, she felt not empty. “It wasn’t as useful as she thought it would

be.”

“I’m sure.”

“What did I say?” Alex asked, but he tilted his head like he didn’t follow. “Last night?”

“Oh.” Suddenly, it was like he didn’t want to face her. He got her bowl and carried it to the sink.

“King—”

“ Michael ,” he said too quickly. “Last night—when you were sleeping. And before.... You called me Michael.”

“Oh.”

It didn’t explain the way that he was acting, except for all the ways that, maybe, it did.

“Did you hate that?”

“No.” He shook his head and studied her, gaze sharper than the knives and twice as deadly. “Not even a little bit.”