by Sun Chara
Peter stood like an avenging angel at the shallow end, his gaze glued on her; at her words, tension seemed to have eased from his shoulders. Reluctantly, she swam toward him, each stroke bringing her closer to the inevitable clash between them.
Taciturn but ever vigilant, he paced her approach, tapping his foot on the tile to the rhythm of her crawl through the water. “Good girl.”
Huh! Good girl indeed. Doctor beware. She was about to morph into—
She jerked off beat halfway to him, frantically treading water and her thoughts disintegrated.
He narrowed his focus, alert.
She massaged her leg beneath the surface and stared straight at her husband, fear gripping her chest.
“Ellie?”
“Ah …” She went under, her words drowning in the depths.
“Ellie!”
She shot back up, arms floundering and splashing everywhere. “Pet-er!” Water sucked her under.
Before his next breath, Peter tore his shoes and socks from his feet, yanked his jeans off, ripped the shirt from his back, and dived into the water. His heartbeat seemed to detonate in his chest. If he lost her now … Dio mio, this wasn’t happening.
She fought to come up for air, but something restricted her attempts. Her hair splayed around her like a halo, her features surreal. A breath, and Peter grabbed her, hauling her above the water surface.
Ellie sucked in mouthfuls of air and fought him. “No! No!”
“Stop it, Ellie!” He treaded water like a madman. “I’ve got you.”
In her panic, she climbed all over him and pushed him below the surface. He shot back up and gulped for air. A critical moment and, God forgive him, he backhanded her across the face. That snapped her out of it and dazed, she touched her cheek. A second later, her features crumbled and her tears blended with the chlorinated water on her cheeks.
“I’m sorry, carina,” Peter held her tight against his chest and swam to the shallow end. “So, sorry.” He lifted her in his arms and, stepping from the pool, laid her on the tiled floor. He knelt beside her and checked her vital signs. “You okay?”
She coughed. “I-I-I think so.”
He snapped up the white towel from the lounger and wrapped it around her. “What happened?”
“M-my leg gave out.”
“Cramp?”
She nodded. He stroked her calf with his fingers, his gentle, yet firm, touch working magic.
“Seems a little tight.” He continued massaging the spot and heat from his fingertips penetrated her knotted muscle, easing the ache.
His ministrations affected other parts of her anatomy, and even in her distressed state, Ellie couldn’t ignore her breathless reaction.
“Feel better?”
“Ye-es.”
When she made to sit up, he scooped her up in his arms and strode into the house. He crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs, heedless of water streaming behind, staining the Persian carpet.
Peter marched along the upstairs hallway, hesitated for a second, and then opted for his bedroom.
“Please, no,” Ellie murmured in protest.
“Go easy, Mrs. Medeci,” he said, voice gruff. “No ulterior motive. Want to get you in top form before—”
“We get a divorce,” she finished for him.
He tightened his mouth and made no reply.
His silence cut her so deeply that a groan tore from her. She turned, evading his probing gaze and hoped he thought it a result of her injury. Pain of a different sort settled around her heart and, swallowing back tears, she chastised herself for embarking on this dangerous interlude with him. He could break her heart all over again. She stiffened in his arms. Time she went on the offensive against this man, her husband.
Chapter 6
“Leg give you trouble before?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
She nodded.
He placed her on the bed in a manner he’d use with any other patient. Impersonal. On their bed. Where they shared the most intimate moments between husband and wife. She squirmed at the memory, her heart aching.
She shut her eyes. He was so close; she’d seen the deep blue of his irises, the length of his lashes. She could reach out and touch him, smooth the crease above his brow, caress his cheek, rough with five o’clock shadow, outline his lips that had created such magic on her own. An agitated sound worked its way in her throat and she squashed it by squeezing the bedspread in her fists. The sensual feel of satin beneath her fingers was a tempting reminder of how she loved him. Anytime, anyplace and however he wanted it. Her body connected to his, her heart attuned to his, her soul aflame with his.
Shivers shook her. Mere inches from her, he might as well have been ten thousand miles away. She had better accept that these weeks were the last she’d share with her husband. She hardened her resolve; she’d not come out a casualty of a marriage ‘war’. With that thought to sustain her, Ellie opened her eyes and collided with his dark gaze.
“Ellie,” Peter whispered, his breath fanning her brow. A muscle ticked at his jaw and she reached up to smooth it, and then, checking the motion, let her hand drop by her side. She blinked, thinking she must’ve mistaken the raw hunger in his gaze. Her shocked nervous system must be playing tricks on her jittery emotions. She parted her lips to release pent-up air in her lungs, and he descended.
A warning clanged in her brain.
She should push him away, but it had been so long. He bent his head and a droplet from his still wet hair landed on her cheek and slid down to nestle on the corner of her mouth. She flicked her tongue out and licked it away. A guttural sound erupted from him, his mouth now a bare whisper from her own … his naked body, bar his briefs, that left nothing hidden, still moist from his dunk to fish her from the pool. She closed her eyes, anticipating the feel of his mouth on hers, his tongue sliding over hers, tasting—
You’ll be begging me. A tremor zipped through her and her eyes shot open wide. She placed her hand flat on the center of his chest. “Go away.”
Stunned for a heartbeat, he still held onto her, his words icing her flesh. “Sure thing, principessa.” He drew in a sharp breath, his face a mask of contradicting emotions—bewilderment, hurt, desire, confusion, and anger. But he let her go so fast she slumped back against the pillows, the imprint of his hands branding her bare shoulders. He hauled himself off her, cast a last cursory glance over her and stalked to the adjoining bathroom. “I have some salve to ease the pain of your leg.”
But would do nothing for her heart. “You struck me.”
“What the—” He paused in stride, turned to face her, and his gut kicked. The flimsy bikini she wore defined her every curve, the swell of her breasts, her nipples straining against the wet cloth. His narrowed focus drifted to her midriff, tripped over her navel and zoned in at the triangular shadow between her thighs.
A growl built in his throat. He made to turn away, but his gaze ricocheted to the curve of her leg, over the high arch of her foot to her scarlet-tipped toes. The rough sound inside him built momentum … sexual reaction had every muscle in his body tense, he was hard as iron … a step or two and he could be sliding inside her, her slick softness like heaven … moving … plunging into her … fondling her … smothering her pleasured moans with his mouth … about to explode inside her—
The growl blasted from him in a grunt, defusing the sexual pressure inside him and hurling him headlong into harsh reality. He dreamed of a forever with her and had tried his damnest to give her everything. But she’d tossed it back in his face. It hadn’t been enough for her.
Could he have been so wrong about her? Had she hooked him to bankroll her parents out of poverty? Was she playing coy, with her running away, to see how much more she could get out of him? And yet, she’d never asked him for anything; he’d helped her family of his own free will. Could that have been her subterfuge?
Doubts plagued his mind. Totally unacceptable to him, a man of hardened confidence, a
man in charge. Definitely, he’d have to get the lady to confess, and soon. A sly curl to his lip. And he had the means to do it.
He brushed his fist across his mouth, smothering a near snort of a laugh. It had been a mirage … an illusion that shattered, but he still wanted her. He was a fool. If he didn’t take control of his passion, it would destroy him and all he worked, no, slaved, to build … for her … for them. Sweat dampened his chest and he clamped his teeth against the rip in his gut. After five years, it was coming to an end. A cold death-like end. Time he accepted it, but not before he had one more time with her.
“I slapped you” —his eyes drilled into hers— “because you would’ve drowned us both.”
“You had no right—”
“I had every right if it meant saving your life … and mine.”
She closed her eyes and a tear oozed between her lashes. He took a step closer, wanting to kiss it off her cheek… brush the curls plastered across the bandage at her temple. An abrupt halt. Would he ever learn? If he touched her now, it’d be the end of him, and that’s not how he planned it.
She’d ask, he’d take, and then discard. His jaw turned granite. She had to ask him. And he’d make sure she did.
He gulped down bitter taste, blistering his throat and souring his belly. He was behaving like a stranger to himself and to her and that was the biggest illusion of all, for the more he resisted, the more his body craved, his sex hard and ready for her. He inhaled a rush of oxygen. He’d wait it out. Have her where he wanted … under him, on her knees, begging him—
Abruptly, he strode into the bathroom, his usually generous heart turning cold with his savage thoughts. He shoved his emotions aside, put them under lock and tossed away the key. The impersonal Doc was who he’d become. An act he perfected over the years when dealing with the most difficult patients and the medical politicians who poked around for any dirt to oust him. On their top ten most-wanted list for no other reason than him bucking the system, Peter, in making a surprise bid for the Chair, was betting to beat them at their own game.
Yes, definitely, he could carry out the ruse with his … er … wife.
Peter marched across the room back to her side. “Here.” He tossed the jar of salve into her hands. “Smooth some of this on your leg. It’ll soothe the strained ligaments.” Noting dampness on her cheeks, he set his mouth in a hard line. “Tears are a reaction from shock.”
Ellie nodded, accepting his prognosis and twisted the lid. The stubborn thing wouldn’t open.
“Oh, give it here.” Peter grabbed it from her and wrenched it open. A pause, then he dipped his fingers in the gook and smoothed it on the back of her leg. High voltage charged into him, his intake of breath a sharp sound. He exhaled between his teeth and ignoring the fever escalating between them, massaged the ointment on her skin.
Ellie closed her eyes for a heart-stopping moment. Then, she lifted her lashes and placed her hand over his. “I can do it, thanks.”
He shrugged and, stepping back, slumped onto the chair by the dresser, allowing residue salve on his fingers to air-dry. Through his half-slitted eyes he watched her take over where he left off, the circular motion of her fingers upon her flesh, mesmerizing. He swallowed the acrid taste in his mouth. Seemed she couldn’t stand to have him touch her, even in a professional way. He smirked. Who was he kidding? Her heat infused him with cataclysmic awareness. Touching her could never be anything but personal … intimate … potent. He shook his head. Snap out of it, Doc.
“Have you ever had an injury to that leg?”
“No.” Her hand stilled over the muscle. “Yes. I mean it was so long ago, I almost forgot.”
“What?”
“This is the leg th-the dog bit.”
“That could explain it,” he said.
“What?”
“Thinking King attacked you brought it all back in your psyche.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“The cramp could’ve been psychosomatic.”
“Psycho—what? She smoothed more lotion over her leg.
“A past trauma aggravating your emotions when you’re confronted with a similar situation.”
“I’m a grown up girl, dottore,” she chuckled. “Please save your psychoanalysis for your other patients.”
He steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them, his gaze shadowed. “And are you?”
“What?”
“A grown-up girl.”
“Ye—” She stilled her fingers over the slippery gook on her leg and glanced up, colliding with the intensity of his eyes. “What are you getting at, Peter?”
He eased himself from the chair, his hot gaze gliding over her, his meaning unmistakable. “When you’re ready to play grown-up games, you be sure to let me know, mmm?”
“Get out!” He goaded her to boiling point and had her writhing in mortification—she’d been within a hair of taking him up on his offer.
A disaster that, indeed. She couldn’t fall into the temptation and walk away from him as she planned. Fury overrode the sexual catalyst and she imagined all sorts of scenarios where she cracked the whip and he came crawling to her… Stop! None of it was true, except the part where she wanted to clobber him and love him at the same time.
But, she had a plan to teach him a lesson didn’t she?
“Sure thing, wife.” He sauntered to the door.
“Don’t call me that.”
Her blatant denial lacerated his insides and he paused in stride for a millisecond. But you are that, Singora Medeci. And you will play the part to the very meaning of the word. He stalked out.
Chapter 7
Peter shoved his arms through a t-shirt and plodded down the stairs, a harsh sound ejecting from his chest at the irony of it all.
At nine years of age, he’d begun clawing his way up from the streets of Little Italy in New York. He managed his newspaper route in the early hours of dawn before going to class. After school, he delivered groceries, and in the evening bussed tables. It had been grueling for a young boy and although he’d been tempted with making a fast buck, he turned it down. Must have been his Christian upbringing—something about honest work and his word being good. After helping with household expenses, he saved any remaining pennies for his future studies in medicine. That, and an academic scholarship, had given him the chance to escape a hand-to-mouth existence.
His profession and his strategic global investments had paid off. A self-made millionaire, he’d become a haven for some and a target for others. He curled his lip in distaste. Which one was he to Ellie now? The answer eluded him.
In three long strides he reached the closet in the foyer and grabbed his leather jacket off the hook. Shoving his arms through the sleeves, he marched to the front door and yanked it open. He stepped outside and slammed it shut, the sound reverberating with finality behind him.
Peter stood on the veranda and breathed deeply the fresh, damp air of twilight. Scent of roses reminded him of her … her perfume. Wound up like a spring ready to snap he leaped the three steps to the concrete walkway. Air hurled from his lungs. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and glanced up at clouds matching his mood. Hunching his shoulders against the nip in the air, he stomped to the back of the house and to his only friend.
“Hey, King.” Peter got down on his haunches. “Come ’ere, boy.”
The Doberman barked his greeting.
“You’re about the only one who loves me, big pup.” Peter ruffled his ears and the animal pawed his chest, slurping at his face.
Peter chuckled and the dog dropped his paws to the grass, looking up at him with soulful eyes. “Thanks,” Peter murmured, wondering if the canine’s woebegone expression was a reflection of his own. “What’s it all been for, mmm?” He grabbed the leash from inside the doghouse and, stroking the animal’s neck, he hooked the leather strap on his collar. “The blood, sweat, and guts?”
While he’d slaved away to reach the summit of his medical career, Ellie
lazed her days away like a pampered princess … his principessa. He guffawed. Except, she ditched him and fled the ‘castle’. His facial muscles tightened—seemed she no longer wanted him. A growl shot from him and King barked. “It’s okay, boy,” he said, patting the dog’s head. Except, of course, it wasn’t.
Turning up his collar against a sudden gust of wind, Peter walked the dog around the grounds and carried on a one-sided conversation. “Didn’t it matter to her that I worked so hard?” The dog gave him a sympathetic woof. “Didn’t she care?”
If he stopped working at this break-neck speed, he feared he might backslide into failure. Need. Hunger. And he could never allow that. Scars of poverty had embedded themselves in his psyche and he was driven to succeed at any cost. Including the cost of your marriage to Ellie? The thought whipped through his mind, but he shut it up. Too many people depended on him. His patients, his family, and he thought Ellie. But, it seemed she didn’t want what he had to offer.
“What am I missing here, King?” He stroked the dog’s glossy coat with his hand and the animal brushed against his jean-clad leg. If he gave in to her demands to become a more regular stay-at-home guy, he’d never be able to retain his position at the top.
Resentment would rear its ugly head, gnawing at his gut. He’d be torn between his wife and the need to excel beyond the norm. And what would it do to her? Turn her into a bitter shrew?
Peter shoved a hand through his wind-tossed hair and sighed. He was at a crossroads. In less than three weeks, he had to make a life-altering decision. His pulse jogged. He might be forced to choose between his profession and his wife … something he couldn’t fathom at this moment.
King jerked the leash and, sniffing the grass at the base of an oak tree, distracted Peter from his musings.
“Come on, boy.” Peter unhooked the strap from the animal’s collar. “I’ll race you to the fence.”
After a couple of laps, Peter settled the animal in for the night and trudged back to the house to the encouraging sound of barking.