Inside Out (8 page)

Olivia had to admit she acted gutsier, stronger, and this new and possibly improved version of herself knew by instinct where danger lay. Olivia would have never been able to steal food or clothes to survive.

Nor anyone’s identity, for that matter.

Who was Hunter, besides being a kidnapper? She would have to go back to the tattoo shop and glean as much as possible from Hunter’s life in order to…what, exactly? Go to the police? Not even Alfie would believe her. Who could she turn to? Shane? And tell him the hot chick in heat was none other than his respectable wife returned from the dead in a brand new, drop dead gorgeous body? Fat chance.

Maybe she could talk to a priest? Or a psychiatrist? God forbid, and get carted away? What about a clairvoyant? Nonsense, those people took your money and played upon your desperation. They’d have a field day with her, maybe even call up a few colleagues for a good laugh.

She only wanted to be home with Shane, put her feet up on the footstool with a cup of nice hot tea while watching the BBC 1 Evening News. Or better, Loose Women, her favorite talk show. And then Shane would take her cup from her, put it on the end table, and pull her into his arms. It would be so different between them now. Because now, she knew what he fancied. Truth be told, she was quite keen on this new sex herself.

* * *

Olivia got to their luxury home in Canada Square and stopped at the sight of the uniformed doorman, Mr. Grant.
Shit
, the foul word formed in her mind, no longer taking her by surprise.

She had forgotten all about him. How the hell was she going to get in? And looking like a streetwalker? Olivia was literally sixty seconds away from being able to hug little Lottie who always met her when the lift doors opened. She missed the old mutt. Shane and she had salvaged her during a vicious downpour. The little thing was drenched and lost. No tags, no microchip. A stray. Olivia couldn’t understand how such a sweet little creature hadn’t been rescued sooner. Some people didn’t have a heart. But good ol’ Mr. Grant the doorman here did, luckily. All she had to do was use her charm.

She pushed back her hair, which was still a mess, and strode toward him with a confidence she didn’t feel. Olivia flicked the first two buttons open and stuck out her chest Hunter-style.

“Hi,” Olivia said with a smile, her new voice low and husky, the opposite of her own crystal-clear one.

Mr. Grant’s eyes flickered briefly over her before he returned to stare ahead of him, impassive. No sign of recognition. How could there be?

Now while some men were entertained by the idea of a woman of pleasure coming up to them in the middle of a long day at work, Mr. Grant avoided her like he would a beggar. And to think, many times she had stopped for a chin-wag and sent little presents of beautiful wool to his housebound wife who loved to knit. The old dear had made her several scarves and hats as thank-you gifts. Never mind the old woman had managed to turn innocent little balls of yarn into woolly little monsters. But she never had the heart to refuse a gift—because Olivia was kind, soft-spoken, and delicate. She liked refined things, like classical music and the theater. She doubted Hunter had ever even been inside a theater in her life, nor that she owned anything besides leather suits and knee-high boots.

Olivia cleared her throat as an idea came to her. “I’m scheduled to do a Sing-o-gram in the penthouse? It’s Mr. Hart’s birthday today and so…”

“I’m sorry, madam.” He shook his head firmly. “No.”

“But I was paid to—”

“I’m sure you were, miss. Now please go.”

Olivia stepped back as if he’d slapped her and an unfamiliar belligerence pervaded her. The doormen of her building wouldn’t have noticed an elephant parading through the revolving doors, and
now
he went all neighborhood watch on her? Jesus Christ. “Right. Thanks anyway.” With one last look up at the penthouse, her desire to hold Lottie thwarted, she whirled on her stolen heels, but not before she could stop herself from adding, “Asshole.”

* * *

Olivia tried to concentrate. What else did she know about Hunter? She had never revealed her identity to Olivia of course, nor had she said anything that might have explained why Olivia was in this mess.

So now what? Where could she possibly go, and dressed like this? Who would ever believe her? In an instant she had turned from Olivia Hart, well-respected cellist with the London Philharmonic Orchestra to some tattoo artist/ kidnapper with a thing for guns and nudity.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’m a schizophrenic. Bollocks to it
. She gasped at her own profanity. But this was a bloody emergency. She couldn’t take stock of every foul word that came from her lips now. Besides, she’d broken down the barriers back on Shane’s boat when she’d begged him to…fuck her. Screwing Olivia on the
Olivia
. It certainly hadn’t been the first time that happened, but hell—never like
that
!

All she needed to do was explain to him what had happened, and why his dead wife had returned to him in the body of a gorgeous tattoo artist. And turn herself in as her very own kidnapper before he dragged her to the nearest loony bin. Yes, that ought to cause quite a stir. But at least she’d see her home, if even briefly.

When had Hunter died anyway? A beauty like her hardly went unnoticed. In Hunter’s style, she had been traipsing around naked. Olivia would never be caught dead tanning naked, not even if on her own. She simply had no confidence. But Hunter did. Goodness, had she proved that point in the last few hours. Why had this happened to them? What could she and Hunter possibly have had in common? They were like chalk and cheese. Hunter was a…a…she wouldn’t be surprised if she was a prostitute as well, flaunting her naked body to Olivia, a perfect stranger, while
she
had trouble even undressing before her own husband.

What could have even put her and this woman in the same circles, much less the same room? And then she knew. Of course, how stupid of her. The answer had been dangling in front of her face—well, on her butt, actually—the whole time.

Her “Caspian magic” tattoo—the only explanation. The only thing they had in common. Certainly not a scientific explanation, but Olivia doubted there could ever be a logical reason for this happening to her.

It was supposed to have given her prowess. Well, it hadn’t. Not until this moment anyway. In ten years of marriage, she hadn’t let Shane anywhere near the levels they’d reached together last night, despite the fact that she had wanted him so much. She still did. She loved Shane. No matter who he thought she was. She needed him. She needed to feel him on her, in her, all over her. The familiar scent of his skin, the warmth of his cocky chuckle. His deep voice, so low it made her stomach vibrate and her skin tingle. She wanted to give him what she had never given him before. And what he so obviously needed.

There was no bringing the past back, but she wanted Shane in her future. She wanted her time with him back, and with accrued interest. She wanted to do with him all the yummy things they’d never done before. Again and again. What a fool she was, not understanding Shane’s hunger. He was in a league of his own. In every way. From now on she would try to get back her life and not waste another second of it.

But now Olivia sank back against the wall, lost, although a part of her mind already formulated a plan. With a trembling hand, she wiped the sweat from her face and neck. Then surprising even herself, she bound to her feet. Caspian magic tattoo or not, she had to find a way back into her own life. Back to Shane.

Chapter Nine

Shane’s heart beat a slow, steady rhythm within his chest in the time it took him to assess the young punk aiming at his temple. His army training was part of him and had forged his very being, sharpened his senses, minimized his reaction times.

His gaze slid sideways to the weapon. A monkey gun. And a panting, sweating, little shit with too much adrenaline pumping through his veins. No biggie. Shane ate little boys like this for breakfast.

With one quick kick, he threw the rookie off balance and jumped him, squeezing the bloke’s wrist until he howled and let go of the gun. Ridiculously easy. Whoever had recruited the lad, hadn’t bothered to train him. Not even the bloody basics.

“Where’s the girl?” Shane demanded, though he suspected this kid had simply been sent in for the kill and knew nothing about Hunter. Shane had eliminated many men in Afghanistan and Iraq among other missions. But never had he even come close to touching a single hair on a woman, and the thought that this little shit wanted to hurt Hunter made his blood boil.

Shane dragged him to the table and tied him up real good, then called Alfie.

“Send someone to Southend-on-Sea. I’m on the
Olivia
with a kid who tried to kill me.”

“Fuck, I knew this was going to happen. You okay, mate?” Alfie’s metallic voice garbled over the shit connection. “Where’s the girl?”

Of course. The victim interested him more than the aggressor and Shane still wondered why. “She’s done a runner.”

“Shit! Shane—you be careful, mate. You don’t know who you’re dealing with here. We’ll be there ASAP.”

Shane signed off and studied the kid. “Who hired you, boy?”

The youth eyed him and scoffed. Shane kicked his shin.

“Ow, you bloody tosser!”

Shane called upon all his strength to not strangle him there and then. “Listen to me. I’ve got the MIT on your arse, so there’s no question you’re going in. If you give me some answers, I’ll make sure you don’t rot in prison for too long.”

The kid shrugged. “I dunno. Bloke paid me to kill her.”

“What bloke? Where did you meet him?”

“Came up to me in The Hanged Highwayman. I was drinkin’ on me own, yeah? And he just comes up to me and says, ‘You wanna make a few quid?’ So I says, ‘Yeah,’ right? And he gives me five hundred quid and a picture of this gorgeous bird.”

Five hundred quid. Was that the going rate nowadays for an innocent life?

“And you followed her to the marina, waited for her to get on the water to easily dispose of her body.”

The kid nodded.

Fuck. Whoever wanted Hunter dead didn’t mess around after all.

Shane shivered at the thought of her being harmed, let alone murdered, and then dumped into the river, never to be found. Olivia had been more than enough. He was still trying to get over her, and if he didn’t stop destroying himself, there’d be no coming back. Now, there might be something to come back to.

Shane wanted to look into Hunter’s eyes again, feel her underneath him, feel how her body rose when he kissed her. He wanted to know that she was safe, and that nothing would harm her.

Chapter Ten

Olivia stole another Cadbury bar and downed it in four bites. She smacked her lips, her stomach still growling, and hailed a black London cab. She stretched her bare legs out and dropped her head back.

The driver watched her in his rearview mirror, a wide smile on his face. “Where to, luv?”

“Plumstead. There’s a tattoo shop there called
Skin Deep
. Do you know it?”

“Address?” Olivia shook her head and the cab driver glanced at her through his rearview mirror. “You from out of town, luv?” he asked as she tried to rub the kinks out of her neck.

She grinned. “You could say so, mate. I just died and came back into this body,” she explained, not giving a shit what it sounded like. The city was full of whackos anyway.

The driver roared with laughter. “Well, whatever you looked like before, luv, I’d easily say you’re up on the deal.”

“Thanks,” she chimed and winked at him. God, Hunter would flirt with anything in trousers.

Olivia tried to relax, but it was not happening. Shane would not throw his head back and laugh as the cabbie had. What could she possibly say to convince him of her good faith? That his wife was back from the dead—only hotter than before, and willing to try a few new positions she’d picked along the way?

No doubt Shane would want another round with her, which would get her foot in the door at least. And besides, his moves, his mouth, everything about him were to die for. But it would also annoy the shit out of her. Bloody Hunter and her irresistible body.

Olivia got out of the cab in the center of Plumstead. The cabbie refused payment. She’d taught him a new address.

The faces passing the street were a blur as she picked her way around mothers with baby carriages, elderly couples, stepped over dogs on leashes, and turned the corner. Olivia didn’t know which way to go, but a strange sense of survival instinct kicked in, guiding her. It filled her with a strange adrenaline she had never experienced, not even before a concert.

In the distance, she spotted a bloke descending from a motorbike. Her feet had a mind of their own and lured her toward him. She didn’t know how to ride a motorbike! All the same she glanced around, and when he stood she kicked him between the legs. He groaned, and she pushed him to the ground, hopping on in his stead, revving the motor until it sang its strangely familiar song. Her heart in her mouth, she sped up the high street past a neighborhood market. Without stopping, she pulled an outfit off a rack and turned into a back street, finally breathing a sigh of relief.

Olivia shrugged out of the now-soiled uniform, dumped it in a street skip, and studied the outfit she had stolen, a pink sundress Hunter wouldn’t have been caught dead in. But here she was—in pink—and dead. Hunter’s life was full of surprises around every corner and galaxies away from her secure, sheltered existence spent between their flat, summers at their beach house in North Devon and rehearsals at the Royal Festival Hall and every day pleasures and duties. Hell—normal life.

She chanced a look behind her and saw nothing but stunned faces, which made her throw back her head and howl like a pixie, her adrenaline levels soaring. Man, could she get used to this!