Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa

by Sun Chara

  “Senora Medeci, hurry!” Marta waved her hands about, motioning her to come inside.

  “What’s wrong?” Ellie asked. “Is it your sister again?”

  The housekeeper shook her head, speed-waddling to the living room. “My sister and her husband, okay.” A glimmer of a grin on her mouth. “No problema. I fix.”

  “Good to hear.”

  Marta’s grin vanished. “I just come in and hear news.”

  Ellie turned to the television. Breath jammed in her throat, her heart seeming to stop before going full throttle. Peter’s mugshot was splashed across the screen amidst a media frenzy in front of St. Joseph’s Hospital.

  In a daze, she heard the newscaster report, “Dr. Peter Medeci, better known as ‘the renegade Doc’ in medical circles, could have written his own prescription for a quick demise.” A snicker. “He’s pushed his luck by administering treatment to a family member. Although not a direct violation of the Code of Medical Ethics, it is considered a major faux pas that could land him in front of the firing squad. Disciplinary measures could tarnish his stellar reputation, cost him his coup d’etat as Chairman of the Medical Board and suspend his medical license.”

  Ellie gripped the back of the couch, her other hand flying to her temple. She did a quick calculation. When she’d been admitted to the emergency for treatment after her fall, Peter had relinquished her to another doctor. She frowned. Surely that couldn’t be what this was about. Another image flashed through her mind and made fine hair stand on end all over her body.

  “… a new development in the story,” the newscaster’s voice filtered to her. “Stay tuned, we’ll fill you in after the commercial.”

  Ellie swayed. “Oh no!” The knowingness of what she suspected rammed her in the stomach and she nearly doubled over.

  “Tea?” Marta asked, wringing her hands on her apron.

  Ellie shook her head, chills frosting her flesh. Dear God, what had she done? “I have to go to him.”

  “Que?”

  “I have to get to the hospital.”

  *

  After battling the nightmarish rush-hour traffic on the Golden State Freeway in Los Angeles, Jose swerved in front of the hospital, the limo’s wheels squealing.

  Ellie leaped out and shoved her way through the throng of media hecklers, questions flying at her from every which way. A sliver of panic pierced her, but she squashed it. Her role as the doctor’s wife for the past five years held her in good stead. Ignoring their relentless interrogation, she ran up the steps and into the hospital lobby.

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Compared to the frenzy outside, the lobby was quiet. She made a beeline for Peter’s office, but it was closed. She rushed back to the front desk. “Joey Ross’ room, please.”

  “Are you a relation?” the receptionist asked.

  “Yes,” Ellie nearly screamed the word.

  “No one by that name.” The woman glanced up from her computer monitor.

  “Are you sure?” Ellie gulped down trepidation. “Joseph Ross.”

  The receptionist hit the keyboard and squinted at the screen. “There’s a Joseph Rods in Room 203.”

  “Tha-ank you.” Ellie dashed down the corridor to the elevator, perspiration beading her upper lip.

  Moments later, she skidded to a halt outside Room 203 and tried to catch her breath. Soft music drifted to her from inside. She licked her lips and walked in.

  “Ellie, darling,” her mother said, her voice trembling. “We just got in and were about to call you.”

  “Our plane got snowed at Kennedy International Airport.” Her father stepped away from the bed to give her a hug, his words gruff. “Telephone lines down. A real mess.” He brushed a hand across his eyes, visibly moved. “That husband of yours took care of it, though.”

  A tremor zapped through Ellie. Her little brother was half-hidden beneath the sheets, his head swathed in bandages. A CD player on the window ledge cooed a soothing melody. “Why didn’t you tell me he was at the ball camp in San Francisco?”

  “He wanted to surprise you—” her mother murmured, her voice breaking.

  “How is he?” The words scraped her throat. “Where’s Peter?”

  “Joey’s got a tough noggin.” Her father tapped his own head with his knuckles, but the crack in his voice was unmistakable. “Peter went to make a statement and put a lid on that racket out there.”

  Ellie propped her hip on the bed. “Hey, slugger.” Bending closer, she placed a kiss on her little brother’s pale cheek.

  “Uncle Peter promised to come back,” Joey whispered, his words wobbled from the sedative.

  “I’ll go find him.” Emotion lodged in her throat as she watched him close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

  Ellie stepped outside the room and leaned her head back against the wall, swiping at a tear slipping beneath her lashes.

  How could she have been so naïve as to think she and Peter could live an ordinary life? It could never be just about them. It was bigger than the both of them. His profession, his research, his political aspirations, and, most of all, his patients. She choked back a sob. Peter’s skill had saved her little brother.

  “You dolt!” she chastised herself.

  Peter had driven himself at a ruthless pace to be at the top of his game, to make a difference in people’s lives. One of those people had turned out to be Joey. The other was her … providing for her, ensuring she didn’t want for anything. She sucked in several shaky breaths and hurried along the corridor to the lift. Even when he stumbled through the front door of their home, too tired to talk, too tired to eat, he was never too tired to hold her, love her.

  The elevator opened on the main floor and Ellie stepped out, hurrying down the hallway. She stopped in front of his office door, Peter Medeci, M.D., Neurosurgery. Her heart thumped. She swiped her damp palms on her coat, brushed a stray hair off her brow and knocked.

  “Come in,” Peter’s gruff voice sounded from within, and her pulse leaped.

  She pushed the door open and allowed it to click behind her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Ellie.” He glanced up from writing in a file, the deep grooves on his face reflecting the extreme stress he’d been under. “I didn’t know.”

  “How could you not know?” She took several more steps that brought her to the edge of his desk.

  “His head was bandaged,” he said, a muscle boxing his jaw. “I didn’t recognize him.” He slapped his hands on the desk with such force, the pen between his fingers flew across the room and made Ellie jump. Hauling himself from the chair, he turned to contemplate the Los Angeles skyline through the wide expanse of glass making up one whole wall.

  “Explain.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from quivering.

  “After five years, a three-year-old becomes virtually a stranger.”

  “Especially when you don’t see him during that time.”

  “Yeah.”

  A tense moment assaulted the air between them.

  “There was a typo,” Peter bit out. “Rods instead of Ross on his admittance form.” He turned to confront her, every muscle in his body seeming to stiffen. “I was the only neuro on duty, had to move fast, make a decision—”

  “Shh.” She shoved down a whimper.

  For a smart woman, who didn’t feel too savvy right now, she’d almost made the biggest blooper of her life. Her husband was in a class by himself. She should have understood him better; his arduous work schedule, pressure of his chosen profession, his dedication.

  She could hardly breathe. She knew that without Peter, her own dream would be insignificant.

  “How-w is he?” she asked, to cover the revealing moment.

  “Stable,” he said. “He’s already bidding to play the championship game.”

  “Takes after his uncle.” A wobbly smile. “I heard the newscast—”

  “Hot air and pipe steam.” Peter strode around the wide girth of glossy mahogany, grabbed her by the
shoulders, and stared her straight in the eye. “I was ethically bound to administer treatment.” He flicked a curl on her shoulder with his index finger. “Everything’s documented, your parents have signed an affidavit, and I’ll be transferring Joey to another physician as soon as it’s practical.”

  “Someone leaked the story to the press,” she murmured.

  “I suspect the former Chair and his lackies,” he muttered. “A high-profile case, a hint of impropriety and the media goes nuts.”

  “A wife working the clubs during this crucial election would’ve played right into their hands, further assassinating your character.” She shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn’t found her in time.

  “They got nothing. Niente,” he bit out. “Louie was willing to part with the photos for a hefty sum.”

  She gasped. “There were photos?

  He nodded, his gaze fixed on her face.

  “Of me?”

  He hedged.

  “What?” A shiver shot up her spine. She remembered Louie’s ‘publicity’ shots, then a camera flashing when she’d taken King for a walk, and later, the uncanny feeling that someone was stalking her while she was shopping. “Bad?”

  “The high-tech revolution and digital cams make it easy to alter, tamper—”

  “No!” She groaned.

  “I got ’em before he cut a deal with the mole who was ready to dish them to the Trades.”

  “I-I-I was the decoy?”

  “Yeah.” He steeled his jaw. “They were going to get to me by flashing you in compromising poses on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Days prior to the election, it would’ve annihilated me and—”

  “Me.” Her knees buckled, and Peter tightened his grip on her arms. She gulped down bile rising in her throat. He’d been trying to protect her … them, and she thought—

  “You won the Chair.”

  He nodded.

  “When?”

  “Final count came in yesterday.” A grin skimmed his mouth, then disappeared.

  “Congrats.” Yesterday, she had skipped out on him when they should’ve been celebrating, yet he’d made time to come find her again. Remorse grazed her heart. “And your license?”

  “Intact.” Noting her pale features, Peter wondered if their marriage would be intact come tomorrow.

  “You couldn’t afford to lose.” She turned her head and a wave of golden-brown curls fell over her face, camouflaging her features. “You have too much at stake.”

  “That’s right.” He almost scowled. Where had her sparkle, her laughter gone? He couldn’t blame it all on today’s events.

  A moment, and the sledgehammer found its mark, sending his heart ramming against his ribs. Was he any better than Louie and his cronies? Yes, he saved lives. He couldn’t do otherwise. But he also promised to cherish Ellie above all others; yet could his relentless ambition to succeed—career, goals, money, power have been destroying her emotionally and psychologically? He was dumbfounded at the possibility.

  On a 24/7/365 work schedule, he’d been alienating her from his life without realizing it. You buffoon! She’d been trying to communicate to him that his preoccupation with his profession was eroding their marriage, and he thought—

  He broke out in a sweat. In just a few hours she could be gone from his life. Without Ellie, his success was meaningless.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he placed his chin on the crown of her head and heaved a deep breath. A double whammy, Doc. He exhaled in force. Not recognizing the ‘miracle boy’ as his eight-year-old brother-in-law had also knocked him for a loop. Regret ripped through him. He should’ve given more attention to his family … to Ellie.

  For a brilliant man, who racked his brains to find a solution to problems in his marriage, he’d almost blown it sky-high. A growl built in his throat. Physician, heal thyself.

  “Peter, thank you for saving Joey’s life,” Ellie murmured, stroking the breast pocket of his lab coat.

  “It’s my job.”

  “I know.” She fiddled with the bead necklace at her throat that Peter had given her so long ago; she’d always worn it—a reminder of their life before it had gotten so complicated. “But if you’d come for dinner, if you weren’t so dedicated, if you weren’t still at the hospital that night—”

  “But I was, Ellie.” He brushed her chin with his knuckles. “I could say the same thing.”

  “What d’ you mean?” She nipped her lip with her teeth.

  He focused on her mouth. A beat and, “If you hadn’t stood by me, if you hadn’t left the club, if you hadn’t agreed to play the good doctor’s wife in the nick of time—”

  “But I did.” Ellie linked her arms around his neck and held on to him tightly. He felt good, strong … sexy.

  “Exactly,” he said, his words nearly drowned out by nature’s fury ravaging the land.

  Ellie gazed out the window at the freak storm pummeling Los Angeles. What had been a drizzle, turned into a full-fledged downpour, lashing against the window like an overdue wake-up call. Even the southern California sunshine couldn’t be taken for granted.

  In a world where everyone searched for ‘the one’, she and Peter had found each other. A miracle in itself. She blinked moisture stinging her eyes. Precisely why their bedroom play was like a drug, a love potion flowing from her heart into his. A true love. A divine gift.

  “Question is …” Peter mocked a cough.

  Her attention on alert.

  “Are you still willing to stand by your man?”

  She slanted him a flirty gaze. “Mmm, for a sampling of your infamous pasta-nasta dish, I could stay in your corner.”

  He tossed his head back and laughed.

  But she wasn’t done. “Aaand you know what they say?”

  He hiked a jet-black brow.

  “Beside every successful man stands a woman.”

  He grinned. “I bet that could work the other way too.”

  She squinted at him. “Hmm.”

  “We had a deal, remember?”

  “Yes, but that’s over—”

  He glanced at the Omega watch on his wrist. “In precisely fourteen hours.”

  “And?” So he was keeping count.

  “I’m giving you what you want.”

  He wouldn’t be so cruel as to bring up divorce at such a time. At least he could wait a few days, after the shock of today’s events had worn off.

  “What’s that?” she ventured to ask.

  “A victory celebration.”

  Her heart lurched.

  “In the style of a political rally.”

  Her pulse picked up tempo. “Your supporters will be expecting it.”

  Tongue in cheek. “The Blue Room sounds like the perfect platform.”

  She chuckled and then the sound froze on her lips.

  “Under new ownership” —he paused for effect— “it should be … uh … a hip place.”

  She gaped at him.

  “A talented, sexy chanteuse to belt out a couple of numbers,” he said, his gaze fixed on hers, “would pull in the crowds.”

  “A one-night gig?”

  “Might develop into som’m more.”

  “Won’t your constituents turn up their noses?”

  An ambulance siren pierced through the elements outside and their banter inside, yet affected neither.

  “This is the twenty-first century and medical science is advancing by quantum leaps.” Peter brushed his chin with the back of his hand, and his mouth lifted at the corner. “Time to shake up the … uh … what did you call them?”

  “Fuddy-duddies.”

  “Oh, yeah, time to shake the fuddy-duddies from their” —he shot her a look full of meaning— “complacency.”

  “Sure thing, Doc.” She gave him a wide, innocent look, trying to hold back a giggle. She didn’t make it.

  Peter feigned a frown. “Research data indicates music has healing qualities … activates neurons … endorphins in the brain �
�� feel good … speeds healing.” He grinned. “A cap version of findings.”

  “An experiment, then?”

  He shrugged. “The outcome is certain.”

  She pretended to study her fingernails and then she glanced up and fell into his gaze. Her breath snagged in her throat. “That’s only half of what I want.”

  It was his turn to gape.

  “You, my sexy Italian, are what I want most.”

  He slapped his head in mock surprise. “Yes, well, to get me lady, you gotta give me more’n those slam-bam-thank-you-buster nights.” He smiled.

  “I’ll see what I can do about squeezing you between my singing gigs.”

  He was about to object, when the intercom sounded. “Dr. Medeci to the front desk.”

  He groaned.

  On tiptoe, Ellie gave him a quick kiss, adjusted the stethoscope around his neck, and shooed him out. “Duty calls, dottore.”

  He strode to the door. “We’ll discuss the details tonight.”

  “Do they include family and all that jazz?”

  “They do … and the global clinic—” but by then he’d slipped out the door.

  She stared after him aghast. There was no stopping him. She curved her lips in a cheeky smile. But then, she knew he was no ordinary man … she had indeed married her Prince Charming.

  The door opened a crack and he poked his head back inside. “Two a.m. work for you?”

  “We’ll make it work, my love.” She blinked the sheen from her eyes, the rest of her words a silent tempo in her head— ‘I’m still All Wrapped Up in You.’

  “You got a deal, principessa.” He winked and the door swung behind him.

  Out in the corridor, Dr. Peter Medeci heard Ellie humming and paused mid-stride. He blinked moistness from his eyes, the melody wrapping around his heart like a promise. He knew then, he had indeed gotten his own miracle.

  Also by Sun Chara

  Greek Millionaire, Unruly Wife

  Manhattan Millionaire’s Cinderella

  All Wrapped UP

  About the Author

  Sun Chara, a multi-published, JABBIC winner for Manhattan Millionaire’s Cinderella, writes sexy, hip ‘n fun contemporary romance, high adventure historical romance, and any genre that knocks at her imagination. Globetrotting for lore while keeping tabs on Hollywood leads, she loves the challenge of creating stories for book and screen. Designer frappuccinos with whipping cream and sprinkles on top make everyday a celebration!