Free The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge by Clare Connelly Page A

satisfying than it should have been. She sat down at the dressing table with the appearance of calm and lifted a black chanel nail polish from her make up bag. With painstaking care she painted her nails a glossy black and then sat patiently while they dried completely. Her fingers shook a little, but that was the only sign that she wasn’t as heartless as she looked.
    Her makeup had been flawless before but now, with a night ahead of her spending time with heaven only knew which of his friends, she laboured over her appearance slavishly. False lashes, a little more bronzer and a thicker coat of cherry red lips completed the look.
    Annie studied herself dispassionately once she was finished. Yes, she looked perfect. She was the proverbial poison apple, she realised, as she pushed her feet into a pair of pumps and wrapped a Burberry trench around her shoulders. She was the epitome of glamorous health and wealth to look at, but her soul had withered to a disastrous extent.
    She unlocked the door, sucked in a breath of courage and stepped out into the lounge. He had been staring at the door, as though with the force of his gaze he could force it to open, and so his eyes locked to hers instantly.
    Annie’s footing faltered and she paused as his dark gaze slowly travelled the length of her body. His look was so intense that she almost felt like he was touching her. “Take off the coat,” he muttered, and like a deer in the headlights, she did so without speaking.
    She saw the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat as he stared at her in the dress. “You look like ...”
    She arched a brow, waiting for him to finish his sentence.
    “You look ... immaculate,” he said finally, spinning away from her and grabbing his keys from the bench.
    That was it.
    Immaculate.
    It was a strange word. Neither praise, nor an insult; it was just an observation, but Annie rolled it around in her mind.
    The small elevator with its elegant William Morris print wallpaper brought them into close confines and she felt the immediate shortening of breath that spoke of his nearness. Her skin began to tingle and suddenly she was self-conscious, as though he must be able to feel the slick of emotions that were sending her sanity haywire.
    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.