Sun Chara - Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

“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 !

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.

“Will I?” she asked, her gaze searching. “Will you?”

He inclined his head, his eyes piercing blue cobalt. “I’ll make sure of it.”

His arrogant words bore a hole into her, his gaze searing her icy skin. He’d thrown down the gauntlet and she’d picked it up, or more accurately, she’d hurled it at him by leaving, and he’d caught it.