The Blonde Identity: A Novel

by Ally Carter

Genres: Women's Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

"A unique, delightful, hilarious, unputdownable romance… I’m wonder-struck by The Blonde Identity!" — Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis

The New York Times bestselling YA author of the beloved Gallagher Girls series bursts onto the adult scene with a fast-paced, hilarious road trip rom-com about a woman with amnesia who discovers she’s the identical twin sister of a rogue spy… and must team up with a rugged, grumpy operative to stay alive.

It’s the middle of the night in the middle of Paris and a woman just woke up with no memory.

She only knows three things for certain:

1. She has a splitting headache.

2. The hottest guy she has (probably) ever seen is standing over her, telling her to run.

And oh yeah…

3. People keep trying to kill her.

She doesn’t know who. Or why. But when she sees footage of herself fighting off a dozen men there’s only one explanation: obviously. . . she’s a spy!

Except, according to Mr. Hot Guy, she’s not. She’s a spy’s identical twin sister.

Too bad the only person who knows she’s not the woman they’re looking for is this very grouchy, very sexy, very secret agent who (reluctantly) agrees to help her disappear. Which is easier said than done when a criminal organization wants you dead and every intelligence service in the world wants you caught.

Luckily, no one is looking for a pair of lovesick newlyweds on their honeymoon. And soon they’re lying their way across Europe—dodging bullets and faking kisses as they race to unravel a deadly conspiracy and clear her sister’s name.

But with every secret they uncover, the truth shifts, until she no longer knows who to trust: the twin she can’t remember or the mysterious man she can’t let herself forget…

"Spies! Amnesia! And banter that’ll make you chant “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” No one writes an action rom-com quite like Ally Carter." – Rachel Hawkins, New York Times bestselling author of The Wife Upstairs

 

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Release date: August 8, 2023

Publisher: Avon

Print pages: 299

Sample

Chapter One

Her

Here’s the thing about waking up with no memory in the middle of the night, in the middle of the street, in the middle of Paris: at least you’re waking up in Paris. Or so the woman thought as she lay on the cold ground, staring up through a thick layer of falling snow at the Eiffel Tower’s twinkling lights.

She didn’t know about the bruise that was growing on her temple.

She didn’t see the drops of blood that trailed along the frosty white ground.

And she absolutely, positively didn’t remember why she was lying in the street like someone who had tried to make a snow angel and fell asleep midswoop.

I should finish my angel, she thought.

I should get up.

I should go home.

But she didn’t actually know where home was, she realized. So why not take a nap right there? It seemed like an excellent plan. After all, the snow was fluffy and soft, and the world was quiet and still; and sleep was such a wonderful thing. Really, the best thing. She didn’t know her own name, but she was certain that sleep had to be her favorite hobby ever, so why not close her eyes and drift off for a little while? Really, no one would blame her.

But then she heard the low moan of the motorcycles—the shouts of the men. And a figure appeared over her, blocking out the Eiffel Tower’s shimmering glow, casting a shadow in the middle of the night. Blurry. Dark. And shouting, “Get up, Alex! Run!”

So my name is Alex, the woman thought. Just before she realized she was probably going to die.

Him

He was going to kill her. Yup. It was just that simple. At that place and time, he had two items on his to-do list: 1. Find Alex. 2. Kill Alex. The third item would have been Save Alex, but he’d decided to scratch that one off in Venice. By the time he’d tracked her to Marseille he had added Maim Alex.

But now they were in Paris. And Paris meant he was six days, three car chases, two shoot-outs, and one very questionable exit from a fast-moving speedboat into his hunt. So Kill Alex really was his only option.

As soon as he found her.

Luckily, he just had to follow the trail of blood to the body that lay, almost lifeless, in the middle of the street. He was so angry when he thought she was already dead. But then she stared up at him, a distant, dreamy look in her eyes. Alive. And for the life of him he didn’t know whether he should be glad or disappointed.

But then he heard the roar of motorcycles, drawing closer and closer like a noose.

And he yelled “Get up, Alex! Run!” because Kozlov’s men were closing in. Which meant that, soon, the badges would follow. Interpol. CIA. MI6. Maybe Mossad if they were especially unlucky. And he hadn’t been lucky since Moscow. So he had to hurry. Because they all wanted to kill Alex, too, and he couldn’t let them beat him to it.

“Alex, get up!”

“No, thank you,” she said, turning onto her side like a little girl who had no interest in going to school.

“Get up. Now!”

“Five more minutes."

“Alex!”

That was when she saw the gun in his hand, cocked and ready. Fear filled her eyes and, for a moment, she looked like a woman who had never seen a gun before—like she’d never seen him before. Which was the moment he knew something was terribly wrong. With her. With him. With this. Alarm bells were sounding—too loud—in his head.

“Alex?” he asked as shots rang out. Instantly, he spun and took aim, and by the time he turned back, Alex was already gone.

 

Chapter Two

Her

She didn’t know how far she walked. Or how long she walked. Or even why she kept walking when the wind was so cold and the sky was so dark that it felt like even the moon was sleeping.

But she had to keep walking. Moving. Plodding along because the only thing scarier than walking was stopping. Because if she stopped they might catch up with her—either the men on the motorcycles . . . Or Mr. Hot Guy . . . Or even her own thoughts . . .

So she kept walking. And made a mental list:

Things That I Don’t Know
A list by Alex Whatshername

• My name.

Sure, Mr. Hot Guy had called her Alex, but she didn’t have a last name. Or a middle name. Or even a real first name. Was she an Alexandra or Alexa or Alexis? What did her mother call her when she was in trouble? What did the teachers say on the first day of school and then she’d have to say, actually, I go by Alex? Alex had no idea. Which wasn’t as worrisome as—

• Who is after me?
• Why are they after me?
• How long have they been after me?
• Exactly what are they going to do when they find me?
• Where am I going to go?
• What am I going to do when I get there?

All she knew for certain was that her head hurt and her stomach growled and yet the thought of eating made her belly ache for entirely different reasons.

So she kept walking, grateful for the snow that was falling in thick waves, blocking out the glow of the streetlights and filling up her footprints almost as soon as she made them. But she also cursed the snow because her boots were definitely not made for walking and her toes felt like icicles that might break off at any moment.

Her knees were bleeding, and her thighs burned; there was a hole in her black tights and a stitch in her side, and even her collarbones hurt. Her collarbones! Two bones that served absolutely no purpose beyond making a girl look great in boatneck sweaters.

So Alex leaned against a rough brick wall in a narrow alley and tried to focus on what she did know.

Things That I Do Know
A list by Alex Whatsername

• My name is Alex.
• I’m in Paris.
• The hottest guy I have (probably) ever seen is after me.
• He’s not the only one.

  For a moment, Alex wondered if maybe she should look for a police station or a hospital? Maybe she should lie back down and finish that snow angel? Maybe she should dig herself a snow cave where the temperature would never drop below thirty-two degrees (because she didn’t know her own name but she’d somehow pulled that fun fact from her disastrously empty brain).

  But, most of all, Alex wanted to cry. Because the one thing she was sure of was that she was having a very bad day, and it was probably going to get worse. So crying seemed okay under the circumstances.

  Really, the only bright side was when she realized that her dress had pockets. Because (a) dresses with pockets are the best dresses, everybody knows that. And (b) her pockets contained a tube of lip balm, a few euros’ worth of heavy coins, and a black plastic card that looked like a room key. But, sadly, there wasn’t a hotel name on it anywhere—just a small golden C—which wasn’t any help at all.

  Oh, and there was also a crumpled tissue that she dug out and used to dry her runny nose.

  It was still snowing, even though she was pretty sure it rarely snowed in Paris. But it wasn’t as hard now, and the streets were suddenly too bright for the middle of the night. Shops were closed and apartments were dark, but the streetlights reflected off that pure white stillness, casting the city of light in an otherworldly glow. And Alex hated it. Partly because of Mr. Hot Guy and whoever else was chasing her. But also because there was a comfort in the darkness, of being lost in the storm. Isn’t that why people go to Paris? Why they take long walks down unfamiliar streets, roaming for hours, trying to lose themselves? Trying to forget?

  It was terrifying that, eventually, she was going to have to try to remember.

  Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed. Overhead, she heard a sickening crack and a big patch of snow slid off a steep roof and landed with a splat a few yards behind her. And still there was the low buzzing hum of the motorcycles circling closer and closer.

  And closer.

  She darted into the doorway of an empty restaurant. The window was a mirror in the darkness, and Alex gasped at the sight of the woman who stared back. Unfamiliar hair on an unfamiliar face, a bruise growing on her temple. Tearstained cheeks and grimy fingers, clothes torn and stained with blood that may or may not have been her own.

  Alex was looking at herself. But she was also looking at a stranger. And the tiny smidge of hope that she’d been carrying for the past two hours faded away, because her memory didn’t come back with her reflection. Not a speck. Not even a twinge. And Alex couldn’t shake the feeling that the truth had fallen out along the way—was lying in the snow somewhere, waiting for a thaw.

  On the other side

  of the darkened glass, a television flickered and glowed, and Alex watched as headlines filled the screen.

  ALERTE! Alert.

  DANGEREUSE! Dangerous.

  N’APPROCHEZ! Do not approach.

  “Ooh! I speak French!” Alex exclaimed, entirely too pleased with herself. But after hours of nothing, that felt like something. She wanted to make a T-shirt that said I SPEAK FRENCH. She wanted to stroll up to the first person she saw and stick out her hand and say, Hi! I’m Alex, and I’m bilingual! She wanted to pretend that her memory might come back as soon as she started thinking in the right language. But the past stayed blank, and the present stayed cold, and the future loomed before her, totally empty.

  When the television changed, it took her a moment to realize what she was watching. It must have been some kind of surveillance footage because the picture was dark and grainy. It looked like some kind of fight. No. An attack. The word fight implies an even playing field, but this was one woman against a dozen men.

  Except, Alex realized, the woman was winning. Punching and kicking and throttling men twice her size. What’s French for badass? Alex was just starting to wonder, when the picture froze and it was like an echo.

  Because the face in the dark window blended with the face on the screen, like a before and an after. The hair on the screen was red—not blonde. She didn’t have any bruises and the clothes were different. But the face . . . the face was exactly the same, and for a moment, Alex couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. She couldn’t even think until her brain translated the words beneath the picture: Fugitive. Armed. Extremely dangerous.

  And Alex said the only thing that made any sense at all: “I’m a spy!”

  Chapter Three
  Him

  Jake Sawyer wasn’t a spy. He loathed that word. Hated it on three continents and in four languages. Because it was the word a child uses, a novice, a civilian.

  Sawyer was an Operative. Capital O. He wasn’t some Hollywood actor with a stable of stunt doubles. He didn’t have a fancy car with an ejector seat. He’d never even worn a tuxedo. This wasn’t a facade for him. Not an act or a role or a persona. No. It was his actual, literal life, and he was tired. Of his life. And his job. And his missions and his enemies. And even his allies.

  Especially Alex.

  She’d looked half dead lying in the street, and for a moment, he’d thought he was too late. But then she’d stirred and looked up at him, squinting in the darkness, clearly concussed. And Sawyer felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Pity. Compassion. Warmth even though it was cold enough to freeze off some of his favorite parts of his anatomy.

  He had known Alex, worked with Alex, trusted Alex for almost five years. But that was the first time he had ever seen her look like that, weak and defenseless. Fragile. And that was maybe the scariest thing of all.

  He had to find her. The only thing that gave him any comfort was that if he couldn’t find her, then no one else could either. Probably. Hopefully.

  She’d get to a safe house, lie low. Barricade herself behind a dozen walls and booby traps, because Alex was one of the most paranoid people he’d ever known. And he was a spy.

  No. Damn it. Operative.

  The snow wasn’t falling quite as hard, and, soon, the city would wake up and start digging out. Already, there were lights going on in bakeries, vents blowing out steam that smelled like fresh bread. His stomach growled, but his feet kept moving. And, for once, he didn’t bother checking his tail.

  After all, if someone was back there, he’d already be dead.

  Her

  Sirens. Had they always been there, breaking through the chilly air? Alex wasn’t sure. So she kept her head down and her steps sure. Nothing to see here, her posture said. I’m no one to worry about.

  I’m no one.

  But the snow was so deep she missed a curb, and the ground wasn’t quite where she thought it would be, and that’s how she turned her ankle and ended up lying in the middle of the street. Again.

  “Are you okay?” a voice rang out, and Alex pushed upright to see a man rushing down the sidewalk, heading toward her. The street must have seen some traffic at some point, because the snow was packed down, pressed into icy tracks, so she had to be careful as she climbed to her feet.

  “Here, let me help.” Her first instinct was to scamper away, but her ankle hurt and her head swirled, and the man looked like someone’s grandfather—like he couldn’t wait for retirement so he could focus on his real passion: documentaries about World War II. “Are you lost? Can I call someone?”

  “Oh, I’m fine!” (She wasn’t fine.) “I know where I’m going!” (She had no idea where she was going.) “I don’t need any help.” (She 

  absolutely needed help.)

  She knew how she looked—ripped tights and snow in her hair, bruise growing at her temple and bloody knees. But she was committed now. No backing down.

  “Just kind of a klutz!” She pantomimed sliding on the ice—which made her actually slide on the ice, catching herself at the last possible moment.

  “I’ll walk you wherever you’re going,” the man said helpfully. “You shouldn’t be out here alone in this.”

  But she wasn’t alone. She had a tube of lip balm and four euros; a soggy tissue and a voice in the back of her head—warning bells that were starting to quiver.

  “Here. Allow me to—”

  “You’re speaking English,” she said for reasons she absolutely did not know or understand.

  He laughed. “Well, so are you.”

  She took a step back. And then another. And another, tripping on the curb again but managing to stay upright somehow. “Why? Why are you speaking English?”

  He gave the slightest chuckle. “Because you are.”

  “You spoke first. You should have assumed I was French. Why didn’t you speak to me in French?”

  The warning bells were blaring now, too loud in her head—even before she felt the building at her back. Before she knew that she was hemmed in, trapped. Even before the man’s face changed, that gentle, documentary-watching smile morphing into a sinister smirk as he said, “Because, Alex, languages never were your forte.”

  She wanted to run, but the man was too close. The sirens and motorcycles were too loud. And, overhead, there was a cracking sound, a splintering snap that she’d heard before, so she stopped thinking. And pushed.

  It was untrained and unskilled and must have been wholly unexpected because he stumbled back and looked at her like is that the best you’ve got. But then the crack came again and, with it, a sheet of ice that cascaded down the steep roof and crashed into the man, knocking him off his feet. She could see him under a mountain of snow, partially buried. Totally stunned. And she didn’t wait a single second.

  She ran.

  To the end of the block. To the end of the street. To the ends of the earth. But it wasn’t far enough. It wasn’t fast enough, because the sirens were deafening now. And when she turned, she saw the motorcycles bearing down. She turned again and tried the other way, but the street was a dead end. She could feel a wall of muscle and motorcycles and men closing in as she took a shaky step back, icy legs melting into a puddle

  in the street.

  Okay, she told herself. She had this. Didn’t she? After all, everyone knows that when spies wake up with amnesia, their brains might forget things like names and hotel room numbers, but their muscles always remember—hands moving independently from their bodies, years of training taking over. So when you think about it, Alex didn’t have to know anything. She just had to wait for her body to go on autopilot, for her training to kick in.

  As the men climbed off their motorcycles and stepped closer, she could see their black eyes and bloody lips, and Alex tried to remind herself that she’d done that. She’d seen herself on TV, beating these same guys to a pulp. She’d just have to do it again.

  “Looking for me, boys?” she said with as much swagger as she could muster, and the goon squad looked around.

  “Uh . . . yes?” Goon Number One said like it might be a trick question.

  “Give us the drive, Alex,” another goon barked.

  Then it was Alex’s turn to be confused. “Drive? What drive?”

  They laughed like she was making a joke. They obviously didn’t know that a half-used tube of lip balm was currently her most prized possession.

  “Hand it over, and no one has to get hurt.” The first goon looked at his friends and laughed again, a mocking sound. “Or we will make it hurt less. Which is better than making it hurt very much. It is your decision.”

  His voice sounded like vodka tastes, and a small voice in the back of her mind whispered, Russian. They were Russian. And for a moment she just stood there, waiting for her memory to come surging back. For something—anything—to feel familiar, but the only thing in her head was a dull, throbbing ache and the knowledge that she was outnumbered. But that was okay, Alex told herself. Her muscles would know what to do. Her muscles would remember.

  “See? About that? Funny story. I actually don’t have any drives. Really. Scout’s honor.” The men stepped forward, and Alex tried to sound as tough as possible as she said, “So I guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.”

  And then she attacked.

  Or . . . well . . . she tried to attack. Really. She did. She ran right up to the biggest, meanest-looking man of the bunch and kicked. Hard. But she slipped on the ice and fell. “Ow.”

  For a moment, the men just stared at her, confused. Like maybe they were the ones locked inside a really bad dream. But Alex knew the clock was ticking. Soon they’d realize she was vulnerable, down there on the ground, so she did the one thing she could think of—she kicked again. Straight up between the biggest man’s legs.

  She heard him scream and watched him fall, and for a moment his buddies just stood there, staring. But then they pounced, and it was just like the movies: a blur. Head pounding. Blood spraying. Bodies dropping, one after the other. It was like she hadn’t even moved and yet . . .

  Wait, she realized. She hadn’t moved.

  But, suddenly, she could see the sky. The falling snow. And the look on Mr. Hot Guy’s face as he stood over her, a smoking gun in his hand and bleeding bodies all around them as he said, “Damn it, Alex. I should kill you myself.”...