Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa. Sun Chara

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      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.

      “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. СКАЧАТЬ