Page 78 of The Blonde Who Came in from the Cold
“Fine. Bathroom? I’m assuming...”
“Yeah. Sure.” He pointed to a door. “Through there. I think?”
She closed the door and leaned against a dusty sink. Dust was bad but hot water was good, Alex’s tired brain told her as she dug in the cabinet. There were sterile packs of gauze. An unopened bottle of rubbing alcohol. It was going to hurt like hell, but...
She pulled her shirt over her head and looked at the hole in her side. The blood wasn’t too thick. It had stopped flowing, and the wound was clean and—
The door opened and Alex turned too fast. She watched his eyes go wide and knew it wasn’t because of her second-favorite bra. No.
She watched him watch her. She waited for theI told you so. For the warning or the scold. It didn’t even hurt—much. But it was also the most pain she’d ever been in as he inched forward and opened the package of gauze and said, “I have you.”
There was a scar, higher on her side. Old and healed over. It didn’t hurt anymore. She barely even felt it in the shower, just a part of her she’d gotten used to.
And yet she could feel the moment when he saw it. When his finger brushed against that patch of rough, imperfect skin, it felt like being licked by a flame.
“I have you.” He was holding the gauze to the wound, but it was the scar he was staring at. “I have you.”
And Alex couldn’t help but whisper, “Again.”
Chapter Forty-One
Six Years Ago
Berlin, Germany
King
King couldn’t sleep anymore, so he didn’t even try. He never enjoyed doing things he wasn’t good at. Some things got better with practice, of course. But sleeping just got harder, so he sat in the shadows of the penthouse apartment that had once been his grandfather’s favorite safe house. He nursed a scotch and looked out the window at a city that felt like it was still drawn in black and white.
It felt haunted. Like at any minute, he’d have to shoot a line from the balcony and fly over the wall. Like the Cold War wasn’t over.
Like it was a war he’d never win.
King knew he should get up, go out. Maybe find a woman. But that thought only made him wince. Not because it would be hard—it wouldn’t. They’d go back to her place for a while and then he’d come back here, and after he’d probably feel better, sleep better, think better. And it was the last thing in the world he was going to do.
Because no matter who he found or what she looked like...
When the sound came, it was a dull, distant thud that King almost didn’t notice. If he had been a different kind of man, he might have thought it was a ghost. He was just starting to tell himself it was probably nothing at all when it came again—hard, but fleeting. More pound than rap. And King reached for a weapon as he eased toward the door.
Very few people knew he was in Berlin. Even fewer knew about his grandfather’s old penthouse or King’s current plans. Maybe itwas the ancient pipes, he was telling himself when the pounding came again, softer now. And fading. Disappearing in the distance, getting farther away even as King inched closer to the door.
He didn’t check the peephole. He just cursed himself for waiting to put up the cameras as he cocked the gun and threw open the door. And stopped breathing.
Because the figure in the door was leaning against the frame, face pale, hands shaking. Breathing hard and clutching her side like she’d just sprinted a mile at high altitude.
Alexandra Sterling shouldn’t have been there. She would never have come there—not to him. Not unless...
“Mercy.”
And then she fell into his arms.
Chapter Forty-Two
King
Every family has their legacy. Some are fame or fortune. Some are bad reputations and the universal knowledge that only a fool would lend them money.
The Kingsleys were known for their brains.
