Sun Chara - Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

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.

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?”