Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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.