Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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?”