by Sun Chara
She drew the lapels of her brown coat under her chin, her eyes following the crack in the wall from the stove to the stained sink and to the refrigerator. Shifting, her gaze settled on the frayed sofa that doubled as her bed; the blotchy dandelion hue matched the carpet. What a color scheme, she mused, the tight line across her mouth twitching, but not quite making it to a smile. The nearby table held her one luxury. A cell phone. Cherry red.
She glanced outside at shops still decorated with cupids and hearts, and her eyes filled with tears. Heaving a tremulous breath, she blinked them away, and her thoughts drifted back to her former life. It had included a luxurious Beverly Hills estate, a beachfront penthouse on the Italian Riviera, chauffeur-driven limos, servants… gowns, jewelry… money… and a husband who was virtually a stranger. Pain and disillusionment mocked her; yet, beneath it all another feeling persisted.
She bit her lip, knowing she couldn’t give into it. If she returned to him now, without anything resolved between them, it’d be business as usual with the sexy doctor.
With determined effort, Ellie severed her thoughts from the past and glanced in the mirror behind the door. She combed her fingers through her hair, scooped it up, and tucked it beneath a wool cap. Pinching her cheeks to add color, she took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. At that moment, the doorbell rang and made her jump. She pulled the door open and her vitals went into overdrive.
“Go away.” She forced the words between her stiff lips.
“No.”
“What do you want?” She twisted the purse strap around her fingers.
“Answers.”
Peter towered above her, his six-foot frame hidden beneath an Armani overcoat, his hair damp from rain. She wanted to run to him, yet she’d run away from him, three times. Not proud of it. But she’d been desperate to crack through his professional veneer, willing him to see her and not what she represented – a necessity for his next promotion.
“I-I have nothing more to say to you.” She squeezed the doorknob, its metal ridges pressing into her palm.
He took a step closer.
She nudged the door closed, but he blocked it with his shoulder.
“Nonsense, Ellie.” Flecks in his eyes turned coal black and he stepped inside, booting the door shut with his heel. “I deserve an explanation. Demand it.”
“Explanation?” She moved two paces back and a sound, almost a snort, burst from her mouth. “You mean, like in talk?”
A perplexed look skimmed across his face.
“You never listened. Or weren’t there. Or it wasn’t the right time. Too tired. And most often you just wanted to … uh …”
“Yes?”
A blush warmed her cheeks.
“And was that so bad?” He brushed the color on her cheek with his knuckles. “To love you?” His words were so gentle that she almost crumbled in her resolve.
“No … yes … I mean no, but—”
Peter flicked his eyes across her agitated breasts, then lower, pausing at the apex of her thighs. A tense beat, and he glanced back up, clashing with her mutinous face.
“Don’t provoke me, Peter.” She yanked the hat lower over her ears.
“What’s the matter?” He stepped closer, and she smelled the damp wool of his coat. His rain-fresh scent was intoxicating … putting her senses on full alert. “Afraid you might still feel something for me?”
She snapped out of the sexual trance. “The only thing I feel for you i-is indifference.” Not true, the voice in her head jabbed. Be quiet!
He blanched, his proud features more pronounced. “I could prove otherwise.” His warm breath teased the curls springing loose from the confines of her hat and sensitized her skin with awareness.
“Why are you here, Peter?” She walked backward until her legs bumped the sofa. “Besides trying to force yourself upon me.”
A loaded moment, and she glimpsed something in his eyes… pain?
She doubted if he could feel anything but arrogance. Nevertheless, she knew her words weren’t quite fair.
“I have never forced—”
“I know.” She sighed, glancing down at her scruffy boots. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and his wedding ring glinted in the dim light. The motion mesmerized her. She remembered holding his hand, feeling his strength, kissing, tasting, wanted to … no!
“How’d you find me at the club?” she blurted.
His eyes glittered with purpose, his cheekbones prominent. “A friend tipped me off—”
“A spy.”
“Hardly that, Ellie.” An unbidden smile tugged at his lips. “A patron at the club—”
“I was fired this morning.”
“Oh?” He flicked a speck of imaginary lint off his sleeve. “Rather sudden, wasn’t it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Yes, it was.” She bet he had something to do with it. Her throat constricted. He had everything to do with it.
“You can’t want to stay in this place.”
“Why not?”
He raised a thick eyebrow.
“Not up to your level?”
“No,” he growled. “Nor yours.”
She laughed and the brittle sound bounced off grease-spattered walls. “Peter, you don’t know that.”
He brushed her shoulder. “Have you changed so quickly?”
“No.” She closed her hands tight. “It took me five years.”
During which time her life had revolved around a series of society events, elaborate luncheons, and schmoozing parties. Whenever Peter showed her off for the cameras, she wondered if he wanted her or the image of ‘the good doctor’s wife’. An appearance that was necessary for building his image as the successful neurosurgeon at the top of his game on the home front and on a global scale.
“Explain that ridiculous remark.” He shuttered his eyes, sizing her up.
“Never mind.” She sank on the sofa, before her legs buckled beneath her, and folded her hands in her lap.
“I do mind, Ellie.”
“Why?”
“This is a dump,” he bit out. “No wife of mine’s going to be seen—”
“I knew it.” She leaped to her feet. “You’re more concerned about what other people think than what I think. Feel. Want.”
“Not true.”
“How’s that?”
“Would I be here, otherwise?”
“Yes.” She shot him a sharp gaze. “If it served your agenda.”
His eyes darkened, reminding her of a raging bull. “What’s my agenda, Ellie?”
“To reach the top at any cost.”
“Because?”
“We-ell … uh … uh …” She blinked, at a loss for words.
“Not sure?”
Had she misjudged him?
“Did it ever occur to you that I work hard to provide a good home for you, us?”
“A showplace—”
“So you can have everything you want—”
“Despise.”
“Do you?”
“Ye-es.”
Peter slitted his focus and camouflaged the inferno inside him. Her words were barbs in his flesh, but her body heat, hinting of roses, wrapped around him like a caress. He’d tasted her, had her, and would again. His groin tightened, breath billowed in his chest, and his heart thudded. He was losing the fight of his life, with the most important person in his life.
His wife.
He sensed it in his gut and something seemed to die inside him. Anger flared through him and eclipsed the ache scraping him raw.
“Then there’s nothing more to say, except—” He bridged the gap between them in one stride, his legs brushing her thighs, “—this.” He hauled her hard against his chest, his gaze connecting with hers for a timeless second, and then, he imprisoned her mouth with his.
Ellie wriggled in his embrace, but his lips were a sensual delight, evoking a response from her. As always. When his tongue slid into
her mouth, awakening every cell, she curved into his embrace, and kissed him back full force. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck and her purse swung out, knocking the telephone off the table.
The sound penetrated their heat and she pulled away. “N-o-o, please.”
“You could’ve fooled me.” His words heavy, his breath fanning her mouth. But he let her go.
“That’s all I am to you.” She stumbled back a step and grabbed onto the sofa. “Someone to warm your bed and satisfy your basic needs.”
“If that’s all you were,” he muttered, swallowing deep puffs of air, “I wouldn’t have married you.”
“Why did you?” Her words were so soft; he had to strain to hear.
“You need to ask?” He met and held her gaze for the longest moment. When she didn’t answer, he walked to the window and propped his hip against the ledge. “Ellie, you can’t mean to live here. You have no money, no job—”
“You made sure of that.”
He scrubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. A man in his position had connections. He used them. He refused to feel guilty. He wanted what was best for her. And for yours truly, the taunt stabbed. He dismissed it. Working in that seedy nightclub was not for this woman, who’d taken his name and became a part of his soul. Every muscle of his torso tightened. She behaved like he was the enemy. “You have no prospects.”
She started to laugh. A soft sound at first, then it grew to a high pitch.
“What’s the matter?” He made to grab her, changed his mind, and stuffed his hands in his coat pockets.
She swallowed and the sound muted. “Nothing. “Everyth—”
“Then, come home.”
“I have no home, Peter.”
“No?”
She remained silent.
He winced.
The sound of their breathing compounded the awkward moment.
He reached out to touch her hair, and then checked the motion. “Accept the credit cards – to pay rent, food—”
“No,” she fired back. “I want nothing from you. I want to be free.”
A lacerated sound burst from his mouth. He’d grown up in a household of near-starving kids while his mother sewed into the early hours of the morning, then cleaned houses to help feed and clothe them. To keep a roof over their heads, his father, an immigrant, speaking broken English, worked in kitchens with soap suds to his elbows while the affluent in society dined out.
Peter had cringed with embarrassment every time someone mispronounced his name and wished he could fit in better. Of course, he never had. So, from an early age, he hit the streets of Little Italy in New York, vowing to opt out of that life, make something of himself, help his family have a better life, and aid others in need. Never having to go to sleep clutching his growling stomach. Never to feel the stigma of being a foreigner and wearing hand-me-downs from well-meaning neighbors. Never to have others look at him with pity because of his background or the sound of his name.
“You think living like a pauper is going to make you free?” he said, his words a growl.
“Of you,” she fired back, her words a stake in his heart.
He nearly doubled over. “Think again, hard.”
She dropped down on the sofa and adjusted the cap over her ears.
“Don’t glamorize poverty,” he said, his tone curt. “You don’t want to do poor, Ellie.”
“I’d rather be poor and free, than like… like Rapunzel in her tower.”
“Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Ye-es,” she said, her eyes sparking fire. “I’d rather be poor and happy than—”
“And how many poor happy people do you know?” he asked, his words cynical.
“I haven’t counted—”
He guffawed, a dry, humorless sound, and eclipsed her flip retort.
“Money, power, and prestige are the only things that matter to you,” she said, tone resigned.
“Where did you get that idea?”
“From what you’ve done.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve put your profession before our marriage a-and everything.”
“And that makes me a bad guy?”
“I don’t know.” She crinkled her forehead. “I thought—”
“You thought wrong.” He paced the floor twice. “There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, amore mia.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged.
She frisked him with her eyes. “You’re a real smooth operator.” A smile teased the corner of her mouth, and she nipped it away with her teeth. “Didn’t mean it to come out a pun.”
He cocked his head, debated, and then simply said, “You could be mistaken in your assessment.”
His childhood hadn’t seemed to matter, so he hadn’t told her. Later, he’d gotten buried in work and when he surfaced, he wanted to hold her, love her. Apparently, that hadn’t been enough for her.
He rubbed the back of his neck and refrained from confiding in her, still. Maybe he wanted her to take him at face value. Wanted her to think more of him than the shallow, controlling bastard she coined him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“No?”
“No, yes.” She avoided meeting his searching gaze. “I don’t know.”
He was silent for a long moment, and then nodded. “How will you live? What will you do?”
“I’ll sing for my supper,” she tossed back.
“Parading yourself before—”
She leaped up, but he grabbed her arm before she found her mark. Her gaze collided with his midnight-blues. Her chest heaved. His nostrils flared. The silent war waged between them, then she twisted from his grasp,rubbing her wrist.
“Did I hurt—?” He reached for her.
“No.” She half-turned from him, knowing in her heart this man would never, could never, hurt her. Then why was she putting them through purgatory? Her heart bled. Because she preferred to go through it than dwell on it. “I-I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t make a decent living without some skill.”
“I’ll learn.” She stood erect to her full five-foot four inches, not wanting him to dwarf her.
“Everything’s high tech.”
“I’ll take a class.”
“Costs money.”
“I have—” He lifted an eyebrow, and she amended, “I’ll find work in one of the clu … er … restaurants.”
He set his mouth, not missing her near slip, but chose not to address it. “In the meantime?”
“I’ll manage.”
“How?”
Exasperated at his inquisition, she blurted, “I’ll marry money.”
He laughed, a savage sound. “You’re married to money now.” Silence thickened, tension built and crackled with his flint-hard words.
“Admit it, Ellie.” He curled his lip, contempt carving his features. “You didn’t marry me. You married my pocketbook.”
“No.” She reached for him, but when he twisted away, she glanced down at her boots. She hadn’t meant those harsh words. Said them to annoy him, because she hurt being so close to him and him not understanding her. She peeked at him through her lashes, but the wall of his back pricked her resentment.
It had always been about his life, his career, and his agenda. While he flourished, she wasted away. But Ellie could no longer deny herself. Not for her parents. Not for her husband. She had to take a firm stand to show him, and herself, that she was more than the millionaire doctor’s appendage.
“Why did you marry me, Ellie?” He spun around, snaring her in his hypnotic gaze. “If not for cash to anchor papa–”
Her eyes snapped open wide. “Don’t you dare drag him into this.”
But fury fueled him, and he was on the attack. “—drowning in the bottle…getting sacked ag—”
“I won’t hear you bad-mouthing—”
He tossed his head back and laughed, the sound sending chills chasing up her sp
ine.
“He’s working at the University in Sussex…he’s keeping it together …taking care of mom and Joey,” she said, feeling the need to defend him. “He’s in rehab.”
“So he is.” Peter stroked his chin deep in thought. “Took long enough to get him there.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged.
“They’re doing okay.” She raised her chin to score her point and glanced away from his laser-sharp look.
Wind-tossed rain slashed against the windowpane, compounding the bleakness of her mood. Her shoulders sagged.
“Good to hear,” Peter said, his words clipped. “But for how long?”
“You wouldn’t dare eclipse his job like you did mine.”
A dangerous pause, and his eyes glinted like agates.
“My net worth had nothing to do with us?” he ground out, her accusation nicking his pride.
“Everything isn’t about dollars and cents.”
“No?” His lip curled with cynicism. “You said ‘I do’ because…” he prompted.
“Oh, you’re impossible,” she fired back and fell into the ocean storm of his eyes. Confused, she blinked. “Same reason you married me.”
“That is?” He held her gaze captive.
“I-I-I …” She inched away from him, clutching the seams of her coat. “Peter, I—”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
“Wha-at do you mean?”
He brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. “Good-bye, Ellie.”
Chapter 3
The slamming of the front door echoed in her ears, and she collapsed on the sofa. “Goo-ood-bye, Peter.”
It was what she wanted, after all. For him to be away from her, so she could think straight and get her life in order. But why was her heart splintering and her breath gagging in her throat? She squeezed her hands closed and her fingernails dug into her palms. Be strong. She burst into tears, the past flitting through her mind for what seemed like an eternity.
A heavy sigh resonated from deep inside her and she swiped at her cheeks. She had to get something to eat. How far could she stretch three dollars? Even a McDonald’s burger and fries spun into the stratosphere.
