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“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.
“What if I refuse?”
A telling pause.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
She squinted her eyes at him, her hand fluttering to her throat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He slapped his ace in her face. “If the university regents get a whiff of papa’s philandering with the bottle on the side …” he let his words trail off, his meaning unmistakable.
“You wouldn’t stoop so low—”
“Try me, mia esposa,” he muttered, his words flint-hard, his eyes glacial.
She blinked her lashes to stay the tears. Just last week, her mom had moaned into the phone about grocery prices, mortgage rates rising, and fuel costs hitting record highs. If her father backslid on the booze and lost this job, they’d be in the gutter.
It had taken Ellie some time to calm her mother’s fears and her own. But with the photo shoot Louie had lined up and the singing gigs in The Blue Room, she’d make enough to help them without going to Peter like a beggar maid. She squirmed at that unpalatable image.
Finally, she thought she’d gotten a handle on her life and could do something for herself; show Peter that if he wanted their marriage to work, he’d have to make some major changes. But it had blown up in her face.
A sound like a muted wail burst from her, and had him studying her through his narrow focus.
Once again, Peter called the shots, and she ducked. Her spirit rebelled at his high-handedness, at the unfairness, at feeling powerless. Then, a glimmer of female intuition had her mouth curving a smile. Not totally powerless. She had her own card to play.
“Ex sposa.”
He shrugged. “In three weeks.”
His indifference stoked her already frazzled emotions. She wanted to lash out at him; vent her frustration, hurt, anger, hurl her purse at him, stomp her feet, scream. But it wouldn’t do. He’d surmise it was reaction from her head injury. Cool, calm, and collected was a better way to go… a persona she perfected over the years as the good dottore’s wife. It’d hold her in good stead, until she waved, s’ long buster.
But first, she’d dish up a dose of the doctor’s own medicine and have him groveling at her feet. “Uncontested?”
He drilled her with his midnight-hard gaze. “Yes.” He coughed, smothering the word with the back of his hand.
Divorce. Such an ugly word and it carried an even uglier feeling with it. Her heart plummeted. He not only called her bluff and managed to hand-cuff her to him again, but had the situation already resolved post three weeks. Why the delay? He might want to appease his conscience due to her injury, but instinct told her it had to do with more than that.
Much more.
So be it. No talk, just action. Hard, cold decisions. Something she was fast learning from her renegade Doc, as some decked him. She ignored the stab to her heart. It was time to match him. “Agreed.” Her gaze level with his. “Except—”
“Yes?” He was studying every nuance of emotion fleeting across her features, and his intense scrutiny had her nerves twitching.
“I want to keep my apartment in North Hollywood.” She might be out of a marriage in three weeks, but she refused to be homeless into the bargain. Of course, Peter wouldn’t permit that. He’d feel obligated… she’d feel like a kept woman. She tightened her fingers over her handbag; her sense of self-worth could no longer allow that.
Who was Ellie Ross Medeci, besides the good doctor’s wife? Must she always defer to him? Her dream of being a recording artist had been shattered twice over.
First, when the responsibility for her family’s finances fell on her shoulders, she opted for a less-risky study choice, fashion design and marketing. But when cash pared down to the wire, she had to let that go too, and work the library day shift. That, together with moonlighting at the local pub, brought in a decent wage that kept them in a house.
Second, when she married Peter and was expected to behave with a certain sense of decorum as his wife. Which in itself had been far more restrictive, sucking life from her. Did he even know, care? Or would he see her rekindled passion for her own aspirations as a cheap shot to undermine his, even after she’d shelved them for five years?
She sighed. It didn’t matter now, for her well-laid plans had hit the dust. Seemed he was using her escapade as an excuse to unload her. She curled her fingers into fists, and her American grit kicked in. Knowing that shoebox of an apartment was hers gave her a sense of security.
“Why?” he asked.
She shrugged and a sliver of satisfaction rippled through her. At least he was still curious enough to ask. Ammo she might use in the future?
“Not thinking of running away before three weeks are you?” he said. “Three times’ the charm, so I hear.”
She fiddled with the button on her coat, not missing the mockery in his tone. She had already run out on him thrice, after all. “No.”
He studied her beneath his furrowed brows. “Very well.”
“And …” Her stomach dipped, her palms moist, but she forced the words out. “I-I’ll not sleep with you.”
His eyes darkened. Then, he chuckled. “Afraid?”
“No.” She could play cat and mouse too. “You did say it would take some time for me to recover” – she brushed her fingers across her bandaged brow – “and with headaches coming on …” She allowed her words to trail away and watched him from the corner of her eye.
A pause then, “Done.”
Disappointment washed over her. He agreed so quickly. At the least, she hoped, she’d have to convince him. But no. Dr. Medeci knew his mind, knew what he wanted, and got it. She wondered if she imagined his heart beating in time with her own anytime during the last five years.
“Go-ood.” The word stumbled from her mouth.
Was it? Peter doubted it. Dangerous would be how he’d dub it. His personal and professional lives were pitted against each other and about to detonate. When he caught the look of consternation on her face, he almost retracted his cruel words. But then, her brittle words smacked him in the solar plexus, a reminder he could lose all. He couldn’t afford going soft on her. His next move had to be right on target… too many others would be slammed if he didn’t coup the Chairmanship of the Medical Board.
A nerve battered his cheek with brutal force.
He thrived on the edge on a daily basis, but hadn’t thought he’d have to tread the high wire with Ellie too. He drew air into his lungs; it expanded and burst from his mouth in a violent sound. Had the sweet, loving girl he married been an illusion? Had they gotten to her? Would she topple his political plans?
He gulped down the bitter taste scarring his throat. He had to know.
“Will you be ready to leave in a few minutes?” He caught a speck of pain in her eyes, but she fluttered her lashes and it vanished. A trick of the light, he concluded.
Why put himself through this? Why not just send her packing now? Because he’d fought for everything he had in this life, including Ellie. And he didn’t like to lose. If he had to give her up, then he’d do it his way, by his rules and in his own time.
“Have you anything else to take than what you’re wearing?”
“No,” she murmured.
A deadly silence.
He took something from his pocket and his whole body seemed to go rigid, the muscles in his neck cording. “This belongs on your finger.” The gold band looped through a string of tiny beads nestled in his palm.
“I-I-I wore it around my neck.” She snatched it from him, wondering if he recognized the necklace he’d bought for her from a street vendor on their first date. Even when she was decked in diamonds for some glam event, she wore it always. “Tips were better if customers thought I was—”
“Single?”
She nodded.
“We won’t have that problem for the next three weeks, will we?”
Silent, she slipped the ring on her finger and dropped the necklace in her purse. Snapping it shut, she tapped the clasp with her forefinger.
Nervous? He doubted it. Most likely, thinking of her life post three-week interlude.
She glanced at the bouquet of roses lying on the bedside table. A heartbeat, a breath, then he took the spray and tossed it to her. She caught it against her heart, and his pulse galloped. When she brushed her lips across the petals, his temperature hiked, the girth of his sex mounting. He shifted to ease the ache, his lab coat hiding the evidence of his desire from her.
War raged inside him. He must be out of his mind. After the hell she put him through, he still wanted her, fantasized … But the way he figured it, he’d seduce her once more and break her spell over him. No longer bewitched by her. Afterward, he’d give her what she wanted—otherwise why ditch out on him, not once, not twice, but thrice?
If she wanted her freedom, he’d oblige. On his terms. His gut recoiled, but he ignored the warning. A muscle pounded his throat. She’d put him through hell on a grill. He was determined to score… on all counts.
“I-I’m ready to leave,” she said, making no move to do so.
Why didn’t she just walk out the door like she’d done three months ago? Because although Ellie Ross Medeci was making a bid for her independence, she was no fool. To be totally free, she had to know how she fared in this test of wills … in this last stand with her husband. Ensure she came out with enough ammo so he could never blackmail her again… how dare he attempt to use her father as a bargaining chip to get to her.
Brave words, Ellie, but it worked… for here you are.
“Bene,” Peter muttered, a tight line slashed across his mouth.
Her heart battled her mind. She must be feeling the effects of her head injury—she was treading dangerous ground to agree to live with him for three weeks. Knowing full well that one touch from him and she’d be lost. But the way she figured it, she’d prove to him that she didn’t need him. Emotionally, physically, or financially. She would not succumb to his sexual magnetism. Then, she’d give him what he wanted—otherwise, why mention the dreaded D word?
If he wanted his freedom, she’d go along with it. On her terms. Her pulse kicked back in protest, but she dismissed the warning. She studied him from beneath her lashes. He’d broken her heart. She’d walk away the winner.
Chapter 4 (#u69df24f8-7c08-5b3b-9a91-7143a0ecdd36)
Peter drove through the gates of his … their… home, steered the Mercedes along the driveway and pulled up at the front of the house. Rose bushes of every kind surrounded the imposing structure. Ellie pressed the bouquet against her heart, remembering waking up on sunny mornings to rose-scented breeze ruffling the sheer curtains in their bedroom. A wobbly breath and she smelled freshly mowed grass and honeysuckle, which meandered along the wrought-iron fence. It bordered several acres of land, including the gardener’s cottage in back.
“Welcome home, Signora Medeci.” Peter cast her a perfunctory glance, slid out, and walked around to the passenger door to open it for her.
Already half way out when he offered his hand to assist her, she ignored his chivalrous gesture and slammed the door behind her.
She could not touch him. If she did, it would be her downfall. Ice. That’s the only way she’d combat the sexual attraction sizzling at his nearness. “Er … thanks.”
She followed him up the veranda steps to the front door. He was a man who walked with confidence, who commanded respect because he had earned it. She could not deny him that. What she could deny him was herself, her heart. You’d be denying yourself, girl, the voice in her head reprimanded. Go away, she said. She refused to live in his shadow any longer. “I can find my own way.”
“Glad to hear you still remember the way.” He inserted the key in the lock, his words laced with sarcasm.
“I sure do.” She couldn’t help baiting him. “The way in and the way out.”
He caught her in the laser beam of his eyes. “You certainly do.”
“Ye-es,” she murmured, hugging the roses to her bosom.
She had to keep her distance; must not fall for his sex appeal. If she faltered in her resolve, she’d lose. She glanced at his taciturn features. Reaching him on another level now would be like trying to break through a brick wall. She’d already gotten one crack on the head from her earlier tumble. She wasn’t eager for another.
“This is where you belong.” He opened the door wide. “Not in that two-bit hole you’ve been living in.”
She spun to give him a tart response and clutched her head, her knees buckling. “Ooh-o-o.”
Peter scooped her up in his arms and the flowers fluttered to the floor. “Wrap your arms around my neck,” he said, tone firm. “I won’t bite.”
Ellie blinked at the bright spots bopping before her eyes and did as he asked, hair at his nape cushioning her fingers. High voltage zapped into her, scrambling her pulse. He smelled of soap and fresh air. It’d be so easy to burrow into his neck, nibble her way to his ear, and across his jaw to his mouth. Pretend this Arctic front between them was a bad dream. Peter strode across the threshold to the living room and broke the spell by plunking her down on the couch.
“I’ll get the luggage,” his said, his words curt.
“Whose?”
He chuckled. “That’s right. You left your things at your … er … place.”
“I have plenty more here.” She brushed a hand across her eyes, thankful that the dizziness was diminishing. “In the upstairs closet.”
He cast her a covert glance. “In our bedroom.”
“I’ll ask Marta to help move them to the guestroom,” she said.
Silence. Long, tense, and cold.
“No.”
“We made an agreement.”
“After your sudden departure, I gave the staff an extended vacation.” He walked to the circular bar in the corner. “Drink?” He glanced at her bandaged temple. “A soft beverage would be best.”
Ellie waved her hand, no.
“Marta comes by every couple of weeks to clean, cook, and stock the freezer.” He seized a bottle of sparkling water, twisted the cap off, saluted her, and took several gulps. “Jose keeps an eye on the lawns.” After contemplating the contents in the bottle, he took a last swig and set it on the counter. “I’ll move your things into the other room.”
“That means we’re alone.”
“That bother you?”
“Of course not.” But her heart bounced against her ribs.
“Make yourself at … er … home,” Peter said, a wry twist to his lips. “I won’t take long.” A steady gaze, then he turned and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
“Home.” The word feathered from her lips and she scooted off the sofa. Could this ever be her home? A grand house, yes. A home, she doubted it.
Yet, during her short stay here, she was glad Marta wouldn’t be taking over so completely she’d be shooed from the kitchen.
Ellie had played the lady of leisure far too long. Lazing away hours at the pool, strolling the property, shopping online, and cruising Rodeo Drive for the latest fashion trends. Gucci, Prada, Channel. She’d become a regular fashionista frequenting the gym, spa, beauty salon—manicurist, pedicurist, hairstylist, beautician. On ‘show’ with Peter at some medical event or other, she had to be on top form.
Outwardly she’d been a knockout, but inwardly she’d been a mess. The lavish pampering serviced her body, but not her soul. A sliver of fear pierced her. Twisting around, she glanced at the grounds through the window spanning one whole wall. Power walks around the estate and puttering in her miniature vegetable garden were more her style. Since it was February, she’d have to forego the latter, but she could certainly do the former, followed by a quick dip in the pool.
