Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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.