The Heiress Rises From The Mud

Braden tossed the keys to the valet and walked up the marble steps without looking back.

Anne pushed her door open. Her muddy sneaker hit the pristine white marble of the portico. It left a dark, ugly stain.

Brenda, the head housekeeper, stared at the footprint. Her thin eyebrows shot up. Her face twisted into a mask of pure disgust.

"Madam Beatrice left strict instructions," Brenda said. Her voice sounded like she was speaking to a rat. "I am to take you to a guest room to be scrubbed clean. Do not step on the main rugs."

Anne kept her chin tucked to her chest. She followed Brenda like a frightened child. Her eyes, however, rapidly scanned the ceiling, memorizing the blind spots of the security cameras.

Brenda led her down a long hallway to a room at the far end of the second floor. The room was large but faced north. It was cold and uninviting.

Brenda pointed a stiff finger at the bathroom door. "There are spare clothes in the closet. Wash yourself and stay put."

Brenda walked out and slammed the door. The heavy lock clicked into place.

The second the lock engaged, Anne's posture changed. The frightened hunch vanished. Her spine straightened. The timid look in her eyes was replaced by a razor-sharp coldness.

She walked into the massive marble bathroom and locked the door. She turned the shower dial all the way to hot.

She stripped off the filthy clothes and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stared at the bruised, emaciated body. It was covered in purple and yellow splotches.

Anne closed her eyes. She pulled the dark energy she had stolen from Cristofer and forced it through her cells, converting it into natural healing magic.

A faint green glow pulsed at her fingertips. She pressed her hands against the worst bruises on her ribs and thighs. The purple skin rapidly faded to a healthy, pale white.

She stepped into the scalding water. The dirt, sweat, and dried blood washed down the drain.

As the grime disappeared, the dead girl's true face was finally revealed in the foggy mirror.

It was a face of devastating, destructive beauty. Her skin was porcelain white. Her nose was straight and elegant. Her deep emerald eyes held a breathtaking sense of tragedy.

Anne ran a wet hand over her cheek. This face was going to be her deadliest weapon in New York's high society.

She turned off the water and wrapped a thick towel around her body. She opened the closet.

Inside hung three oversized, outdated maid uniforms.

Anne let out a short, cold laugh. Brenda or Beatrice was trying to humiliate her. They wanted her to look like the help.

Anne ignored the uniforms. She walked over to the bed. In that brief blind spot when Braden had been distracted by the valet, she had purposely grabbed the black, custom-tailored men's dress shirt and the file he had left on the backseat.

She slipped the shirt on. It was massive on her. The hem hit mid-thigh. The expensive silk clung to her damp skin, highlighting the curve of her waist and the sharp lines of her collarbones. It looked effortlessly, lethally sensual.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hallway. Someone banged a fist against her door.

"Open the door," Braden's irritated voice came through the wood. "The valet said you took an M&A file from my car."

Anne looked at the manila folder she had tossed on the mattress. She picked it up. She ran her fingers through her wet hair, making it look even more chaotic.

She walked barefoot to the door. She took a breath, dropped her shoulders, and let the fear back into her eyes. She turned the knob.

Braden stood in the hallway, his mouth open to yell at her for stealing.

The words died instantly.

His eyes locked onto Anne. The shock hit him so hard he physically stopped breathing for three seconds.

He could not connect the filthy, smelly girl from the car to the stunning creature standing in front of him. The black silk of his own shirt contrasted violently with her pale skin. Water dripped from the ends of her hair, sliding down her long neck and disappearing into the deep V of the unbuttoned collar.

Anne took a step back, her bare feet silent on the carpet. She held out the folder with shaking hands.

"I... I'm sorry," she whispered. "I thought it was trash."

Braden reached out mechanically to take the folder. His knuckles accidentally brushed against her freezing fingertips.

A jolt of electricity shot up Braden's arm. He jerked his hand back as if he had been burned. He swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed. He fought a sudden, violent war within his own rational mind. He was a Wall Street shark, immune to cheap seduction, yet he found himself furious that his eyes kept drifting back to the wet silk clinging to her shoulders. He clenched his jaw, hating the biological betrayal of his own pulse. All the cruel insults he had prepared completely vanished from his brain, replaced by a suffocating, irrational tension.