Читать книгу Italian Millionaire, Runaway Principessa - Sun Chara - Страница 6

Peter saw her. And he saw men at the bar ogling her every curve. The waitress scrap-of-nothing she wore accentuated the length and shape of her legs, clad in net stockings. How she managed to walk on stiletto heels was beyond his male comprehension. The flimsy froth of fabric barely covered her bottom and had her breasts nearly spilling from the Grand Canyon neckline, to the delight of every male eye in the smoke-filled room.

He brushed rain-damp hair off his brow, warring with his gut instinct to stride over, sling her across his shoulder, and take her home. Hot blood surged through him and his aorta boxed his chest. Home where she belonged, with him, and in his bed—

The crash of glass jolted him from plunging deeper into the erotic fantasy. Since she’d run out on him, his mind was set on replay … a constant rankling to his Italian pride.

A muscle assaulted his jaw. Her rebellious escapade could bring him down, and her with him. Premeditated or a case of the lamb amidst wolves? His chest constricted. It was time to set the record straight, even the score. Although he had to move fast to snare the coup d’état he was after, he’d do it his way. He inhaled, filling his lungs with needed oxygen and grimaced at the smoke-tainted air in the club. He exhaled and snared her in his narrow focus.

She was floundering to pick up broken glass from the floor. Her admirers were moving in, but in two long strides he was beside her. The spinning strobe light cast a halo around her, making her hair gold and her skin a shimmer of silk. Memories rushed in, taunting, smothering … and he almost changed his mind. Passion and anger raged inside him. Pent-up pressure in his chest sizzled between his teeth and banished the past, but only for the moment.

“Let me help you.” He hunkered down, playing knight gallant, but feeling more like a Neanderthal. His words held a double meaning for this woman, who kept a special place in his heart, his life, and who had spurned his every effort. Why would she have left him otherwise? Without a word, without a backward glance?

The deep timbre of the man’s voice filtered to Ellie through the music and laughter, but she kept her head bent until the embarrassed blush receded from her features. “Thank you.”

He dropped a handful of sharp pieces onto her tray, and the gold cufflink on his white shirt cuff gleamed from beneath the dark sleeve of his jacket. His hand was strong, his fingers long and sensitive, with a smattering of black hair across his knuckles.

She swallowed and glanced up, her heart splitting in two. “Pet-e-r.”

His raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

“What are you doing here?” She held the tray between them like a defense, gripping it so tight her fingers hurt. Her stomach lurched; air whooshed from her lips and every fiber of her being buzzed with life on seeing him again. But with that came a profound sadness.

She turned away from his penetrating blue gaze. His relentless pursuit of his profession had nearly destroyed her and their marriage. She couldn’t go back to him. Wouldn’t.

Not unless he was willing to change … give her what she wanted, what she … they… deserved… a real marriage. Tears stung her eyelids, and she gulped them down with her next breath.

A melody drifted to her, a balm to her frazzled emotions. She’d been stagnating, except in the bedroom. And she wanted to be more to him than a bedroom playmate. In a desperate attempt to reclaim her life, and save her marriage, she had made a rash decision and fled.

She was playing a risky card, especially since he controlled the deck. Could she pull it off? Would he ever see her as more than a possession?

“Better question is” – he dropped a chipped martini glass on her tray, shattering her thoughts – “what’re you doing here, Ellie?”

He reached out to help her up, but she avoided his gesture and stood up on her own. It was doubtful a man like Peter, with a heritage steeped in tradition, would budge, even for her… or her father. Forgiveness was not one of his tendencies.

“Working.” She made to pass him and the broken goblets rattled precariously on the tray.

He blocked her path, his gaze gliding over her half-exposed breasts, then lower, taking in the full length of her. “So I see.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t like what you’re implying, Peter.”

“What’s that?” he baited.

“That I’m— I’m—”

“Selling favors?”

“How dare you,” she snapped, raising a hand to slap him.

He intercepted it in mid-air, his fingers shackling her wrist. “How dare I?” His face was a thundercloud and his eyes bore into her. “You’re the one who deserted—”

“I did not.”

“No?”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Suppose you tell me how it was, mmm?” This time he did take her elbow and led her toward the neon-lit exit.

“I can’t just leave in the middle of my shift.”

“Wanna bet?” He grabbed the tray from her hands, passed it to a waitress walking by and winked his thanks. Shrugging from his jacket, he draped it across Ellie’s shoulders and guided her through the mass of gyrating bodies.

“Hey, baby doll, how ’bout another number?” Someone called to her.

“Later.” Ellie waved. “Taking a break.”

“Cutest singin’ cocktail—”

“Trot on over, babe.” Raucous laughter.

A man staggered toward her and a camera flashed. Peter swung his arm out and knocked the camera from the snapper, sending it crashing to the floor. Shoving a hand in his pocket, he pulled out a couple of hundred-dollar bills and hurled them on the floor. “That should cover the damages, Louie,” he bit out, his eyes hard.

The loud music had muted the altercation and no one seemed to have noticed, except the three of them.

“What’s going on?” Ellie glared at Peter, then turned to the barrel-shaped man pocketing the cash and scuttling across the floor for his camera.

Taciturn, Peter wove his way through the throng and pulled her with him.

“We can do publicity shots tomorrow, Louie,” Ellie called over her shoulder.

“Sure thing, sugar.”

The familiarity of his words made Peter pause mid-stride. He flexed his hand in a fist, thought better of it, and marched her away from the crowd.

“What’re you doing?” She stopped, forcing him to turn around.

“Taking you home.”

“You have no right—”

“I have every right … wife.”

“Don’t call me—”

Murderous silence.

“Technically, I guess I am.”

Peter tightened his fingers on her arm. When she whimpered, he loosened his hold, but didn’t release her. Smoke and alcohol clung to her, but a hint of her perfume reached him, making him ache for her. She’d just kicked him in the teeth, nearly denying their relationship as husband and wife. He steeled his jaw. When he was done with her, he’d boot her out. His eyes narrowed. He’d get what he wanted, including answers to questions that had battered his brain for the last three months. He had a right to know why she had left him. And at this crucial time. Why she preferred to live like a pauper, instead of like a princess with him? Why?

Dragging her with him, he climbed the four steps from the Hollywood cellar club to street level. Behind them, the neon sign flashed, The Blue Room, both illuminating and shading her face.

“Let go, Peter.” She yanked her hand from his grasp and he allowed it. “I’m not about to run away at this time of night and in this weather.” She drew the lapels of his jacket closer about her neck, raindrops drenching her hair and trickling down her nape.

“Stand under the canopy, Ellie,” he commanded. “I’ll wave down a cab.”

From beneath her lashes, she watched him, studying him, loving him, hating— abruptly she froze, her thoughts ripping her apart. She’d wanted for nothing. He always brought her things, even during their most intimate moments. Heat infused her body and a drop of moisture slid between her breasts. All the material wealth he showered upon her couldn’t make up for the limiting lifestyle as the wealthy Italian’s wife, which made her feel more like his mistress.

She licked rain from her lips and her heart thudded. Was her husband an opportunist or simply too busy gaining wealth and power to notice her; to care that she had a dream of her own… wanted to make something of her own life?

He pushed a damp lock off his forehead with an impatient hand and stepped onto the sidewalk. He stretched out his arm to flag down a taxi, and his muscles contracted beneath his wet shirt.

Every cell of her body flared. She could easily succumb to his potent sexuality. But she had to resist the temptation. Had to resist his influence, his magnetism… him. A one-night stand with her husband would only compound the problem. Still vulnerable, she had to put distance between them, to think clearly; about their marriage, their life. Could they have a future together? She doubted it and her heart shriveled.

She drew in a breath, willed her erratic pulse to get in sync, and exhaled in a rush. Odor from the trash bins in the alley assailed the damp air, but she barely noticed. She took a step closer to him and reached out to touch him, to wrap her arms around the bulge of his biceps, to rub her cheek … feeling his strength. His security. His love.

Oh, how she wanted to, but instead she dropped her hand to her side and stepped back. She blinked raindrops from her lashes. It couldn’t be as she wanted. A gust of wind silenced the cry from her lips. To be with him, she’d have to ‘sell out’ on herself; for chasing her dream could cost him his.

Entry level into the music biz entailed gigs in questionable locales and servicing all manner of clientele. It was a highly unsuitable vocation for the wife of the ambitious intern seeking a seat on the Medical Board.

Goosebumps erupted all over her skin. Yet, his ruthless climb to fame on the global front had strangled her dream. Stifled her.

She felt cornered.

Defeated.

That’s why she’d left. Guilt gnawed her insides. Why she must slip away from him again.

Peter whistled and waved down an approaching cab. When the car screeched to a halt at the curb, tires splashing muddied water everywhere, she disappeared into the shadows of the night.