Annie stared at the swirling lillies and tiny blue swallows marked on the print of the paper and pretended a sudden fascination with the décor. The doors pinged open with a ringing of a bell and they stepped out as one. A unified force.
Kyle put his hand on the small of her back and the butterflies began to flutter to life, first in her stomach and then through her soul.
The hotel had been built in the twenties by a famous Hollywood director and it was certainly not lacking in old-school glamour. The elevator presented guests to a mezzanine and beyond it there was a wide, curving staircase carpeted in a rich burgundy with gold rails down either side. It opened onto a double height foyer with enormous black and white marble tiles, crystal chandeliers and gold-framed bay windows that presented the view of the snow-covered street beyond.
The first time Annie had seen the foyer she’d been immobilised by its grandeur. It still led to a similar sense of awe, but she refused to give into it now. Her hand curled around the railing and a smile surprised her by tingling on her lips. She wondered how many hands had gripped this railing. Women on their way to farewell husbands to war? Children off for their first encounter with the snow? Politicians? Royalty? Film stars?
Her sigh was a reflection of the magic of time; a soft sound that breathed from deep in her lungs.
Her heels clicked with assumed confidence on the marbled floor (she remembered, in the nick of time, that she was playing a part). At the revolving door, Kyle nodded at the doorman – a man who looked like he could have been from another decade in his fine suit and cap.
“Good evening, Mr Anderson. Mrs Anderson.”
“Hello,” she smiled softly. Unlike Kyle, she’d never grown accustomed to the army of people who reported to him. The degree to which she’d been feted as the wife of this billionaire tycoon was unprecedented and intimidating.
Kyle ushered her through the door. Annie had barely a moment to register the swift rush of ice wind before he’d bundled her directly into a waiting car. It was too fast for her to even note which of his fleet he was using, but whatever it was, there was warmth and luxury in the back of the stately vehicle.
“Champagne?” He asked, his eyes drawn to hers.
Her smile was cool. “Are we celebrating?”
“Always,” he murmured, reaching into the console beside him for a bottle of Dom Perignon. She knew from experience that it was no ordinary bottle, too. The neck was crusted with what looked like tiny diamonds and the label had a special shimmer to it. It was the same bottle that had been served at their wedding.
“It seemed appropriate.” His words were clipped. “This is, after all, our reunion.”
“Yes,” she agreed, though her face showed little pleasure.
He half-filled a flute and passed it to her, then replaced the bottle. “You’re not joining me?”
“No,” he shook his head and reclined in the seat.
“That’s a waste then,” she said, nodding towards the opened bottle.
“Not if you enjoy it.”
She pursed her lips together and ran an index finger around the rim of the glass. The condensation glistened on the tip of her nail. She lifted it to her mouth and tasted it without thinking; only when her eyes flicked to his did she see that he was staring at her with barely concealed desire.
Her stomach turned over in an answering awareness but she looked away, focussing on the white-capped buildings on the side of the main road.
“The snow’s thick,” she said to break the proverbial ice, and then sipped her champagne nervously when he didn’t immediately respond. Kyle watched her betraying gestures with a growing sense of confusion.
His wife had fire and spirit. She spoke to him in a way that he rarely encountered now that almost everyone in his life was afraid of him. And yet at the flick of a switch she could morph into a timid, subdued, watchful creature.
But God, she was beautiful. He loved her without all the makeup and the hair that looked like she’d just come from a photoshoot at Vogue headquarters. How many nights had he stared at her while she slept, her lips parted, her face bare, her expression peaceful, and thought her to be the loveliest creature on earth?
He watched as she took another sip of the champagne. Did she have any idea how sexy she was? The way her perfect, cupids bow lips shaped around the glass and shone with a coating of bubbles as she sipped. He felt himself grow hard and had to reposition himself in the seat.
The thought of a night amongst other people now felt like anathema to him. They could instead have been sequestered in the suite of the hotel, pretending they weren’t impatiently waiting to rip one another’s clothes off.
“Where are we going?” She asked, as though she had read his thoughts.
“An opening at the Galleria Hague,” he said referring to one of the most prestigious and established art institutes in town. Annie could just picture the scene when they arrived. More champagne. Beautiful music and far more beautiful guests. Art that made little sense but cost a lot of money. People tripping over themselves to get close to her husband, whether to flatter him, enjoy his charismatic company or try to get him to invest in their latest project.
Annie had been on this merry-go-round before.
“Sounds great,” she lied, finishing her champagne and leaning back a little in the seat. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“The opening is for an old friend of mine,” he explained further, watching as a tight smile flashed on her face.
Annie just bet it was. Undoubtedly a stunning, sensual, sexually-available friend.
“Awesome,” she murmured without opening her eyes.
“I bankrolled some of her work. I wasn’t going to attend, but seeing as we’re here anyway ...”
“Yeah, of course,” Annie nodded. “Why wouldn’t you want to go?”
Though she was saying all the right things, his exasperation grew. He had, in the past, felt that he had a better understanding of his wife’s moods and feelings. That was definitely no longer the case. Her mannerisms were almost indecipherable now.
She stepped out of the car and he followed behind, his eyes drawn to her beautiful legs displayed so perfectly by the dress and trench coat. In fact, the trench coat was sexiness itself. He wanted her to wear it with nothing beneath. To dinner, in a restaurant, so that he could spend the whole night imagining peeling it off her and enjoying her nakedness.
“Good evening,” a woman with a clipboard greeted Annie first. “Are you on the list?”
“Probably not,” Annie simpered with saccharine sweetness. “Perhaps I should wait out here in the cold?”
Kyle frowned at the unusually acerbic rejoinder and spoke over her head. “Kyle Anderson.”
“Oh!” The woman’s eyes flew upwards. “Mr Anderson, of course.” The woman scratched something into the board. “Plus one.” Her smile encompassed them both. “Please, have a lovely evening.” She stepped sidewards to allow them entrée.
“What’s going on with you?” He demanded, grabbing her elbow lightly and steering her to the side of the entrance-way.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re being ... snipey.”
“Snipey?” She laughed, but it was a brittle sound. “If your Plus One isn’t to your liking perhaps you could trade her in for the night?”
He made a sound of frustration and put his hands on the lapels of her coat. “You’re the one who won’t wear your damned wedding ring.” He pushed at her trench, sliding it off her slender frame. Her collarbone was a visible protrusion and it angered him further.
“Too bloody right.” She glared at him for a moment before remembering they were in public. And the last thing she wanted was to draw the attention of the gossips and paparazzi who were always somewhere nearby.
A waiter passed by and smiled at them. “May I take your coats?”
Kyle handed them over without a word of acknowledgement. “Come on,” he snapped at his wife and Annie was filled with the
sense that she was far more troublesome than he recalled.
Good.
Perhaps he’d regret going to such lengths to bring her back into his life.
“Who’s the artist?” She asked with admirable detachment in her tone.
“Bianca deNicolai.”
“The woman who does all those nude self-portrait photographs?” She asked, tilting her head to study his autocratic profile.
He flashed a curt smile at his wife. “Amongst many other forms of art, yes.”
They walked into the first room of the galleria and Annie almost burst out laughing. “Such as nude self-sculpture?”
He stifled his response. Though her mannerisms had altered, one thing definitely hadn’t changed. Annie in a mood like this was better left to calm down.
“Good evening, Mr Anderson. Might I say how delighted we are to have you with us tonight? Bianca was especially thrilled that you were able to attend after all.” A woman so officious and glamorous that she could, surely, have only been one of the owners, approached Kyle and began to speak instantly.
“Of course,” he nodded dismissively. Annie took a small side-step, and waited to see how he’d react. It was an almost out of body experience, watching him in this environment. She’d done so numerous times, but that had been as his wife. His wounded, desperate, aching wife.
Now she was still all those things, but she was angry too. Furious, in fact, at the husband who had bullied her back into his life and would no doubt soon find her powerless to resist him in bed.
The very thought sent her pulse into overdrive.
A man dressed in a suit passed by Annie and sent her an appreciative look. She smiled at him distractedly and then scanned the rest of the room. It was not as busy as she’d expected, but she suspected the collective financial means of those gathered would make up for it. There were several faces she recognised: some from other social events she’d attended in the past and some from the society sections of magazines and newspapers.
Annie took another small step away from her husband, who was still making small talk with the older woman. Then, another, and another, until she’d broken far enough away to consider herself a free agent.
These shindigs always had an excellent bar. And though Annie considered herself a mediocre drinker of very limited tolerance she waded through the sea of tuxedos until she reached a glistening champagne tower.
“Ma’am?” A young woman with a neat red braid asked, pointing towards the delicate construction of art deco crystal saucers.
“Please,” Annie nodded. She waited patiently while the waitress dislodged a glass that was so full it virtually had a meniscus and passed it to Annie.
She smiled in thanks and then moved on, sipping as she went to reduce the likelihood of spilling. Pre-recorded jazz was being piped through the speakers but it did little too soothe her fractious temperament.
Kyle had been right, she realised begrudgingly. Though Bianca deNicolai was famous primarily for two things (an ill-conceived affair with a married Russian politician that had resulted in her permanent exile from the country, and the stunning figure she flouted in artful black and white shots) there were also several other pieces of interest. Her photography of subjects other than herself seemed to echo an almost impressionistic palette, and Annie found herself drawn to several of the French countryside in particular.
“Do you like?” An Italian voice asked from behind her shoulder.
She slid a quick look in the direction of the voice, and saw a handsome man with a dark complexion in a shirt and low-slung jeans which somehow exuded confidence and casual elegance.
“Very much, yes.” Annie was far too kind-hearted a person to withhold praise simply because she found the blatant self-promotion of the nudes a tad too bold.
“These pieces are very special to the artist,” he said, moving closer to one of the prints. “This one is a field where her grandfather is buried.”
“Oh.” She blinked, her eyes enormous. “That’s ... poignant. It must be hard for her to part with it.”
“Si,” he agreed with a nod. “She has another from the same day which remains with her.”
“You know the artist?” Annie asked, and the man lifted a hand in the air and beckoned with two fingers.
Annie spun, following his gaze, and was greeted by the unmistakable sight of the photographer artiste herself.
“My sister,” he explained, as Bianca prowled closer. She was wearing a skin tight dress that showed almost as much flesh as her photographs.
“Ciao,” Bianca’s smile was pure seduction. “Who is this, Carlo?”
“We hadn’t got around to introductions. La Bella Donna was just admiring Number Thirty Seven.”
“Ah ha.” Bianca extended a hand and shook Annie’s. “I am Bianca.”
“Yes, of course you are,” Annie grinned. “I’m Annie ... Smith.” She had begun to revert to her maiden surname in recent months. And why should she not? They were going to get divorced. At least, that had been her plan. But even before their separation, during their short marriage, she’d preferred to use her own name as much as possible. Being an Anderson carried far too much sway for her liking.
“Piacere.” Bianca’s smile ramped up to the mega-watt range as she looked past Annie and Carlo.
“Darling! I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see you again,” she tottered a few paces away. Annie didn’t turn around initially. She didn’t need to. Of course Kyle had come in search of her. She knew it because she knew him, and also because her skin seemed to flush like a proximity alarm when he was within touching distance.
She tilted her head slowly, allowing her features to assume a mask of disinterest. Even when Bianca put both hands on the sides of his face and brought her lips to his in a brief but unmistakably familiar kiss, Annie’s look of unconcern didn’t change.
Kyle, however, clearly felt some consternation at this turn of events. “Bianca,” he drawled impatiently. “I see you’ve met my wife.”
“Your ...” The Italian woman turned in surprise, her lips a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. “You said your name was Annie Smith?”
Kyle’s eyes flashed with a dark emotion that only Annie recognised. “She does that sometimes,” he said with a nod. “My wife’s sense of humour is not always amusing.”
“I wasn’t attempting humour,” Annie interjected in self-defense, her smile belying the sharp retort. “In any event, yes, we just met. Bianca’s art is exceptional, darling.” He lifted a brow at the endearment and closed the rest of the distance between them. His hand wrapped around her waist and his fingers pressed to her hips with just enough intensity to make her stiffen.
Annie sent him a warning glance. “I particularly like this piece.” She nodded to the photograph of the field in France.
“It’s very special to me,” Bianca murmured. “You remember, I told you about this place, Ky?”
Ky? Annie heard the term of affection without so much as a flicker of betraying reaction but inside her blood was raging like a tsunami. Ky!?
“Did you?” His fingers began to sway, up and down, soothing her through the couture she wore.
“When we were in Paris that time. I suggested we go there but you had to work.” Bianca put a hand on Annie’s arm. “He is always working, no? This man is a slave to the dollar.”
Annie swallowed. “I don’t mind,” she lied. “It gives me a lot of free time to explore my own interests.”
Kyle’s fingers increased their tattoo but Annie suddenly couldn’t bear to have him touching her. She took a step forward on the pretence of examining the print more closely. “I’d like to buy it,” she said with finality. “Excuse me. I’ll go and see that lady with the clipboard.”
“Maria,” Bianca informed Annie with a perfect smile. “She is running the sales.”
“Darling,” Kyle’s tone held a warning. “We can go together.”
“Oh, no, no. You and Bianca must have loads to catch up on. Besides,”
she winked at Bianca, “I want to see what else I can snap up.” She turned her attention to Carlo. “Come, Carlo. Why don’t you give me a tour so these two can ... talk?”
Kyle watched his wife link her hand through the crook of the suave Italian’s arm with a strong desire to shout expletives. He hated the sight of her with anyone. He hated the way she was ignoring him.
He watched Annie and Carlo for at least twenty minutes. Their heads remained bent close together, and her face. God, her mesmerising face. She listened intently to the stories behind the art and he realised how long it had been since she’d looked at him with the same wrapt fascination.
Then again, when had he last spent the time conversing with her at length on any subject beyond the perfections of her body?
It should have been him showing her through the gallery, not Bianca’s bloody brother.
He swallowed and attempted to focus his attention on the story one of Bianca’s friends was boring him with.
“Fascinating,” he nodded. Bianca and Carlo were nearing the arch. They were moving to a different room of the galleria, out of his sight. And suddenly he couldn’t bear not to see her. Not to watch her.
“Excuse me.” He moved quickly and purposefully, his eyes glued to the pair as Carlo removed two more champagnes from the tower and handed one to Annie. She flicked a casual smile at him and Kyle’s chest squeezed painfully.
The room was filled with Bianca’s nudes and Annie didn’t stop for long at any of them. Instead, she drew Carlo to a bench seat in the middle and sat down. Kyle couldn’t hear them, but he saw the way she lifted her feet into the air and nodded at the heels. A frown tugged at his lips.
Were her feet hurting her?
Annie always wore heels. There was a height disparity between them – she was short and he was tall – and he had presumed she liked to be nearer to him. She pulled a grimace and shrugged, then squeezed her finger and thumb together. He wondered what she was saying now.
“Glenfiddich,” he said to an approaching waiter without bothering to look in his direction.
The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge Page 7