Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa
Sun Chara
Reclaiming his runaway wife!Infamous Italian neurosurgeon, Peter Medeci, has a score to settle with his estranged wife: her reckless bid for independence has nearly destroyed his medical career.Ellie, desperate to reassert herself as more than his bedroom playmate, flees the ‘fairytale’ for a gig in a Hollywood club until Peter comes looking for her. For her freedom, Ellie must spend the next three weeks being the ‘good doctor’s wife’ in public…and his mistress in private!
Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa
SUN CHARA
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017
Copyright © Sun Chara 2017
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition ©June 2017 ISBN:9780008145040
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Table of Contents
Cover (#u9e54d533-39e7-5e68-9c6f-4b741d32d7a5)
Title Page (#u6d2eebd7-c41b-51be-9eb7-9dbb6c783686)
Copyright (#u6388dd3e-8501-58e3-ae0b-431d8117407c)
Dedication (#u1d5246b4-7c4a-57e8-86ba-6084e4e892ce)
Chapter 1 (#u320cd403-4dbd-51f0-84fb-9d3a1db57f75)
Chapter 2 (#u3548ca7a-9d2d-5fb3-a9be-a6bdabc02610)
Chapter 3 (#u45b53b28-07b2-553b-8a03-da4e7b21ec45)
Chapter 4 (#uddbe75ce-0686-5214-b2ca-58c140ea33d9)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Sun Chara (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Unlimited thanks to my wonderful brother, Joseph who is quantum leaps ahead of his time…you are an inspiration!
Greatest gratitude and admiration to all the people (including my brother Joseph) in the medical field for your courage, dedication, and heroic efforts in saving lives! I applaud you!
Chapter 1 (#u69df24f8-7c08-5b3b-9a91-7143a0ecdd36)
Peter saw her. And he saw men at the bar ogling her every curve. The waitress scrap-of-nothing she wore accentuated the length and shape of her legs, clad in net stockings. How she managed to walk on stiletto heels was beyond his male comprehension. The flimsy froth of fabric barely covered her bottom and had her breasts nearly spilling from the Grand Canyon neckline, to the delight of every male eye in the smoke-filled room.
He brushed rain-damp hair off his brow, warring with his gut instinct to stride over, sling her across his shoulder, and take her home. Hot blood surged through him and his aorta boxed his chest. Home where she belonged, with him, and in his bed—
The crash of glass jolted him from plunging deeper into the erotic fantasy. Since she’d run out on him, his mind was set on replay … a constant rankling to his Italian pride.
A muscle assaulted his jaw. Her rebellious escapade could bring him down, and her with him. Premeditated or a case of the lamb amidst wolves? His chest constricted. It was time to set the record straight, even the score. Although he had to move fast to snare the coup d’état he was after, he’d do it his way. He inhaled, filling his lungs with needed oxygen and grimaced at the smoke-tainted air in the club. He exhaled and snared her in his narrow focus.
She was floundering to pick up broken glass from the floor. Her admirers were moving in, but in two long strides he was beside her. The spinning strobe light cast a halo around her, making her hair gold and her skin a shimmer of silk. Memories rushed in, taunting, smothering … and he almost changed his mind. Passion and anger raged inside him. Pent-up pressure in his chest sizzled between his teeth and banished the past, but only for the moment.
“Let me help you.” He hunkered down, playing knight gallant, but feeling more like a Neanderthal. His words held a double meaning for this woman, who kept a special place in his heart, his life, and who had spurned his every effort. Why would she have left him otherwise? Without a word, without a backward glance?
The deep timbre of the man’s voice filtered to Ellie through the music and laughter, but she kept her head bent until the embarrassed blush receded from her features. “Thank you.”
He dropped a handful of sharp pieces onto her tray, and the gold cufflink on his white shirt cuff gleamed from beneath the dark sleeve of his jacket. His hand was strong, his fingers long and sensitive, with a smattering of black hair across his knuckles.
She swallowed and glanced up, her heart splitting in two. “Pet-e-r.”
His raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
“What are you doing here?” She held the tray between them like a defense, gripping it so tight her fingers hurt. Her stomach lurched; air whooshed from her lips and every fiber of her being buzzed with life on seeing him again. But with that came a profound sadness.
She turned away from his penetrating blue gaze. His relentless pursuit of his profession had nearly destroyed her and their marriage. She couldn’t go back to him. Wouldn’t.
Not unless he was willing to change … give her what she wanted, what she … they… deserved… a real marriage. Tears stung her eyelids, and she gulped them down with her next breath.
A melody drifted to her, a balm to her frazzled emotions. She’d been stagnating, except in the bedroom. And she wanted to be more to him than a bedroom playmate. In a desperate attempt to reclaim her life, and save her marriage, she had made a rash decision and fled.
She was playing a risky card, especially since he controlled the deck. Could she pull it off? Would he ever see her as more than a possession?
“Better question is” – he dropped a chipped martini glass on her tray, shattering her thoughts – “what’re you doing here, Ellie?”
He reached out to help her up, but she avoided his gesture and stood up on her own. It was doubtful a man like Peter, with a heritage steeped in tradition, would budge, even for her… or her father. Forgiveness was not one of his tendencies.
“Working.” She made to pass him and the broken goblets rattled precariously on the tray.
He blocked her path, his gaze gliding over her half-exposed breasts, then lower, taking in the full length of her. “So I see.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Peter.”
“What’s that?” he baited.
“That I’m— I’m—”
“Selling favors?”
“How dare you,” she snapped, raising a hand to slap him.
He intercepted it in mid-air, his fingers shackling her wrist. “How dare I?” His face was a thundercloud and his eyes bore into her. “You’re the one who deserted—”
“I did not.”
“No?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Suppose you tell me how it was, mmm?” This time he did take her elbow and led her toward the neon-lit exit.
“I can’t just leave in the middle of my shift.”
“Wanna bet?” He grabbed the tray from her hands, passed it to a waitress walking by and winked his thanks. Shrugging from his jacket, he draped it across Ellie’s shoulders and guided her through the mass of gyrating bodies.
“Hey, baby doll, how ’bout another number?” Someone called to her.
“Later.” Ellie waved. “Taking a break.”
“Cutest singin’ cocktail—”
“Trot on over, babe.” Raucous laughter.
A man staggered toward her and a camera flashed. Peter swung his arm out and knocked the camera from the snapper, sending it crashing to the floor. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he pulled out a couple of hundred-dollar bills and hurled them on the floor. “That should cover the damages, Louie,” he bit out, his eyes hard.
The loud music had muted the altercation and no one seemed to have noticed, except the three of them.
“What’s going on?” Ellie glared at Peter, then turned to the barrel-shaped man pocketing the cash and scuttling across the floor for his camera.
Taciturn, Peter wove his way through the throng and pulled her with him.
“We can do publicity shots tomorrow, Louie,” Ellie called over her shoulder.
“Sure thing, sugar.”
The familiarity of his words made Peter pause mid-stride. He flexed his hand in a fist, thought better of it, and marched her away from the crowd.
“What’re you doing?” She stopped, forcing him to turn around.
“Taking you home.”
“You have no right—”
“I have every right … wife.”
“Don’t call me—”
Murderous silence.
“Technically, I guess I am.”
Peter tightened his fingers on her arm. When she whimpered, he loosened his hold, but didn’t release her. Smoke and alcohol clung to her, but a hint of her perfume reached him, making him ache for her. She’d just kicked him in the teeth, nearly denying their relationship as husband and wife. He steeled his jaw. When he was done with her, he’d boot her out. His eyes narrowed. He’d get what he wanted, including answers to questions that had battered his brain for the last three months. He had a right to know why she had left him. And at this crucial time. Why she preferred to live like a pauper, instead of like a princess with him? Why?
Dragging her with him, he climbed the four steps from the Hollywood cellar club to street level. Behind them, the neon sign flashed, The BlueRoom, both illuminating and shading her face.
“Let go, Peter.” She yanked her hand from his grasp and he allowed it. “I’m not about to run away at this time of night and in this weather.” She drew the lapels of his jacket closer about her neck, raindrops drenching her hair and trickling down her nape.
“Stand under the canopy, Ellie,” he commanded. “I’ll wave down a cab.”
From beneath her lashes, she watched him, studying him, loving him, hating— abruptly she froze, her thoughts ripping her apart. She’d wanted for nothing. He always brought her things, even during their most intimate moments. Heat infused her body and a drop of moisture slid between her breasts. All the material wealth he showered upon her couldn’t make up for the limiting lifestyle as the wealthy Italian’s wife, which made her feel more like his mistress.
She licked rain from her lips and her heart thudded. Was her husband an opportunist or simply too busy gaining wealth and power to notice her; to care that she had a dream of her own… wanted to make something of her own life?
He pushed a damp lock off his forehead with an impatient hand and stepped onto the sidewalk. He stretched out his arm to flag down a taxi, and his muscles contracted beneath his wet shirt.
Every cell of her body flared. She could easily succumb to his potent sexuality. But she had to resist the temptation. Had to resist his influence, his magnetism… him. A one-night stand with her husband would only compound the problem. Still vulnerable, she had to put distance between them, to think clearly; about their marriage, their life. Could they have a future together? She doubted it and her heart shriveled.
She drew in a breath, willed her erratic pulse to get in sync, and exhaled in a rush. Odor from the trash bins in the alley assailed the damp air, but she barely noticed. She took a step closer to him and reached out to touch him, to wrap her arms around the bulge of his biceps, to rub her cheek … feeling his strength. His security. His love.
Oh, how she wanted to, but instead she dropped her hand to her side and stepped back. She blinked raindrops from her lashes. It couldn’t be as she wanted. A gust of wind silenced the cry from her lips. To be with him, she’d have to ‘sell out’ on herself; for chasing her dream could cost him his.
Entry level into the music biz entailed gigs in questionable locales and servicing all manner of clientele. It was a highly unsuitable vocation for the wife of the ambitious intern seeking a seat on the Medical Board.
Goosebumps erupted all over her skin. Yet, his ruthless climb to fame on the global front had strangled her dream. Stifled her.
She felt cornered.
Defeated.
That’s why she’d left. Guilt gnawed her insides. Why she must slip away from him again.
Peter whistled and waved down an approaching cab. When the car screeched to a halt at the curb, tires splashing muddied water everywhere, she disappeared into the shadows of the night.
Chapter 2 (#u69df24f8-7c08-5b3b-9a91-7143a0ecdd36)
He was losing his mind. He tossed and turned on the sofa in the living room of his Beverly Hills mansion. Where had she gone? Last night, he hailed the cab and glanced behind him for Ellie, but she’d vanished again. Taking his heart, his hopes, and his future with her. He hunted for her everywhere, questioned everyone in the club, and then he spotted the paparazzo at the bar. He shoved his way through the crowded room, grabbed Louie by the shirt collar and hauled him off the stool, his feet dangling in midair.
The man shook his head, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.
A camera flashed.
Disgusted, Peter dropped him on his feet and stomped back out to the street, the drizzle of rain cooling his skin. He asked everyone in the vicinity – the newsvendor on the corner, the laughing couple stepping out of the nearby pizzeria, the homeless person rifling through the trash cans in the alley, the waiting taxi driver.
No one had seen her.
Dawn was breaking by the time Peter had stumbled up the front steps of his home. He slammed the door shut and the sound echoed the emptiness of his life since she’d fled. After loosening his tie, he’d thrown himself on the living-room couch, the silence of the mansion deafening.
Now, he stared at the ceiling, his bloodshot eyes stinging from his sleepless night. How could she slip away with him not two feet from her? He flung an arm across his eyes. How could she leave him without an explanation? Not once, not twice, but thrice.
Shifting, he peered at the clock above the marble mantel of the fireplace. He groaned. Seven a.m. He glanced at his wrinkled, mud-stained clothes in distaste and scrubbed a hand across his stubble-ridden jaw. Time he took a shower and changed. He made to get up, but every muscle in his body resisted.
He slumped back on the cushions, and a self-deprecating smile cracked his mouth. As the doctor in the house, he certainly did not give himself sound advice. A highly esteemed neurosurgeon, who could heal all manner of ills of the human brain, yet he didn’t know what to prescribe for a shattered heart.
A growl tore from him, ripping across the silent house. He lowered his lashes, cushioning his pupils, and swung his legs over the side of the couch. The movement shot sharp arrows through him, and his muscles contracted. He pinched the bridge of his nose and rolled his shoulders to get the blood circulating.
All night, he’d been coiled like a spring, ready to snap. He still had no inkling why his wife of five years had up and deserted him. Ungrateful little bi— but the voice in his head eclipsed that unsavory thought. You were hardly around… itself a form of abandonment.
He snorted. “What I’ve done, I’ve done for her.” His chin jutted in defense. “Gave her a beautiful home, a new car every year, everything money could buy.” The niggle in his head persisted. That’s not what she needed. “What was it she needed?” His words exploded against the walls, adorned with priceless paintings. “What did she want?” Obviously, it hadn’t been him.
The hole in his gut ached. He clutched his head between his hands, his temples pounding. A raw gash in his heart had split open and spurted blood … Ellie was the only one who could stop the hemorrhage. A menacing sound gurgled in his throat. She defied him by deftly slipping away from him – three times. That thrust the knife deeper into his aorta and proved she wasn’t interested in handing him a band-aid.
He had no choice but to play hardball… with her.
There was too much at stake… his life, his profession, and his reputation. Then there were others—
The sudden ringing of the telephone had him almost jumping from his skin. He thought to ignore it, but the sound penetrated through the fog of his mind, his pain, and his fury. With every muscle throbbing, he reached for the cordless phone on the coffee table. Cherry red. Her favorite color. “Shut up,” he muttered to the noise in his head.
He heaved a deep breath and exhaled with force. “He-l-lo,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Hello.”
* * *
“Three dollars.” Ellie clutched the money in her hand and glanced at her empty wallet. Then she rifled through the bills, fingers shaking, to ensure she had counted correctly. She had.
She leaned against the sooty wall of the matchbox she’d called home for the last three months and closed her eyes. No money. No job. No prospects. She balled her hand into a fist and pressed it against her mouth, swallowing desperation. “I will not go back to him like I did at Christmas.”
The sound of her breathing vibrated around her. She shoved the wallet back in her purse, slipped the strap over her shoulder and glanced about. Faded curtains hung on the one window, not quite blocking the sound of rain shooting against the pane. Wind whistled through the maple branches scraping against the building, cars honked, and tires swished on wet roads of downtown North Hollywood.
She drew the lapels of her brown coat under her chin, her eyes following the crack in the wall from the stove to the stained sink and to the refrigerator. Shifting, her gaze settled on the frayed sofa that doubled as her bed; the blotchy dandelion hue matched the carpet. What a color scheme, she mused, the tight line across her mouth twitching, but not quite making it to a smile. The nearby table held her one luxury. A cell phone. Cherry red.
She glanced outside at shops still decorated with cupids and hearts, and her eyes filled with tears. Heaving a tremulous breath, she blinked them away, and her thoughts drifted back to her former life. It had included a luxurious Beverly Hills estate, a beachfront penthouse on the Italian Riviera, chauffeur-driven limos, servants… gowns, jewelry… money… and a husband who was virtually a stranger. Pain and disillusionment mocked her; yet, beneath it all another feeling persisted.
She bit her lip, knowing she couldn’t give into it. If she returned to him now, without anything resolved between them, it’d be business as usual with the sexy doctor.
With determined effort, Ellie severed her thoughts from the past and glanced in the mirror behind the door. She combed her fingers through her hair, scooped it up, and tucked it beneath a wool cap. Pinching her cheeks to add color, she took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. At that moment, the doorbell rang and made her jump. She pulled the door open and her vitals went into overdrive.
“Go away.” She forced the words between her stiff lips.
“No.”
“What do you want?” She twisted the purse strap around her fingers.
“Answers.”
Peter towered above her, his six-foot frame hidden beneath an Armani overcoat, his hair damp from rain. She wanted to run to him, yet she’d run away from him, three times. Not proud of it. But she’d been desperate to crack through his professional veneer, willing him to see her and not what she represented – a necessity for his next promotion.
“I-I have nothing more to say to you.” She squeezed the doorknob, its metal ridges pressing into her palm.
He took a step closer.
She nudged the door closed, but he blocked it with his shoulder.
“Nonsense, Ellie.” Flecks in his eyes turned coal black and he stepped inside, booting the door shut with his heel. “I deserve an explanation. Demand it.”
“Explanation?” She moved two paces back and a sound, almost a snort, burst from her mouth. “You mean, like in talk?”
A perplexed look skimmed across his face.
“You never listened. Or weren’t there. Or it wasn’t the right time. Too tired. And most often you just wanted to … uh …”
“Yes?”
A blush warmed her cheeks.
“And was that so bad?” He brushed the color on her cheek with his knuckles. “To love you?” His words were so gentle that she almost crumbled in her resolve.
“No … yes … I mean no, but—”
Peter flicked his eyes across her agitated breasts, then lower, pausing at the apex of her thighs. A tense beat, and he glanced back up, clashing with her mutinous face.
“Don’t provoke me, Peter.” She yanked the hat lower over her ears.
“What’s the matter?” He stepped closer, and she smelled the damp wool of his coat. His rain-fresh scent was intoxicating … putting her senses on full alert. “Afraid you might still feel something for me?”
She snapped out of the sexual trance. “The only thing I feel for you i-is indifference.” Not true, the voice in her head jabbed. Be quiet!
He blanched, his proud features more pronounced. “I could prove otherwise.” His warm breath teased the curls springing loose from the confines of her hat and sensitized her skin with awareness.
“Why are you here, Peter?” She walked backward until her legs bumped the sofa. “Besides trying to force yourself upon me.”
A loaded moment, and she glimpsed something in his eyes… pain?
She doubted if he could feel anything but arrogance. Nevertheless, she knew her words weren’t quite fair.
“I have never forced—”
“I know.” She sighed, glancing down at her scruffy boots. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and his wedding ring glinted in the dim light. The motion mesmerized her. She remembered holding his hand, feeling his strength, kissing, tasting, wanted to … no!
“How’d you find me at the club?” she blurted.
His eyes glittered with purpose, his cheekbones prominent. “A friend tipped me off—”
“A spy.”
“Hardly that, Ellie.” An unbidden smile tugged at his lips. “A patron at the club—”
“I was fired this morning.”
“Oh?” He flicked a speck of imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, it was.” She bet he had something to do with it. Her throat constricted. He had everything to do with it.
“You can’t want to stay in this place.”
“Why not?”
He raised a thick eyebrow.
“Not up to your level?”
“No,” he growled. “Nor yours.”
She laughed and the brittle sound bounced off grease-spattered walls. “Peter, you don’t know that.”
He brushed her shoulder. “Have you changed so quickly?”
“No.” She closed her hands tight. “It took me five years.”
During which time her life had revolved around a series of society events, elaborate luncheons, and schmoozing parties. Whenever Peter showed her off for the cameras, she wondered if he wanted her or the image of ‘the good doctor’s wife’. An appearance that was necessary for building his image as the successful neurosurgeon at the top of his game on the home front and on a global scale.
“Explain that ridiculous remark.” He shuttered his eyes, sizing her up.
“Never mind.” She sank on the sofa, before her legs buckled beneath her, and folded her hands in her lap.
“I do mind, Ellie.”
“Why?”
“This is a dump,” he bit out. “No wife of mine’s going to be seen—”
“I knew it.” She leaped to her feet. “You’re more concerned about what other people think than what I think. Feel. Want.”
“Not true.”
“How’s that?”
“Would I be here, otherwise?”
“Yes.” She shot him a sharp gaze. “If it served your agenda.”
His eyes darkened, reminding her of a raging bull. “What’s my agenda, Ellie?”
“To reach the top at any cost.”
“Because?”
“We-ell … uh … uh …” She blinked, at a loss for words.
“Not sure?”
Had she misjudged him?
“Did it ever occur to you that I work hard to provide a good home for you, us?”
“A showplace—”
“So you can have everything you want—”
“Despise.”
“Do you?”
“Ye-es.”
Peter slitted his focus and camouflaged the inferno inside him. Her words were barbs in his flesh, but her body heat, hinting of roses, wrapped around him like a caress. He’d tasted her, had her, and would again. His groin tightened, breath billowed in his chest, and his heart thudded. He was losing the fight of his life, with the most important person in his life.
His wife.
He sensed it in his gut and something seemed to die inside him. Anger flared through him and eclipsed the ache scraping him raw.
“Then there’s nothing more to say, except—” He bridged the gap between them in one stride, his legs brushing her thighs, “—this.” He hauled her hard against his chest, his gaze connecting with hers for a timeless second, and then, he imprisoned her mouth with his.
Ellie wriggled in his embrace, but his lips were a sensual delight, evoking a response from her. As always. When his tongue slid into her mouth, awakening every cell, she curved into his embrace, and kissed him back full force. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and her purse swung out, knocking the telephone off the table.
The sound penetrated their heat and she pulled away. “N-o-o, please.”
“You could’ve fooled me.” His words heavy, his breath fanning her mouth. But he let her go.
“That’s all I am to you.” She stumbled back a step and grabbed onto the sofa. “Someone to warm your bed and satisfy your basic needs.”
“If that’s all you were,” he muttered, swallowing deep puffs of air, “I wouldn’t have married you.”
“Why did you?” Her words were so soft; he had to strain to hear.
“You need to ask?” He met and held her gaze for the longest moment. When she didn’t answer, he walked to the window and propped his hip against the ledge. “Ellie, you can’t mean to live here. You have no money, no job—”
“You made sure of that.”
He scrubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. A man in his position had connections. He used them. He refused to feel guilty. He wanted what was best for her. And for yours truly, the taunt stabbed. He dismissed it. Working in that seedy nightclub was not for this woman, who’d taken his name and became a part of his soul. Every muscle of his torso tightened. She behaved like he was the enemy. “You have no prospects.”
She started to laugh. A soft sound at first, then it grew to a high pitch.
“What’s the matter?” He made to grab her, changed his mind, and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
She swallowed and the sound muted. “Nothing. “Everyth—”
“Then, come home.”
“I have no home, Peter.”
“No?”
She remained silent.
He winced.
The sound of their breathing compounded the awkward moment.
He reached out to touch her hair, and then checked the motion. “Accept the credit cards – to pay rent, food—”
“No,” she fired back. “I want nothing from you. I want to be free.”
A lacerated sound burst from his mouth. He’d grown up in a household of near-starving kids while his mother sewed into the early hours of the morning, then cleaned houses to help feed and clothe them. To keep a roof over their heads, his father, an immigrant, speaking broken English, worked in kitchens with soap suds to his elbows while the affluent in society dined out.
Peter had cringed with embarrassment every time someone mispronounced his name and wished he could fit in better. Of course, he never had. So, from an early age, he hit the streets of Little Italy in New York, vowing to opt out of that life, make something of himself, help his family have a better life, and aid others in need. Never having to go to sleep clutching his growling stomach. Never to feel the stigma of being a foreigner and wearing hand-me-downs from well-meaning neighbors. Never to have others look at him with pity because of his background or the sound of his name.
“You think living like a pauper is going to make you free?” he said, his words a growl.
“Of you,” she fired back, her words a stake in his heart.
He nearly doubled over. “Think again, hard.”
She dropped down on the sofa and adjusted the cap over her ears.
“Don’t glamorize poverty,” he said, his tone curt. “You don’t want to do poor, Ellie.”
“I’d rather be poor and free, than like… like Rapunzel in her tower.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Ye-es,” she said, her eyes sparking fire. “I’d rather be poor and happy than—”
“And how many poor happy people do you know?” he asked, his words cynical.
“I haven’t counted—”
He guffawed, a dry, humorless sound, and eclipsed her flip retort.
“Money, power, and prestige are the only things that matter to you,” she said, tone resigned.
“Where did you get that idea?”
“From what you’ve done.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve put your profession before our marriage a-and everything.”
“And that makes me a bad guy?”
“I don’t know.” She crinkled her forehead. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” He paced the floor twice. “There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, amore mia.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged.
She frisked him with her eyes. “You’re a real smooth operator.” A smile teased the corner of her mouth, and she nipped it away with her teeth. “Didn’t mean it to come out a pun.”
He cocked his head, debated, and then simply said, “You could be mistaken in your assessment.”
His childhood hadn’t seemed to matter, so he hadn’t told her. Later, he’d gotten buried in work and when he surfaced, he wanted to hold her, love her. Apparently, that hadn’t been enough for her.
He rubbed the back of his neck and refrained from confiding in her, still. Maybe he wanted her to take him at face value. Wanted her to think more of him than the shallow, controlling bastard she coined him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“No?”
“No, yes.” She avoided meeting his searching gaze. “I don’t know.”
He was silent for a long moment, and then nodded. “How will you live? What will you do?”
“I’ll sing for my supper,” she tossed back.
“Parading yourself before—”
She leaped up, but he grabbed her arm before she found her mark. Her gaze collided with his midnight-blues. Her chest heaved. His nostrils flared. The silent war waged between them, then she twisted from his grasp,rubbing her wrist.
“Did I hurt—?” He reached for her.
“No.” She half-turned from him, knowing in her heart this man would never, could never, hurt her. Then why was she putting them through purgatory? Her heart bled. Because she preferred to go through it than dwell on it. “I-I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t make a decent living without some skill.”
“I’ll learn.” She stood erect to her full five-foot four inches, not wanting him to dwarf her.
“Everything’s high tech.”
“I’ll take a class.”
“Costs money.”
“I have—” He lifted an eyebrow, and she amended, “I’ll find work in one of the clu … er … restaurants.”
He set his mouth, not missing her near slip, but chose not to address it. “In the meantime?”
“I’ll manage.”
“How?”
Exasperated at his inquisition, she blurted, “I’ll marry money.”
He laughed, a savage sound. “You’re married to money now.” Silence thickened, tension built and crackled with his flint-hard words.
“Admit it, Ellie.” He curled his lip, contempt carving his features. “You didn’t marry me. You married my pocketbook.”
“No.” She reached for him, but when he twisted away, she glanced down at her boots. She hadn’t meant those harsh words. Said them to annoy him, because she hurt being so close to him and him not understanding her. She peeked at him through her lashes, but the wall of his back pricked her resentment.
It had always been about his life, his career, and his agenda. While he flourished, she wasted away. But Ellie could no longer deny herself. Not for her parents. Not for her husband. She had to take a firm stand to show him, and herself, that she was more than the millionaire doctor’s appendage.
“Why did you marry me, Ellie?” He spun around, snaring her in his hypnotic gaze. “If not for cash to anchor papa–”
Her eyes snapped open wide. “Don’t you dare drag him into this.”
But fury fueled him, and he was on the attack. “—drowning in the bottle…getting sacked ag—”
“I won’t hear you bad-mouthing—”
He tossed his head back and laughed, the sound sending chills chasing up her spine.
“He’s working at the University in Sussex…he’s keeping it together …taking care of mom and Joey,” she said, feeling the need to defend him. “He’s in rehab.”
“So he is.” Peter stroked his chin deep in thought. “Took long enough to get him there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged.
“They’re doing okay.” She raised her chin to score her point and glanced away from his laser-sharp look.
Wind-tossed rain slashed against the windowpane, compounding the bleakness of her mood. Her shoulders sagged.
“Good to hear,” Peter said, his words clipped. “But for how long?”
“You wouldn’t dare eclipse his job like you did mine.”
A dangerous pause, and his eyes glinted like agates.
“My net worth had nothing to do with us?” he ground out, her accusation nicking his pride.
“Everything isn’t about dollars and cents.”
“No?” His lip curled with cynicism. “You said ‘I do’ because…” he prompted.
“Oh, you’re impossible,” she fired back and fell into the ocean storm of his eyes. Confused, she blinked. “Same reason you married me.”
“That is?” He held her gaze captive.
“I-I-I …” She inched away from him, clutching the seams of her coat. “Peter, I—”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
“Wha-at do you mean?”
He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “Good-bye, Ellie.”
Chapter 3 (#u69df24f8-7c08-5b3b-9a91-7143a0ecdd36)
The slamming of the front door echoed in her ears, and she collapsed on the sofa. “Goo-ood-bye, Peter.”
It was what she wanted, after all. For him to be away from her, so she could think straight and get her life in order. But why was her heart splintering and her breath gagging in her throat? She squeezed her hands closed and her fingernails dug into her palms. Be strong. She burst into tears, the past flitting through her mind for what seemed like an eternity.
A heavy sigh resonated from deep inside her and she swiped at her cheeks. She had to get something to eat. How far could she stretch three dollars? Even a McDonald’s burger and fries spun into the stratosphere.
A wistful smile brushed her mouth. She tried to push herself up, but her lethargic body resisted. She fell back on the cushions. Despair filled her. She gave in and closed her eyes … just for a minute.
Time ticked by.
She couldn’t stay here. The walls seemed to be closing in around her. Memories haunted, taunted her. She dragged herself up and the room swayed every which way. She groaned and clutched her temples.
Disorientated, she burst through the front door and dashed down the dimly lit stairs. In her haste, she tripped over the third step and hurled headlong down to the landing, her scream muted by blaring horns of rush-hour traffic. Blackness sucked her under.
* * *
Dr. Peter Medeci heard the ambulance siren and hurried to the Emergency of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Two medics were rushing in with the injured on a stretcher.
“911 call,” one said, while a third handed him the report. “Caucasian female, twenty-eight, head trauma.”
Peter glanced at the chart and shifted his gaze to the patient. His vitals short-circuited. Blood drained from his face, and he struggled for oxygen, his heart seeming to freeze in his chest. Then, his years of professional discipline kicked in. He pressed his fingers at the pulse point of her wrist and sent up a prayer of thanks. The gash on her forehead, he didn’t like.
“X-rays!” he barked, his pulse pummeling a hole in his chest. He hurried along beside the gurney, holding Ellie’s hand all the way.
When he had to relinquish her into another doctor’s care, he nearly exploded. But he insisted on spending the night by her side and slouched in the visitor’s chair, he challenged anyone who even tried to oust him.
In the morning, Peter dragged himself away to take a quick shower, change his clothes, and check on his own patients.
At eight a.m. he strode into Ellie’s room, carrying a bouquet of red roses he’d bought from the shop in the hospital lobby. “What the—?” His mind rejected the evidence of the empty bed. No. She couldn’t have left without someone seeing her. Not from here. He heard the running water in the adjoining bathroom and relief ripped through him. He plunked down in the chair in the corner and waited.
The door clicked open and tension eased from his shoulders. “How are you feeling—?” he asked, words getting blocked in his throat.
She’d changed back into the torn dress they brought her in. Her golden-brown curls had been swept off her brow, making room for the gauze bandage that almost matched the paleness of her skin. Her pupils were still dilated, the fawn-brown of her irises too bright.
“Good morning, Peter.” She wrinkled her pert nose at the medicinal smells in the room and scrubbed a dirt stain on her sleeve.
“That won’t get it clean.” He offered her the roses.
She hesitated and then took them in her hands, breathing their scent. When she glanced at him over the blooms, their eyes clashed, and a jolt charged through him. Memories whizzed by, time stood suspended.
She blinked and the moment shattered. “I-I’m fine, thank you.”
He squinted, his gaze laser-sharp. Her words were a little too emotionless, a little too impersonal. Could it be the effect of the clinical atmosphere, or, and his heart clubbed his chest, a reflection of what their relationship was to be? Over?
“Good.”
Setting the flowers on the bedside table, she snatched up her coat from the closet, draped it over her arm and rifled for something in her purse. He curved his mouth into a half-smile when she found it. She glanced into the mirror above the sink and outlined her lips. Cherry red.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
He clenched his belly, remembering the sweet taste of her lips, the feel of her silky skin … her breasts fit so perfectly in his hands, her nipples hardening in his mouth … He nearly groaned aloud, but shoved the sound back down his throat. Get a grip, Doc.
A myriad of emotions—anger, wistfulness, desire, hurt, pride, disillusionment, and exasperation churned inside him. “Going somewhere?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Home.”
“Good.” Adjusting the stethoscope around his neck, he rose from the chair. “I’m off in half an hour. I’ll drive us home.”
A silent moment, and she turned, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll be going home alone.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there, later.” He was clutching at straws.
“No.” She squeezed the lipstick between her fingers.
Good thing she replaced the top or she’d have cherry flavoring spurting all over her palm. He’d have to lick it clean, tasting her… basta!
A grown man … a smitten Doc… a fool?
He shook his head, dismissing the vexing thought. She dropped the lipstick in her purse, clicked it closed and the bag slipped from her fingers.
“I got it, Ellie.” Peter bent to retrieve it, but she swept it up in her hand. When she made to stand, she shut her eyes and reached out for anything, anyone for support.
“Woman, why—” Peter lifted her up in his arms, his heartbeat catapulting into hers, and placed her on the bed. Taking her wrist, he pressed his fingers on her flesh and checked her pulse. “You must relax, Ellie.”
She cast him a look, like his medical advice came from outer space. “I don’t have time.”
“Make time.”
“I have to work—”
“You don’t—”
“Or I’ll be evicted from my apartment.”
“So?”
“No.”
He nodded. “You must rest.” A plan was formulating in his brain. “Even a mild concussion can rear its ugly head. Migraine, dizziness.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Of course.” A deep pause. “In about three weeks.”
She’d torn his male pride to shreds.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
His ego was shattered.
His wife, whom he showered with gifts, treated like a princess and who shared the most intimate moments of his life … blood flooded his male parts, pulsing heat. She couldn’t wait to bail out even in her injured state. Why was that? He sucked in a mouthful of air and it seethed out between his teeth. What was she hiding?
His belly turned to lead, his heart to stone.
The time had come to teach her a lesson that’d have her crawling back to him. He set his mouth in a harsh line. Then it’d be, arrivederci, babe.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You seem to want to end our marriage so—” He sat on the corner of the bed, the mattress depressing beneath his weight. “I’ll play your game.”
“I’m not playing games, Peter.”
“By my rules.”
“It’s always by your rules.”
He allowed her comment to whiz by and tilted his head, his tone cool.
“I’ll give you a divorce, Ellie.”
She blanched. “Di-divorce?”
He steeled his jaw and the Roman warrior booted up. “On one condition.”
Suspicion tinted her eyes a darker shade of brown. “Go on.”
Relief raced through him. At least she hadn’t said no. “We live together as husband and wife for the next three weeks.” He determined to have her, take her one more time, and get her out of his system.
“Why three weeks?”
“Mild as your injury is, it’ll take you about that long to recuperate.” He adjusted the collar of his lab coat, ignoring the jab to his conscience.
“You can’t live in that dingy flat on your own in this condition.”
“Guilty?”
“Naaa,” he said, tone nonchalant. “Sensible.”
“Of course.” And she was anything but sensible, was what he thought. Why else would she opt to play the clubs when she had Prince Charming in hand? But did she really? Ellie squinted up at him, her intuition prickling her insides. He was up to something. “I could stay with my parents.”
“You could.” He brushed his chin with the back of his hand. “The long flight to London wouldn’t be advisable.” He cast her a steady gaze.
“And I know you don’t want to worry them and your little bro—”
“He’s not so little anymore.”
“What’s he … six … seven?”
“He’s eight years old, plays soccer… er… football to the Brits and—”
“Okay, dully censured.” A rueful smile brushed across his mouth.
“Do you blame me?” Her brother had been three when Peter met him for the first and only time, at their wedding. When Ellie visited her family, Peter sent gifts, but stayed behind working the emergency shift.
“No blame, Ellie. Priority.”
“Obviously, your priorities differ from mine.”
“We’ll know soon enough.”
“What d’ you mean?” She wriggled to a sitting position and he adjusted the pillows behind her head. He smelled fresh … of soap … his hair still damp from his shower. She wanted to—she gulped down the whimper rising in her throat.
“At the end of three weeks, you’ll have what you want,” he said.
“Will I?” she asked, her gaze searching. “Will you?”
He inclined his head, his eyes piercing blue cobalt. “I’ll make sure of it.”
His arrogant words bore a hole into her, his gaze searing her icy skin. He’d thrown down the gauntlet and she’d picked it up, or more accurately, she’d hurled it at him by leaving, and he’d caught it.
“What if I refuse?”
A telling pause.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She squinted her eyes at him, her hand fluttering to her throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He slapped his ace in her face. “If the university regents get a whiff of papa’s philandering with the bottle on the side …” he let his words trail off, his meaning unmistakable.
“You wouldn’t stoop so low—”
“Try me, mia esposa,” he muttered, his words flint-hard, his eyes glacial.
She blinked her lashes to stay the tears. Just last week, her mom had moaned into the phone about grocery prices, mortgage rates rising, and fuel costs hitting record highs. If her father backslid on the booze and lost this job, they’d be in the gutter.
It had taken Ellie some time to calm her mother’s fears and her own. But with the photo shoot Louie had lined up and the singing gigs in The Blue Room, she’d make enough to help them without going to Peter like a beggar maid. She squirmed at that unpalatable image.
Finally, she thought she’d gotten a handle on her life and could do something for herself; show Peter that if he wanted their marriage to work, he’d have to make some major changes. But it had blown up in her face.
A sound like a muted wail burst from her, and had him studying her through his narrow focus.
Once again, Peter called the shots, and she ducked. Her spirit rebelled at his high-handedness, at the unfairness, at feeling powerless. Then, a glimmer of female intuition had her mouth curving a smile. Not totally powerless. She had her own card to play.
“Ex sposa.”
He shrugged. “In three weeks.”
His indifference stoked her already frazzled emotions. She wanted to lash out at him; vent her frustration, hurt, anger, hurl her purse at him, stomp her feet, scream. But it wouldn’t do. He’d surmise it was reaction from her head injury. Cool, calm, and collected was a better way to go… a persona she perfected over the years as the good dottore’s wife. It’d hold her in good stead, until she waved, s’ long buster.
But first, she’d dish up a dose of the doctor’s own medicine and have him groveling at her feet. “Uncontested?”
He drilled her with his midnight-hard gaze. “Yes.” He coughed, smothering the word with the back of his hand.
Divorce. Such an ugly word and it carried an even uglier feeling with it. Her heart plummeted. He not only called her bluff and managed to hand-cuff her to him again, but had the situation already resolved post three weeks. Why the delay? He might want to appease his conscience due to her injury, but instinct told her it had to do with more than that.
Much more.
So be it. No talk, just action. Hard, cold decisions. Something she was fast learning from her renegade Doc, as some decked him. She ignored the stab to her heart. It was time to match him. “Agreed.” Her gaze level with his. “Except—”
“Yes?” He was studying every nuance of emotion fleeting across her features, and his intense scrutiny had her nerves twitching.
“I want to keep my apartment in North Hollywood.” She might be out of a marriage in three weeks, but she refused to be homeless into the bargain. Of course, Peter wouldn’t permit that. He’d feel obligated… she’d feel like a kept woman. She tightened her fingers over her handbag; her sense of self-worth could no longer allow that.
Who was Ellie Ross Medeci, besides the good doctor’s wife? Must she always defer to him? Her dream of being a recording artist had been shattered twice over.
First, when the responsibility for her family’s finances fell on her shoulders, she opted for a less-risky study choice, fashion design and marketing. But when cash pared down to the wire, she had to let that go too, and work the library day shift. That, together with moonlighting at the local pub, brought in a decent wage that kept them in a house.
Second, when she married Peter and was expected to behave with a certain sense of decorum as his wife. Which in itself had been far more restrictive, sucking life from her. Did he even know, care? Or would he see her rekindled passion for her own aspirations as a cheap shot to undermine his, even after she’d shelved them for five years?
She sighed. It didn’t matter now, for her well-laid plans had hit the dust. Seemed he was using her escapade as an excuse to unload her. She curled her fingers into fists, and her American grit kicked in. Knowing that shoebox of an apartment was hers gave her a sense of security.
“Why?” he asked.
She shrugged and a sliver of satisfaction rippled through her. At least he was still curious enough to ask. Ammo she might use in the future?
“Not thinking of running away before three weeks are you?” he said. “Three times’ the charm, so I hear.”
She fiddled with the button on her coat, not missing the mockery in his tone. She had already run out on him thrice, after all. “No.”
He studied her beneath his furrowed brows. “Very well.”
“And …” Her stomach dipped, her palms moist, but she forced the words out. “I-I’ll not sleep with you.”
His eyes darkened. Then, he chuckled. “Afraid?”
“No.” She could play cat and mouse too. “You did say it would take some time for me to recover” – she brushed her fingers across her bandaged brow – “and with headaches coming on …” She allowed her words to trail away and watched him from the corner of her eye.
A pause then, “Done.”
Disappointment washed over her. He agreed so quickly. At the least, she hoped, she’d have to convince him. But no. Dr. Medeci knew his mind, knew what he wanted, and got it. She wondered if she imagined his heart beating in time with her own anytime during the last five years.
“Go-ood.” The word stumbled from her mouth.
Was it? Peter doubted it. Dangerous would be how he’d dub it. His personal and professional lives were pitted against each other and about to detonate. When he caught the look of consternation on her face, he almost retracted his cruel words. But then, her brittle words smacked him in the solar plexus, a reminder he could lose all. He couldn’t afford going soft on her. His next move had to be right on target… too many others would be slammed if he didn’t coup the Chairmanship of the Medical Board.
A nerve battered his cheek with brutal force.
He thrived on the edge on a daily basis, but hadn’t thought he’d have to tread the high wire with Ellie too. He drew air into his lungs; it expanded and burst from his mouth in a violent sound. Had the sweet, loving girl he married been an illusion? Had they gotten to her? Would she topple his political plans?
He gulped down the bitter taste scarring his throat. He had to know.
“Will you be ready to leave in a few minutes?” He caught a speck of pain in her eyes, but she fluttered her lashes and it vanished. A trick of the light, he concluded.
Why put himself through this? Why not just send her packing now? Because he’d fought for everything he had in this life, including Ellie. And he didn’t like to lose. If he had to give her up, then he’d do it his way, by his rules and in his own time.
“Have you anything else to take than what you’re wearing?”
“No,” she murmured.
A deadly silence.
He took something from his pocket and his whole body seemed to go rigid, the muscles in his neck cording. “This belongs on your finger.” The gold band looped through a string of tiny beads nestled in his palm.
“I-I-I wore it around my neck.” She snatched it from him, wondering if he recognized the necklace he’d bought for her from a street vendor on their first date. Even when she was decked in diamonds for some glam event, she wore it always. “Tips were better if customers thought I was—”
“Single?”
She nodded.
“We won’t have that problem for the next three weeks, will we?”
Silent, she slipped the ring on her finger and dropped the necklace in her purse. Snapping it shut, she tapped the clasp with her forefinger.
Nervous? He doubted it. Most likely, thinking of her life post three-week interlude.
She glanced at the bouquet of roses lying on the bedside table. A heartbeat, a breath, then he took the spray and tossed it to her. She caught it against her heart, and his pulse galloped. When she brushed her lips across the petals, his temperature hiked, the girth of his sex mounting. He shifted to ease the ache, his lab coat hiding the evidence of his desire from her.
War raged inside him. He must be out of his mind. After the hell she put him through, he still wanted her, fantasized … But the way he figured it, he’d seduce her once more and break her spell over him. No longer bewitched by her. Afterward, he’d give her what she wanted—otherwise why ditch out on him, not once, not twice, but thrice?
If she wanted her freedom, he’d oblige. On his terms. His gut recoiled, but he ignored the warning. A muscle pounded his throat. She’d put him through hell on a grill. He was determined to score… on all counts.
“I-I’m ready to leave,” she said, making no move to do so.
Why didn’t she just walk out the door like she’d done three months ago? Because although Ellie Ross Medeci was making a bid for her independence, she was no fool. To be totally free, she had to know how she fared in this test of wills … in this last stand with her husband. Ensure she came out with enough ammo so he could never blackmail her again… how dare he attempt to use her father as a bargaining chip to get to her.
Brave words, Ellie, but it worked… for here you are.
“Bene,” Peter muttered, a tight line slashed across his mouth.
Her heart battled her mind. She must be feeling the effects of her head injury—she was treading dangerous ground to agree to live with him for three weeks. Knowing full well that one touch from him and she’d be lost. But the way she figured it, she’d prove to him that she didn’t need him. Emotionally, physically, or financially. She would not succumb to his sexual magnetism. Then, she’d give him what he wanted—otherwise, why mention the dreaded D word?
If he wanted his freedom, she’d go along with it. On her terms. Her pulse kicked back in protest, but she dismissed the warning. She studied him from beneath her lashes. He’d broken her heart. She’d walk away the winner.
Chapter 4 (#u69df24f8-7c08-5b3b-9a91-7143a0ecdd36)
Peter drove through the gates of his … their… home, steered the Mercedes along the driveway and pulled up at the front of the house. Rose bushes of every kind surrounded the imposing structure. Ellie pressed the bouquet against her heart, remembering waking up on sunny mornings to rose-scented breeze ruffling the sheer curtains in their bedroom. A wobbly breath and she smelled freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle, which meandered along the wrought-iron fence. It bordered several acres of land, including the gardener’s cottage in back.
“Welcome home, Signora Medeci.” Peter cast her a perfunctory glance, slid out, and walked around to the passenger door to open it for her.
Already half way out when he offered his hand to assist her, she ignored his chivalrous gesture and slammed the door behind her.
She could not touch him. If she did, it would be her downfall. Ice. That’s the only way she’d combat the sexual attraction sizzling at his nearness. “Er … thanks.”
She followed him up the veranda steps to the front door. He was a man who walked with confidence, who commanded respect because he had earned it. She could not deny him that. What she could deny him was herself, her heart. You’d be denying yourself, girl, the voice in her head reprimanded. Go away, she said. She refused to live in his shadow any longer. “I can find my own way.”
“Glad to hear you still remember the way.” He inserted the key in the lock, his words laced with sarcasm.
“I sure do.” She couldn’t help baiting him. “The way in and the way out.”
He caught her in the laser beam of his eyes. “You certainly do.”
“Ye-es,” she murmured, hugging the roses to her bosom.
She had to keep her distance; must not fall for his sex appeal. If she faltered in her resolve, she’d lose. She glanced at his taciturn features. Reaching him on another level now would be like trying to break through a brick wall. She’d already gotten one crack on the head from her earlier tumble. She wasn’t eager for another.
“This is where you belong.” He opened the door wide. “Not in that two-bit hole you’ve been living in.”
She spun to give him a tart response and clutched her head, her knees buckling. “Ooh-o-o.”
Peter scooped her up in his arms and the flowers fluttered to the floor. “Wrap your arms around my neck,” he said, tone firm. “I won’t bite.”
Ellie blinked at the bright spots bopping before her eyes and did as he asked, hair at his nape cushioning her fingers. High voltage zapped into her, scrambling her pulse. He smelled of soap and fresh air. It’d be so easy to burrow into his neck, nibble her way to his ear, and across his jaw to his mouth. Pretend this Arctic front between them was a bad dream. Peter strode across the threshold to the living room and broke the spell by plunking her down on the couch.
“I’ll get the luggage,” his said, his words curt.
“Whose?”
He chuckled. “That’s right. You left your things at your … er … place.”
“I have plenty more here.” She brushed a hand across her eyes, thankful that the dizziness was diminishing. “In the upstairs closet.”
He cast her a covert glance. “In our bedroom.”
“I’ll ask Marta to help move them to the guestroom,” she said.
Silence. Long, tense, and cold.
“No.”
“We made an agreement.”
“After your sudden departure, I gave the staff an extended vacation.” He walked to the circular bar in the corner. “Drink?” He glanced at her bandaged temple. “A soft beverage would be best.”
Ellie waved her hand, no.
“Marta comes by every couple of weeks to clean, cook, and stock the freezer.” He seized a bottle of sparkling water, twisted the cap off, saluted her, and took several gulps. “Jose keeps an eye on the lawns.” After contemplating the contents in the bottle, he took a last swig and set it on the counter. “I’ll move your things into the other room.”
“That means we’re alone.”
“That bother you?”
“Of course not.” But her heart bounced against her ribs.
“Make yourself at … er … home,” Peter said, a wry twist to his lips. “I won’t take long.” A steady gaze, then he turned and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
“Home.” The word feathered from her lips and she scooted off the sofa. Could this ever be her home? A grand house, yes. A home, she doubted it.
Yet, during her short stay here, she was glad Marta wouldn’t be taking over so completely she’d be shooed from the kitchen.
Ellie had played the lady of leisure far too long. Lazing away hours at the pool, strolling the property, shopping online, and cruising Rodeo Drive for the latest fashion trends. Gucci, Prada, Channel. She’d become a regular fashionista frequenting the gym, spa, beauty salon—manicurist, pedicurist, hairstylist, beautician. On ‘show’ with Peter at some medical event or other, she had to be on top form.
Outwardly she’d been a knockout, but inwardly she’d been a mess. The lavish pampering serviced her body, but not her soul. A sliver of fear pierced her. Twisting around, she glanced at the grounds through the window spanning one whole wall. Power walks around the estate and puttering in her miniature vegetable garden were more her style. Since it was February, she’d have to forego the latter, but she could certainly do the former, followed by a quick dip in the pool.
A wistful smile flitted across her mouth. At first, she’d been thrilled to be the bride of the up-and-coming young surgeon. He was hot, sexy, and good looking… and generous. He supplied her with every material thing she could ever want. He had her on his arm at every medical function imaginable. And she glowed. Lived his life. Lived for him. Eventually, the lifestyle that played like a fairy tale lost its enchantment and nearly demolished her, keeping her own dreams under lock and key.
Peter became more preoccupied with his profession. His stellar success in wielding the knife had placed him in high demand on a global scale. He jetted both to major capitals of the world and to minor locales.
At the start, Ellie had accompanied him, and while he was in session, she played tourist—alone. She strolled along the River Thames, hopped on a double-decker to Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, and Westminster Abbey when on British soil; she climbed the Acropolis to the Parthenon, day-cruised Mediterranean islands, and over-tipped the slick-talking cabbies in Athens. At that recollection, she almost giggled. Riding the rented scooter to the Arc de Triomphe, Champs Elysées, Eiffel Tower and, of course, the haute couture scene in Paris had been fun. And so it had gone with other cities, in other countries, on other continents.
A sigh built inside her and she expelled the heavy sound. At night, she waited for Peter in their extravagant hotel suite to return from his speaking engagements and other commitments. With his reputation on the rise, he garnered accolades that held him in good stead for political gain in the medical field. He climbed the ranks and soon after landed a seat on the Medical Board.
Sought after more than ever, Peter began doing double duty on the domestic and global fronts.
Ellie hadn’t accompanied him as often. Instead, she busied herself with social activities befitting her station as his wife. Since their high-caliber lifestyle alienated most of her friends, she drifted to his circle. But nothing could fill the void inside her that only he could satisfy.
Rubbing her hands over her arms, Ellie wandered around the living room. She trailed her fingers over priceless objets d’art, from the bronze statue to the porcelain vase in the corner of the room. When Peter finally plodded home, he was exhausted and in no mood to talk. Just dropped into bed and hauled her with him.
As time crawled by, their beautiful Beverly Hills mansion morphed into a gilded cage for Ellie. Emotionally depleted, she turned into a shell of herself. The emptiness of her life had taken its toll. She had no recourse but to flee the ‘palace’. It had broken her heart to leave him, but if she hadn’t, she’d have no heart at all. A distressing moan vibrated from deep in her throat.
When she heard the sound of Peter bounding down the stairs, she reined in her thoughts. He crossed the foyer, paused, and then his footsteps drew closer. Her nerves bounced. She took several deep breaths to center herself, but when he walked in, her pulse leaped.
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