The Sheikh's Million Dollar Bride & The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge (Clare Connelly Pairs Book 6)

by Clare Connelly

  “Do you know what I came to realise these last six months?”

  She shook her head, her eyes enormous.

  He walked towards her like a panther hunting his prey. “Yesterday you accused me of not loving you. And I thought it was ironic because I realised how little you must have cared for me.” His smile was an angry twist. “You said you loved me and yet your actions spoke so much louder than those meaningless, hollow words. What is love if it’s so easy to shed when it’s no longer convenient?”

  “Easy to shed?” She blinked up at him. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. “Walking out on our marriage was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

  His laugh was a bark of derision. “Which speaks volumes of the kind of sheltered life you’ve lived and nothing more.” He studied her face and she felt a wall of such anger emanating from him that her heart turned over with guilt. Guilt for leaving him!

  “I told you we needed to talk. I told you I needed more from you! And you made me feel like some childish inconvenience as always.”

  His grunt was a noise of guttural frustration. “You came to my office when I was in the middle of negotiating one of the biggest deals of my career and expected me to pack everything up to go on holiday with you.”

  A sob formed in her chest but she clamped her lips together to contain it. “I needed you.”

  “You needed a dose of reality,” he rejected angrily. “I didn’t say I couldn’t spend time with you. I said I couldn’t, in that moment, leave what I was doing to go away with you.”

  “Even though I begged you …”

  “You turned our whole marriage into some stupid black and white test of my commitment that you knew I could never pass! You know what my company means to me …”

  “More than I did, apparently,” she interjected bitterly.

  “Jesus Christ, you are unbelievable.” His eyes narrowed. “I came home that night prepared to discuss …”

  “It was too late.” She shook her head mutinously. “That day in your office,” she closed her eyes and the past was playing before her like a film. “I knew it was already over.” The sadness saturated her voice. “I think there was probably only a tiny, tiny chance that you could have said or done the right thing to fix it anyway.”

  “To fix what?” He roared before making a visible effort to calm himself. “We were married. You were my wife. I was faithful to you. I gave you everything: Money. Clothes. Freedom. I let your brother keep his job even though I knew he would likely steal from me again. What more did you want from me?”

  “It wasn’t enough.” She placed her hand on the back of a chair for support. It was vital. Her body felt weak.

  “So what would have been? What did you need from me?”

  “Just you!” She shouted.

  “You had me.”

  “No, I didn’t. And I never will. Don’t you get it, Kyle? You had all of me. I was yours, utterly.”

  “As I was yours.”

  “Come on,” she groaned. “That’s so patently untrue.”

  A muscle flexed in his cheek as our eyes clashed with forceful anger. And then, as always with Kyle, something shifted and suddenly he was no longer in the argument, but above it. “I’m tired of going over this.” He dug his hands into his pockets, perfectly embodying nonchalance. “Get dressed, Annabelle.”

  “I am dressed,” she responded mutinously, her eyes sparking with his.

  He dragged his eyes over the black yoga pants and skimpy singlet. “Fine. You’ll freeze to death but I don’t know if I give a rat’s ass. Get your bag or whatever and let’s go.”

  She shook her head belligerently. “I’m not coming with you.”

  “Yeah you are. And do you want to know why?” At her silence he continued coldly. “Because you are in no position to refuse. It’s the first rule of business. Learn what cards you have to play and play them wisely.” His smile was one of impatient derision. “You, Mrs Anderson, don’t have any cards to play. Not a one.” He brought his head closer to hers, so that she could see the dramatic flecks of colour in his eyes.

  His words were made of shrapnel and they were puncturing her heart and soul. “How can you speak to me like that?”

  He spun away from her, his chest lifting with the force of his ragged breaths. How could he make her understand how devastated he’d been? How a man who’d grown up as a boy shunned and unloved had been made to feel all of those things again?

  “You agreed to this. If you don’t like the state of affairs then you can leave me again,” he said with a shrug, as though he wasn’t walking in a constant fear of her doing just that.

  “My God.” She walked to him unsteadily. He didn’t look at her so she stepped around his frame to face him. He dropped his eyes to hers and she barely recognised him, so loaded with hatred was his expression. “Kyle, what’s happened to you?”

  His voice was low. “I met you.”

  She swallowed; the lump in her throat was painful. “Don’t say that.”

  “You reminded me that marriage is just like business. It’s a negotiation. A constant power-struggle. You proved the ultimate power you have is to walk away.” He ran a finger down her cheek, looking at her as though for the first time. “I’m not going to live with that threat hanging over my head.”

  She stared at him aghast. It took her a moment to corral her thoughts. “And so you want to keep me here by force?”

  “Not by force,” he disputed. “By agreement.” He shrugged. “You can go any time.”

  “And if I do?”

  His eyes were dark. “And if you do?” He prompted, wondering at the turn of this conversation. There was a part of him that was shouting at him to stop, to shut the hell up and put the spade down, but the greater part of him seemed determined to keep digging the hole, deeper and deeper.

  “You’ll what? You’ll actually turn my brother in?”

  He shifted his weight almost imperceptibly. “I won’t stand in the way of his idiocy being discovered,” he promised.

  She was shaking. She spun away from him, wrapping her arms around her waist and staring out at the glorious snow that glowed in the moonlight. “I’m trapped.”

  The words brought a wave of hopelessness crashing down around him.

  There could be no forgiveness. Not by either of them.

  And yet Kyle could never let her go. His love for her was darkly obsessive. Even he was surprised by it.

  “Do you need a coat?” His words had any emotion flattened out of them.

  She blinked back tears. “I’ll get changed.” She walked silently to the bedroom and clicked the door shut behind herself. He heard the lock slide into place and felt an answering finality inside of him.

  Annie had packed clothes from her Old Life. A collection of fashionable couture hung in the wardrobe. She ran her fingers over the dresses with a growing sense of loss. None of these things were right for who she really was. They were expensive and designer and Annie was a girl who’d been known for her ability to climb trees and run as fast as the leaves tumbling in the autumnal breeze. She lifted a black Vera Wang from the hanger and pulled it on quickly.

  The effect was instantaneous. Bit by bit, she was morphing back into Mrs Kyle Anderson. What a lonely life that was!

  The thought of him waiting outside for her was far more 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 fin
ished. 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. 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?”