Page 64 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold (The Blonde Identity #2)

King

“Alex—” King barely had time to duck the punch. She’d been out of the game for a year, but that didn’t mean she was out of

shape. “Alex, wait!”

Too late. She was already lunging, forcing King to drop and roll, trying to get out of her way because he had to talk to her—he

had to make her understand or see reason or... something. He had to find out what had caused all this and then he had to

stop it.

“What are you doing?” He sprang to his feet and held up both hands, but Alex just prowled closer.

“So that’s where you got the money. Tell me, were you always working for Kozlov? Or did you take over after I killed him?”

“What are you talking about?” He was so shocked that he forgot to sidestep when she charged; it was all he could do to redirect

her momentum, and in the next moment, they were slamming into a row of shelves, sending six months’ worth of work tumbling

like dominoes.

King twisted, trying to take the brunt of the fall, but monitors and books were crashing to the floor. Glass was shattering.

And Alex looked like she hadn’t even noticed.

She just loomed over him. “Tell me everything or I’m going to kill you.”

King was stunned and dizzy, and his tongue tasted like blood. “Looks like you’re gonna kill me anyway.”

“Yeah.” She actually smiled. “I probably am.”

They both saw it at the same time—the gun that he kept under the table—and in a flash, they were both rolling across the floor, diving for it—and of course she beat him there.

“Alex—”

BOOM! A vase shattered.

She aimed again and King dove. He had to get away. He had to make her see. He had to—

Hide.

He was hiding in his own home from a woman who was eight inches shorter and sixty pounds lighter, but in a way, it was fitting.

He’d been hiding from her for six years. For longer.

“What are you talking about?” he called over his shoulder, hunching behind the desk.

“I got your messages.”

Oh . Toward the end, King had only called when he’d been drinking. He never thought she’d actually hear those blasted messages,

and now he was terrified of what he’d said.

“Alex, I can explain!” he shouted, which was a mistake because— BOOM! —a gunshot tore through the wood.

King was caught—between the wall and the woman and the words he couldn’t say.

And then he remembered the fireplace. It hadn’t worked in ages. He’d considered it a fire hazard for his father and too much

trouble for himself. But the old stones and heavy mantel were pretty. They were charming. And, most of all, the cold firebox

made a great place to hide a shotgun.

King dove and rolled and came up with it. “Stop!” he shouted when she came around the desk.

She had the pistol trained on him, and he had the shotgun trained on her, and they were both breathing too hard. It wasn’t

the fight; it was the adrenaline. The fear. The wondering how it had ever come to this and could they ever fix it?

Should they fix it?

King stopped to wonder if maybe he was wrong. Maybe this fight and this moment were predestined—something set in motion at

the airport Ramada and always meant to be.

“Alex. Please.”

“Why?” Her voice broke, and that broke him. He’d seen her bloody and bruised and clinging to life. He’d seen her angry and

giddy and so frustrated, she could scream. But he had never—ever—seen her cry.

“ Why? ” Alex shouted, shaking the gun with the word.

Why did he tell her not to come back?

Why did he keep calling when she’d done exactly what he’d asked?

“Why what ?”

“Why did you lie about Zoe and trick me into going to Vegas?”

“I...” King had a hundred explanations right on the tip of his tongue, but all he could do was shake his head and spit

out, “What?”

“Don’t deny it.”

“I don’t... Alex, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She cocked the gun. “Tell me where the ring is. Or— Wait. Does the ring even matter? Was that a long con, too?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Are you Nikolai?”

It hit him harder than a punch. “No.”

“Then tell me where the ring is!”

“You know where I wanted to put that ring? On your finger . That’s the only place I ever wanted to put it, but that wasn’t exactly an option now, was it?”

He watched her recoil, like the words hurt more than the bruises. Like the worst thing a spy could ever do was dare to love

out loud. Like that was the thing that was finally going to kill them.

“Come on!” she shouted, shaking the gun. “Let’s finish this!”

But King had been battling his feelings for so long that he couldn’t even remember what it was like to stop fighting. He couldn’t

even remember what had ever made him start.

“King!”

He dropped the shotgun and kicked it to the other side of the room.

“Okay.” He held his arms out wide. “You want to win? You win. You want me to be the bad guy, I will be. But if you kill me... and you’re wrong? Then you’re dealing with this by yourself, and so help me, Alex, I can’t live with that.”

“Stop talking.” She shook the gun at him again. “Stop...”

“Think about it, Alex. Think about us!”

“There is no us.”

“There should have been.”

“I...” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Then I’ll go first.” He took a slow step toward her. “I should have gone with you to Paris. I should have watched your back

and brought you home. I shouldn’t have wasted a year looking for you, and I never should have made you doubt me. I...”

“I never should have gotten on the bus.”

Is that what she thought? Is that—

“No.” King shook his head.

“You were right.”

“I was wrong!”

“You told me not to get on the bus, but...”

King saw her hand flex. He heard the gun fall. He watched as her walls crumbled and her will dissolved, and then he was flying

across the room and pulling her into his arms, kissing her temple and holding her tight.

“I needed you on that bus,” he said between heartbeats. “I needed you then. And I’ve needed you every moment since then. I

will need you until the day I die.” He held her face in his hands and searched her eyes. “Listen to me. You’re the best spy

I’ve ever known, and you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” She cinched her eyes tight, but more tears spilled over, sliding

warm and wet down her cheek. “I’m grateful every day for your good heart, sweetheart.” She gave a silent sob. “You deserved

it, and you didn’t waste it, and every single person on this planet is better off because of you. Especially me. Do you hear

me? Do you—”

Her kiss felt like a promise. Her sigh sounded like a prayer.

Then her hands were in his hair and he was pressing her against the wall, feeling her weight and her skin and the warm brush of her breath, and Michael Kingsley forgot all about the broken glass and broken hearts.

He forgot everything he’d ever seen and heard. He forgot his own name.

He forgot.

***

The house was a disaster. The room was ruined and his father’s work was shot to hell, but King couldn’t bring himself to care

because Alex was beside him, drawing patterns on his chest.

They were lying on a blanket of debris—scattered clothes spread across broken glass and splintered wood, black-and-white photos

covering the floor like fallen leaves.

It was over. But it was also far from finished, so as badly as King hated to ruin the moment, he couldn’t let it go. Not until

she knew—

“Security consulting. That’s where the money came from. I do security consulting and tech development for people who pay well.

Government contracts. Casinos.” She made a noise. He felt her stir. But he had to say the rest of it before it was too late.

“I didn’t try to lure you to Vegas.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and—not for the first time—cursed the blank spots that

lingered at the corners of his mind. “At least, I don’t think I did.” He ran his hands through his hair. He hated this. “I

don’t remember. I don’t.”

“I believe you.”

She did. He could feel it in the way her body relaxed against him as they lay on the floor, surrounded by what was left of

two obsessions. The moon was like a spotlight, beaming through the window, and it was like they were the only people in Scotland—in

the world.

“Oh, King...” Alex thumbed through the index cards that were scattered across the floor. “Did you really think I was working

on a cruise ship as a singing waitress?”

“I will admit, it was not one of my stronger theories.”

“What about”—she squinted to make out his handwriting—“Alaskan dog sledder?”

“Like you couldn’t win the Iditarod.”

“Oh, I could totally win the Iditarod, but...” Alex trailed off as she reached for one of the old photographs and held it up to the light. “What’s this?”

King twisted to get a better look. “That would be the first Michael Kingsley and his blushing bride.” King barely recognized

his grandparents in the picture. His grandmother looked so young. His grandfather looked so happy. But there was a third woman

in the photo, standing in the background and looking so very, very pleased with herself.

“King...” Alex’s voice changed. She wasn’t teasing anymore when she asked, “Who knew you had that ring?” The night was

suddenly too quiet—too still. “You told someone, didn’t you? Who?”

Her hand trembled. The photo shook—rippling across the decades—and, eidetic memory or not, King knew he’d remember that sight

for the rest of his life, even as he closed his eyes and whispered, “The same woman who’s wearing the ring in that picture.”