the basics on the Olivia —and out he went. Back to his mystery beauty.
When he returned to his boat, the steps leading down echoed with the emptiness of the craft, and he knew she’d done a runner before he descended below deck.
What he didn’t expect was the bloke aiming a gun at his head.
Chapter Eight
In pure Hunter style, Olivia hitchhiked her way back to London. The male response was immediate, given the fact that she looked like a porno waitress in the uniform she’d stolen at the back of the pub in the village. A bit tight and short, the gazes she had caught confirmed that the unfortunate waitress must have been a lot shorter than Hunter. Most women were, including herself.
Once in London, Olivia took the DLR, Docklands Light Railway, to their home in Canary Wharf using the few pounds she’d found in the waitress’ pockets. But hey—it was all about survival. Steal or be stolen from . And Olivia had been robbed of so much more than a few coins.
She’d washed in a restroom and nicked some Cadbury bars from a snack stand. She was quick, but if anyone had noticed, she’d been lucky. Men were such suckers for brunettes.
Olivia resolved to call Shane, eventually, and have him come home—the last place they’d look for her. She’d reveal her identity to him and explain what had happened, because so far she hadn’t found a better solution than the truth.
Maybe she could stay incognito and get him to hire her as his housemaid? He was pretty partial to Hunter’s good looks. As a matter of fact, she was sure he’d more than happily jump her bones again. Good Lord, where did that come from? She didn’t think like that . Well, nor did she steal or hitchhike, but it had all gone rather smoothly if she might say so herself.
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
When he returned to his boat, the steps leading down echoed with the emptiness of the craft, and he knew she’d done a runner before he descended below deck.
What he didn’t expect was the bloke aiming a gun at his head.
Chapter Eight
In pure Hunter style, Olivia hitchhiked her way back to London. The male response was immediate, given the fact that she looked like a porno waitress in the uniform she’d stolen at the back of the pub in the village. A bit tight and short, the gazes she had caught confirmed that the unfortunate waitress must have been a lot shorter than Hunter. Most women were, including herself.
Once in London, Olivia took the DLR, Docklands Light Railway, to their home in Canary Wharf using the few pounds she’d found in the waitress’ pockets. But hey—it was all about survival. Steal or be stolen from . And Olivia had been robbed of so much more than a few coins.
She’d washed in a restroom and nicked some Cadbury bars from a snack stand. She was quick, but if anyone had noticed, she’d been lucky. Men were such suckers for brunettes.
Olivia resolved to call Shane, eventually, and have him come home—the last place they’d look for her. She’d reveal her identity to him and explain what had happened, because so far she hadn’t found a better solution than the truth.
Maybe she could stay incognito and get him to hire her as his housemaid? He was pretty partial to Hunter’s good looks. As a matter of fact, she was sure he’d more than happily jump her bones again. Good Lord, where did that come from? She didn’t think like that . Well, nor did she steal or hitchhike, but it had all gone rather smoothly if she might say so herself.
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
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