Читать книгу The Italian Groom - Jane Porter - Страница 8

NICCOLO tramped across a half acre of his vineyard, his Western-style boots crunching the ground. The air felt crisp, exhilarating, and he breathed in the richness of the early fall morning.

Even though it had been years since he helped harvest the grapes, Nic still inspected the crops every morning. An excellent wine required more than sun, rain, good soil; it needed passion. While the Dominici family had numerous business ventures, the Dominici wines and extensive vineyards were Niccolo’s passion.

Passion.

The word immediately brought Maggie to mind, and as he thought of her, his mouth curved wryly.

Maggie wasn’t easy. She tended to arouse fierce emotions in people. Some admired her, others disliked her, but either way, you had an opinion.

Frankly, like Jared, he’d adored her. Maggie had been an irresistible little girl. A scamp, really. She created more mischief than a dozen children put together. Yet her antics amused him, just as she amused him, her dark curls and expressive eyes arousing his protective instinct as if he really were another big brother.

He’d helped teach her to drive, escorted her to a high school dance, tutored her in calculus. When she’d had a falling out with her parents, she’d asked him to intercede. When she had been kicked out of class for arguing with a teacher, Niccolo was the one to pick her up from school.

Maggie.

Hotheaded, impulsive, passionate Maggie.

His smile faded. If only she hadn’t pulled that silly prank and tried to seduce him. Even now he felt uncomfortable when he thought about that evening. She’d shocked him by sliding onto his lap and passionately kissing him. Her openmouthed kiss, the flick of her tongue. Nic’s jaw tightened.

He’d tried to push her away, but she’d clung to him. When he attempted to lift her off his lap, he’d encountered a bare thigh and a very naked bottom.

He should have laughed about it. Should have made a joke, teased her or something. But he hadn’t been able to. He’d been responding to her kiss and her warmth. His desire had mortified him. Nic had thrown her off his lap and said something far harsher than he intended. She’d looked stunned. She’d stood there clutching the hem of her schoolgirl skirt, trying not to cry.

Then she’d left. He should have gone after her, should have tried to talk to her. But his pride and shame wouldn’t let him. He’d told himself she owed him an apology. He’d convinced himself that she just needed time, and truthfully, they both did.

Niccolo headed toward the house, periodically stopping to inspect the new vines he’d planted last spring at the base of a massive trellis. These were his newest additions to his grapes, and he checked for frost damage on the tender shoots, but happily found none.

With Maggie away at college, Niccolo had begun to feel the loss of her company. Healdsburg was a sleepy little town and without Jared and Maggie, California lost its charm. Niccolo returned to Florence for a second business degree and to help his father run the vast Tuscany vineyards.

He’d learned a great deal working with his father and brother. Four years later his father had approached him, asking if Niccolo would be interested in managing the Napa Valley vineyards and overseeing the California businesses. Niccolo had jumped at the opportunity. He wanted to experiment with new grape varieties and dreamed of producing a California Chianti reserve with the family’s Tuscany grapes.

Nic neared the house, reaching the corner terrace with the arbor trellis. In mild weather he ate his breakfast on the sunny terrace. Francesca had already laid a light breakfast on the wrought-iron table. He took a seat, opened the paper.

The French doors opened, and Maggie appeared. As their eyes met, he felt an inexplicable spark of awareness. He suddenly remembered how it felt to hold Maggie. Touching her was like grasping a live wire. She was nothing short of electric.

“Good morning, Nic.”

Her voice, smooth, soft, quiet, made him feel disturbingly unquiet. He folded his paper, aware of the distance between them. “Good morning, cara. How did you sleep?”

She smiled at him, but her smile looked forced. “Surprisingly well. The bed in the guest room is heavenly.”

She held her briefcase. Her travel bag hung from her shoulder. She’d packed. “So why leave?”

For a moment Maggie appeared at a loss for words. Then she wrinkled her nose, a trait left over from her childhood. “It’s easier, Nic. Less complicated.”

“You’re worried you’re forming an unhealthy attachment to the bed?”

The corner of her mouth quirked. “You sound like a therapist.”

“I dated one once.”

“When?”

“Last year. Alas, it did not work. Anna felt competitive with the grapes. She asked me to choose.”

“Oh, Nic!”

“I know. How could she ask such a thing?”

“No, Niccolo. How terrible for her. She obviously didn’t know you or she wouldn’t have posed the question.”

“You wouldn’t make me choose?” he teased.

“No, I know better. You’re in love with your grapes. You always have been.” She turned from him to gaze across the golden hills marked by rows of neat green vines. Lifting her face to the rising sun, Maggie closed her eyes. “Nowhere else smells like this. Mornings smell so new.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off her, awash in ambivalent emotions. On one hand he wanted to protect her, the old big-brother instinct. But there was another instinct, one far more primitive, one colored by a hunger he didn’t quite understand. “The mornings are my favorite, too.”

Maggie opened her eyes and smiled at him. “I can’t believe how much I’ve missed this place. I’ve even missed you.”

“What a painful admission,” he answered dryly.

She made a face at him, shifting her briefcase to the other hand. “You’re lucky, you know. You’re lucky you love this land and find so much happiness with the vineyard. Most people don’t love what they do.”

He crossed the terrace to stand beside her, gazing at the same view. The land rolled and undulated like burnished waves, acres of vines contrasting with the white and gold hills. “Is it just me you’ve avoided, Maggie, or is it more?”

He felt her tense, and glancing at her profile, he noticed the tears on her black lashes, delicate tears of love and longing and not quite buried pain.

“How can anyone love a place and yet hate it at the same time? How can such a good place be so brutal?” Her voice quivered with passion.

“The land didn’t kill your brother.”

“No, but it took him anyway.”

He didn’t contradict her. Even now he couldn’t drive the back road where Jared had crashed without feeling anger and loss. And guilt. Guilt that Jared had been the one at the wheel. Guilt that he’d survived and Jared died. Guilt that Maggie had taken the blame for Jared’s mistake. He knew better than anyone that the accident had nearly destroyed Maggie’s parents.

He glanced down at her bent head. “I still miss him.”

She tried to smile through her film of tears. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me. I loved your brother.”

She bit her lip, working the flesh between her teeth. He could feel her silent pain, and it tore at him. “Your brother was my closest friend. He was more of a brother to me than my own.”

“Mom and Dad don’t talk about him anymore. I know it’s painful for them, but I miss saying Jared’s name. I miss hearing stories about him.”

“You can always talk about him to me. I like to remember him, too. I like to remember the good times.” Then he lifted the travel bag off her shoulder. “So you will stay tonight. It’s decided.”

“Nic—”

“We agreed last night that this was the best place for you to stay.”

“We didn’t agree. You told me to stay. That’s different than me agreeing.”

He tried to keep a straight face. “Must be a translation problem.”

“Your English is perfect. So is your tendency to dominate. Which is why it’d be better if I stayed somewhere else. I don’t need to quarrel with you. I have too much on my mind.”

He merely smiled. Maggie had never been easy. “Agreed. Now, come sit down and tell me about your work. I’m anxious to learn more about the Hunt gardens.”

She wrinkled her nose again, obviously skeptical. “You don’t like gardening, Nic. You only care about grapes and wine.”

“That’s not true. I’m very proud of the Dominici gardens.”

“The only reason you have gorgeous gardens is your grandfather and mother labored over them for nearly forty years. You’d plow the whole thing under if you thought you could get away with it.”

“But I’d put the soil to good use.”

“Pinot noirs, perhaps?”

He chuckled, delighted. She might have grown up, but she was still feisty, still spirited. “They’re certainly easier on the tongue than topiaries.”

She laughed, just as he intended, and he felt a rush of tenderness. Jared had once said there were two ways to change Maggie’s mood—tease her or kiss her. Either worked to diffuse her notoriously quick temper.

Tease her or kiss her.

Niccolo gazed at Maggie’s mouth. She was wearing sheer lipstick, a soft shade that suited her dark hair and fair complexion. Despite the elegant cut of her blue tailored jacket and the thick strand of pearls around her neck, she looked far from cool, definitely not conservative. It was her mouth that betrayed her warmth. Her lips were lush, her upper lip bowed, a mouth made for champagne, dark chocolate and lovemaking.

Niccolo sucked in air, stunned by the thought. Make love to Maggie? Never. She might not be a girl anymore, but she was still young, still inexperienced. He cared for her deeply, but his feelings were platonic. She was the sister he’d never had.

He was resolved that nothing would come between them again. He refused to let their relationship change. She needed him, and he needed her. Period.

Francesca opened the door and emerged balancing a silver tray with pots of hot coffee and warm milk.

He seated Maggie, and Francesca poured her café au lait, heavy on the milk.

“Would you prefer less milk?” he asked Maggie, noticing Francesca’s heavy handed pouring.

“She likes milk,” Francesca answered firmly, passing a platter of sliced melon and another of warm pastries. “Milk is good for her.”

Niccolo didn’t comment and Maggie lifted her coffee cup, inhaling the steam and fragrant blend. “I’ve tried to give this up, but I can’t. I love good coffee too much. One cup every morning, that’s my limit, yet I do enjoy it.”

“If coffee is your only vice, you’re doing quite well, cara.”

“It all depends on your definition of vice, doesn’t it?” she answered.

He noticed the delicate pink blush staining her cheeks, her coloring so fine that even a hint of a blush made her vivid, exquisite.

“Amore, you’ve grown up. I don’t see how you could possibly have a vice.”

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. He stared at the soft lip with fascination and almost envy. There was so much sweetness in her, sweetness and mystery.

“I’m having guests tonight. A dinner party that’s been planned for months. I’m introducing my new Chianti. It’s one of the first American Chianti ever made with Tuscany grapes. I hope you’ll be free to join us.”

Meg’s second day with the Hunts was again spent in deep discussion. Though the Hunts were committed to renovating their century-old gardens, they found it painful to discuss removing aging trees even though they understood many of the older trees were diseased and dying. Most of the afternoon was spent working through their concerns and acknowledging their sorrow at losing such majestic trees.

Their great devotion to the land was something she understood. Meg sometimes felt trapped in New York, even though she’d chosen for business purposes to make it her home. There were times when all the concrete and asphalt made her head spin. Too much noise, too much smog, too much activity.

Perhaps that’s why she’d channeled her love of gardens into a career. People needed places of refuge. Sanctuary from the busy, modern world. Trees, shade, cool green places, these could restore one’s soul.

Meg’s eyebrows arched at her archaic word. Soul. It wasn’t a very modern notion, and yet nearly everyone called her a very modern woman. Especially her father. But when her father called her modern, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.

Her eyebrows arched even higher as she imagined his reaction to the news of the baby. He’d be upset, angry, disappointed—but not surprised. Certainly not surprised. He’d come to expect the worst from her. He almost expected her to fail him again.

Meg flexed her hands against the steering wheel, miserably aware that her cool relationship with her father was about to get colder.

She pulled into the formal gates leading to the Dominici villa. Valet drivers waved her over. She’d forgotten all about Niccolo’s dinner party, and approaching the stucco and stone house, she heard the sweet plaintive notes of a violin. The Dominicis always mixed music and wine.

Meg hesitated outside the massive front door, listening to the string quartet. It was gorgeous music. A piece by Pachelbel. The brighter notes were tempered by an underlying longing. Much like her own emotions.

Jared. Her father. Niccolo. Everything here felt so complicated. Coming home was the hardest thing she knew how to do. There was a reason she avoided Napa Valley, and suddenly she was in the thick of it, caught up in the intensity and the memories and sorrow. If it weren’t for the Hunts, she’d grab her suitcase and catch the nearest plane to New York. Right now the noise and glare of Manhattan seemed infinitely more palatable than this muddle of emotion.

The Pachelbel piece ended, and Meg shook off her melancholy mood. She was here to work, not to continuously examine her feelings.

Meg discovered Niccolo in the great room that had been designed as a ballroom. It was Niccolo’s favorite room for large parties and winery-related entertaining.

Although Francesca was present, tuxedo-attired waiters served the catered appetizers. Offered a tray of toasted Brie rounds, Meg accepted one and nibbled on it, watching Nic mingle with his guests. He wore a pale green suit and a crisp white shirt. The shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of his broad chest, his skin golden from hours in the sun.

He laughed at something one of his guests said, throwing his head back, his dark hair brushing his collar. Supremely male, Meg thought, as he turned to greet another guest. Beautiful, sleek. Powerful.

Suddenly he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and slowly one corner of his mouth lifted in recognition. She felt a bubble of warmth form inside her chest and she smiled back, pleased.

He broke free from the circle of guests and moved through the crowd toward her. Meg balanced the remains of the toasted round on a paper napkin, her appetite gone.

His arms encircled her. His face dipped. Her nose was pressed against the exposed skin at the base of his throat. She felt his pulse and the heat of his chest.

A tremor coursed through her as he lifted her chin, kissing both cheeks. “Maggie, cara, when did you arrive?”

He held her loosely, and yet she was aware of the length of him, his taut hips inches from hers, his strong chest brushing her breasts. Her nipples tingled. She tingled. “Just a bit ago,” she answered breathlessly, disposing of the appetizer on a server’s empty tray.

It was crazy to respond to him like this. She knew how he felt about her, knew he wasn’t attracted to her, and yet her body ignored her brain and flooded her limbs with warmth, filling her with a hot, languid need that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with desire.

“You look tired,” he said, brushing a tendril from her cheek.

“Do I?” She reached up to pat her French twist, feeling better than she had in days. She hadn’t felt all that tired until now. In fact, she hadn’t been queasy once today. “Perhaps I should go upstairs and put on some lipstick.”

“Not to worry, you look lovely. Now come, let me introduce you around.”

Dinner was delicious, and Niccolo’s guests were interesting, but by ten o’clock Meg had slipped away from the festivities to her room.

The guest wing in Niccolo’s stone villa offered elegant sanctuary, and after a long soak in the sunken tub, and after lathering lotion on her skin, Meg pulled on her cotton nightshirt and sat at the dressing table.

Mark hated her roomy blue striped nightshirt. She’d taken it with her on their one and only weekend getaway. Later he’d gone out and bought her a satin and feather concoction that made her giggle. She remembered holding the scrap of fabric to the light. “Mark, what on earth is this?”

“You don’t like it,” Mark had answered flatly, his feelings obviously injured.

“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just not me.”

Mark had told her to take it back and carelessly tossed the sales receipt at her. Realizing she’d hurt him, she’d tried to appease him. They’d ended up in bed.

They’d kissed before, but never made love. It was the first time they’d been so intimate, as well as the last. But once was more than enough. They’d made a baby, a baby Mark refused to acknowledge.

“There’s been no one else,” she’d told him, horrified that he even suggested she’d been sleeping around.

“I don’t care,” he’d answered bitterly. “I don’t want this baby. You can’t keep it.”

“You’re just angry.”

“I’m not angry. Because I know you’ll do the right thing—”

“Right thing?” she’d challenged.

“Yes, the right thing. This baby isn’t an option.” It was then he’d confessed he was married. He’d said he loved his wife and he didn’t want to hurt her and that if Meg kept the baby, it would ruin his life.

Ruin his life.

Her eyes burned, and she picked up the hairbrush, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out.

How dared he? How could anyone be so self-absorbed?

His life. What about their baby’s life?

Meg dragged the brush through her hair until her scalp tingled and her arm grew weary, refusing to stop until her anger subsided.

Thank goodness she’d never loved him. For a short time, she’d imagined she did. He’d looked so much like Niccolo, his Greek mother giving him the same hard features and dark coloring, but he lacked Nic’s strength of character, not to mention Nic’s morals.

Nic would never sleep around. Nic would take responsibility for his child.

Meg stilled, the brush hovering in midair. She had to stop doing that. Had to stop comparing every man to Nic. It wasn’t fair to other men, and goodness, it wasn’t fair to her. She’d never meet the right man if she continued to hold Niccolo up as some standard for manhood.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door.

Meg set the brush down and opened the door. Francesca stood in the doorway, hands on hips. “I saw your light still on. I thought you might not be well. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

“You left the party early.”

“Niccolo didn’t mind.”

Five minutes later, just as Meg prepared to slip into bed, there came another knock on her door. She opened the door a second time.

Niccolo stood in the doorway balancing a cup and saucer and a small plate of cookies.

Meg didn’t think she had the energy to smile, but her lips twitched anyway. “Housekeeping?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m very funny. You just have a terrible sense of humor.”

His lovely mouth grimaced. “This was not my idea.”

“Obviously. You know I hate warm milk.”

“The point is, I will not be making a habit of bringing you bedtime snacks.”

She didn’t know why, but his gruffness compelled her to tease him. “Are you sure this wasn’t your idea? You know I’m a sucker for cookies.”

“They’re biscuits.”

“Cookies, biscuits, same thing.”

“They’re not at all the same.”

“Like comparing apples and oranges.”

“No, not like apples and oranges. Like a Merlot and a Cabernet.”

“Of course. Wine. That’s all you ever think about.”

Niccolo’s expression darkened. She’d succeeded in aggravating him. “Do you like quarreling with me?”

Meg smiled impudently. “Yes.”

He muttered beneath his breath in Italian. “You test my patience.”

“Then don’t let me keep you.”

“You’re not keeping me. I’m choosing to stand here.”

“That’s right, you always have to win. Even if it’s just a war of words.”

“And you have to argue. You’re still such a child.”

Meg’s stomach began to cramp. Perhaps it wasn’t the Brie that had made her sick. It was Nic. “Like I said, don’t let me keep you.” With that she slammed the door shut, ignoring the surprised expression on Niccolo’s face.

Meg twitched in her seat, trying to keep still. She’d never been bored by a discussion on perennials in her life, but at the moment, she thought she’d scream if deadheading was mentioned again.

She closed her eyes, pressed her knuckles against her brow and forced herself to draw a deep breath and slowly exhale. One yarrow, two yarrow, three yarrow…counting yellow yarrow the way one would count sheep.

Some of the tension left her shoulders. Meg drew another deep breath and opened her eyes. She’d woken up feeling blue, and the blue mood quickly turned to irritation. All morning her nerves had been on edge, and Mr. Hunt’s rather long-winded discourse on deadheading had just about driven her mad.

What she needed was action.

She had a hundred and one things to decide, plans to make, and this discussion on gardening chores was getting her nowhere.

What she needed was a new apartment.

She’d been living in a quaint one-bedroom flat across from Central Park for years. The apartment had a squeaky hardwood floor, antiquated plumbing and a charming little terrace with a breathtaking city view. But the apartment barely accommodated her bed and sitting room furniture, much less a crib and changing table.

Yes, she needed a bigger apartment.

She also needed a crib. A car seat. High chair. A layette, not to mention diapers, ointment, powders and so forth.

Babies certainly required a lot of gear.

No wonder her old college friends had complained about babies being expensive. Meg would need a small fortune to outfit the baby’s room, much less pay for child care while she met with clients.

She couldn’t blame anyone but herself. She’d slept with Mark knowing the risks. He’d used a condom, but things did happen and, well, things had happened.

A nerve pulsed at Meg’s temple and she pressed two fingers against the spot, trying hard to stay calm, to sit still.

The truth was, becoming a single mother terrified her.

It was such a huge responsibility, such a crucial role, she couldn’t help being afraid. Meg had made her share of mistakes and she knew she’d make them as a mother. Her baby deserved the very best, but what if Meg wasn’t good enough? Strong enough? Loving enough? What if she said the wrong thing, forgot the right prayer? What if…

“Margaret?” Mrs. Hunt leaned forward to clasp Meg’s hand. “Margaret, dear, are you all right? You’re looking quite pale.”

She was fine. She was just a little nervous. But that was only to be expected. Even for a modern woman, having a baby was quite a big deal.

Niccolo glanced at his watch. The winery co-op council meeting should have wrapped up just after lunch. Instead it threatened to last well into mid afternoon. He shot a quick glance at his watch. He had another hour before he’d have to excuse himself.

The local wineries had formed a co-op to promote northern California wines. The council was in the final stages of planning and implementing an international advertising campaign highlighting Napa’s outstanding red wines.

The television and print advertisements would feature the Italian film star Sonia Carlo sipping a California Cabernet. It was hoped her celebrity endorsement would create excitement in the foreign markets.

At last the discussion came to an end, and Nic politely excused himself, knowing he didn’t have much time if he wanted to make it home to take the conference call with his father.

Yet after reaching his car, he realized he’d left his cell phone behind. With a soft oath, Nic returned to the building and crossed the cool, dark lobby, pungent with the smell of oak, sulfur and fermenting grapes. When he was a boy he’d thought the smell too sour and raw. Now it was comforting. Like coming home.

Opening the door to the wine-tasting room, Niccolo heard Maggie’s name mentioned. He froze, sure he’d been mistaken. But the vintner at the far end of the table repeated himself.

“That’s right. I saw her myself. Maggie Buckner is back, and from what I heard, she’s in some serious trouble.”