Free Inside Out by Rowyn Ashby

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