Page 19 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
King was in jeans and a sports jacket (no tie) and she tried not to shiver.
“Here.”
“What?” She sounded almost afraid, but he was slipping off his coat then turning it inside out as he dragged the sleeve over his still-cuffed hand and then onto hers.
She wanted to shove it down his throat, but it wasn’t just a Tom Ford blazer. It was an olive branch, and part of Alex knew she’d be a fool not to take it.
“Thank you.”
The fabric was soft on her skin and warm from his body. It smelled like the happiest days of her life, and Alex wanted to close her eyes and sink into a memory. She also wanted to cut out that part of her brain and set it on fire. She couldn’t do either, unfortunately, so she just kept walking.
There was light on the horizon, like the sun was coming up even though the moon was still too high.
“Guesses?” he asked.
“Syria,” Alex said on instinct.
“Too cold,” he told her.
“Afghanistan,” she tried again.
“Not mountainous enough.”
“Well, what’s your big idea?”
He looked around. “Iran?” He gave a shrug.
“Maybe.”
They crossed a rutted trail and scrambled over an outcropping of rocks, eyes and ears tuned to any sound of approaching vehicles or voices carrying on the wind.
He looked at her. “What’s the last thing you remember?” It should have been a simple question, but it felt like a test because everything felt like a test when it came from Michael Kingsley.
They were ten years out of the Farm, but she was still the girl in the hoodie she bought at the International Spy Museum, and he was still the Golden Boy. He was still unflappable and Alex was still unworthy. She was still covering up her fear with her bravado and he was still looking at her like he had no idea how they ever ended up in the same career.
“You tell me first.”
He blew out a breath and hung his head, and Alex could feel the frustration coming off him in waves. “Not everything is a fight, Sterling. Sometimes a question is just a question.”
They started to climb a rocky hill. Her feet slid in the sand and small stones, but she wasn’t about to take the hand that was bound to hers.
“Sterling—”
“I was home,” she admitted, and then she felt him stop. Turn. Stare. Looks can’t kill, Alex knew that for a fact. But they could wound sometimes, and she wanted to hide against the gaze that pierced her.
“Which waswhere, exactly?” He sounded like the guy from the Farm again, like the virtual stranger who had hated her on sight and on instinct. He was cold and hard and... wounded. A brittle shell that wasn’t quite enough protection.
“What about you?” Her throat burned. She’d been breathing too much dust, and the air was too dry. It wasn’t because a part of her felt like crying. Not even a little. “What doyouremember?”
“I don’t”—the words were a whisper—“remember. I can’t.” He sounded mad enough to rip their cuffs in two. He hung his head as if trying to shake it off. “The last thing I remember is being home. In Scotland.” The words were crisp and clean, like a break. “Now it’s your turn, Sterling. Where exactly have you been calling home for the past—”
“We don’t know how long we were out,” she said.
“I know exactly how long you were missing.”
“I wasn’tmissing.”
“No. Of course you weren’t missing.” His voice turned harder—colder. An icicle sharp enough to kill. “You were just straight-upgone.”
