Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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!