Page 113 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
“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 brokenhearts. 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.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
Three Months Ago
