The Billionaire's Ruthless Revenge by Clare Connelly Page A

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