Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

“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.”