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enemies down, blasting them to smithereens or placing booby-traps. So killing was one thing he did well. Fast and quietly.
    With Olivia there’d be no taking chances. He’d forbidden Alfie and his men to carry anything more dangerous than a slingshot anywhere near the Marina and Olivia. Besides, it would be a quick job. He’d hand over Olivia’s cello case with the money, and they would let Olivia go. Simple.
    But on the night of Olivia’s release, all hell had broken loose. Little mattered that Alfie and his whole team had squatted in the nearby boats or perched under cover of the night on boat masts like invisible vultures waiting for their moment. One minute Olivia’s boat stopped parallel to his, so close he could almost touch her, her captor hidden behind a ski mask and hoodie, and the next, a shower of shots hit them, throwing them overboard.
    Shane had jumped in after Olivia, but he’d come up empty-handed every time. It had been impossible to see her in the dark waters of the Thames, even with the MIT searchlights shining deep under the surface.
    The river had swallowed her up. Dredgers had worked through the night and the next day, but Olivia had not been found. And neither had her female captor who might have thought she’d fooled him with the extra padding around her stomach to hide her hips and breasts. She must have made it to safety, but if she hadn’t he’d not shed a tear over it. Damn her soul forever.
    Shane hadn’t slept properly since, going through it over and over in his head, trying to understand why it happened to them, so happy and in love, and what he could have done to stop it.
    “Absolutely nothing,” Alfie had told him. “These friggin’ rookie kidnappers messed up the whole op. That third boat was most definitely one of them wanting the coins all for himself, greedy bastard.”
    And now, Olivia’s body was caught somewhere at the bottom of the river, or maybe it had even floated out to sea. And Shane couldn’t pay for it enough.
    Destined to the rest of his years without her, he wished he’d died in her stead, rather than simply gashing his hip open in the attempt to save her.
    Every time he looked down at the ugly scar, he saw Olivia. The doctors had suggested plastic surgery, but it gave Shane a twisted pleasure to have a daily reminder of how useless he’d been to Olivia. Death was nothing compared to what he deserved. Still, it would have been an easier option than this hell.
    For over a year now, night after night, bottles of Jack had taken care of the pain. For the pleasure, there were lots of pretty ladies willing to do the same. Just like this brunette here who had everything in all the right places, plus a sexual pull visible even from this distance. But she would never be Olivia. She would never be his woman, his life .
    Shane shielded his eyes from the scorching sun, studying the brunette with a sigh. He already foresaw the conversation. What’s your name, want to come below deck, etc., and then finally some body heat to warm him, even if only for a brief couple of hours.
    And then morning would come again, and he’d drag himself out of bed and down a few flights to his offices in Canary Wharf, where he headed one of London’s largest banks—only to fall in bed again the next night with yet another woman. And on it went, forever and ever as he spiraled through a semblance of life.
    He didn’t give a fuck about what happened to him. He didn’t eat, didn’t smile, didn’t socialize, didn’t live. All he did was work, drink, fuck, feed Lottie, then work, drink, and fuck again. It got him nowhere, and many times he wondered why he even bothered with this empty, shell-like existence. Hell, he’d fucked his way through the past year. He could fuck his way through the rest of his miserable life, if necessary.
    But it’d never bring her back.
    The sexy brunette straightened and reached behind her to unfasten her bikini top. Shane wiped his mouth and sat up with