by Sun Chara
A wistful smile brushed her mouth. She tried to push herself up, but her lethargic body resisted. She fell back on the cushions. Despair filled her. She gave in and closed her eyes … just for a minute.
Time ticked by.
She couldn’t stay here. The walls seemed to be closing in around her. Memories haunted, taunted her. She dragged herself up and the room swayed every which way. She groaned and clutched her temples.
Disorientated, she burst through the front door and dashed down the dimly lit stairs. In her haste, she tripped over the third step and hurled headlong down to the landing, her scream muted by blaring horns of rush-hour traffic. Blackness sucked her under.
*
Dr. Peter Medeci heard the ambulance siren and hurried to the Emergency of St. Joseph’s Hospital. Two medics were rushing in with the injured on a stretcher.
“911 call,” one said, while a third handed him the report. “Caucasian female, twenty-eight, head trauma.”
Peter glanced at the chart and shifted his gaze to the patient. His vitals short-circuited. Blood drained from his face, and he struggled for oxygen, his heart seeming to freeze in his chest. Then, his years of professional discipline kicked in. He pressed his fingers at the pulse point of her wrist and sent up a prayer of thanks. The gash on her forehead, he didn’t like.
“X-rays!” he barked, his pulse pummeling a hole in his chest. He hurried along beside the gurney, holding Ellie’s hand all the way.
When he had to relinquish her into another doctor’s care, he nearly exploded. But he insisted on spending the night by her side and slouched in the visitor’s chair, he challenged anyone who even tried to oust him.
In the morning, Peter dragged himself away to take a quick shower, change his clothes, and check on his own patients.
At eight a.m. he strode into Ellie’s room, carrying a bouquet of red roses he’d bought from the shop in the hospital lobby. “What the—?” His mind rejected the evidence of the empty bed. No. She couldn’t have left without someone seeing her. Not from here. He heard the running water in the adjoining bathroom and relief ripped through him. He plunked down in the chair in the corner and waited.
The door clicked open and tension eased from his shoulders. “How are you feeling—?” he asked, words getting blocked in his throat.
She’d changed back into the torn dress they brought her in. Her golden-brown curls had been swept off her brow, making room for the gauze bandage that almost matched the paleness of her skin. Her pupils were still dilated, the fawn-brown of her irises too bright.
“Good morning, Peter.” She wrinkled her pert nose at the medicinal smells in the room and scrubbed a dirt stain on her sleeve.
“That won’t get it clean.” He offered her the roses.
She hesitated and then took them in her hands, breathing their scent. When she glanced at him over the blooms, their eyes clashed, and a jolt charged through him. Memories whizzed by, time stood suspended.
She blinked and the moment shattered. “I-I’m fine, thank you.”
He squinted, his gaze laser-sharp. Her words were a little too emotionless, a little too impersonal. Could it be the effect of the clinical atmosphere, or, and his heart clubbed his chest, a reflection of what their relationship was to be? Over?
“Good.”
Setting the flowers on the bedside table, she snatched up her coat from the closet, draped it over her arm and rifled for something in her purse. He curved his mouth into a half-smile when she found it. She glanced into the mirror above the sink and outlined her lips. Cherry red.
“Nice.”
“Thanks.”
He clenched his belly, remembering the sweet taste of her lips, the feel of her silky skin … her breasts fit so perfectly in his hands, her nipples hardening in his mouth … He nearly groaned aloud, but shoved the sound back down his throat. Get a grip, Doc.
A myriad of emotions—anger, wistfulness, desire, hurt, pride, disillusionment, and exasperation churned inside him. “Going somewhere?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Home.”
“Good.” Adjusting the stethoscope around his neck, he rose from the chair. “I’m off in half an hour. I’ll drive us home.”
A silent moment, and she turned, not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ll be going home alone.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there, later.” He was clutching at straws.
“No.” She squeezed the lipstick between her fingers.
Good thing she replaced the top or she’d have cherry flavoring spurting all over her palm. He’d have to lick it clean, tasting her… basta!
A grown man … a smitten Doc… a fool?
He shook his head, dismissing the vexing thought. She dropped the lipstick in her purse, clicked it closed and the bag slipped from her fingers.
“I got it, Ellie.” Peter bent to retrieve it, but she swept it up in her hand. When she made to stand, she shut her eyes and reached out for anything, anyone for support.
“Woman, why—” Peter lifted her up in his arms, his heartbeat catapulting into hers, and placed her on the bed. Taking her wrist, he pressed his fingers on her flesh and checked her pulse. “You must relax, Ellie.”
She cast him a look, like his medical advice came from outer space. “I don’t have time.”
“Make time.”
“I have to work—”
“You don’t—”
“Or I’ll be evicted from my apartment.”
“So?”
“No.”
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 t
he 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. 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 marr
ied 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?
