Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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

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.