Читать книгу The Italian Groom - Jane Porter - Страница 8

“TEN years, and you still haven’t changed.” Niccolo’s softly accented voice echoed with disgust, his sensual mouth flattening in anger. “You never would listen to reason—”

“Nic, I’m only asking for the spare set of keys to my parents’ house,” Meg interrupted, trying to ignore the churning in her stomach. “These are not trade secrets.”

One of his black eyebrows lifted. “Is that a joke?”

She fought her fatigue and impatience. It wouldn’t help to get into an argument with Nic. Nic would win. He always won.

Struggling to sound reasonable, she reminded him of the long-standing agreement between their families. “It’s always been policy to keep a spare key for each other, in case of emergency. It’s never been a problem before, and I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of it now.”

“Because it’s not safe for you to stay alone at your parents’. The ranch is isolated. I’m ten minutes away if something should happen.”

“Nothing will happen.”

His voice fairly crackled with contempt. “Maggie, you attract trouble like pollen attracts bees. I’ve saved your skin from more scrapes—”

“I never asked for your help!”

“No, but you needed it.”

“You don’t know what I need, Nic. You just like to think you do.” She clenched her jaw, furious with herself for coming to the villa in the first place. If she hadn’t misplaced the key ring to her parents’ house, she wouldn’t be having this conversation with Niccolo Dominici, nor would she be receiving another of his famous lectures.

He made a choking sound and muttered something in Italian.

“What was that?” she demanded, knowing how he loved to resort to Italian when he wanted to say something particularly unflattering.

“I said I should give up on you.”

Meg stiffened indignantly, her shoulders squaring. She’d allowed him to crush her years ago, her tender heart broken by his harsh rejection, but thankfully she wasn’t a teenager anymore. “Then do! I don’t need your so-called help.”

“So-called?” He bristled, golden eyes glinting. The rapid pull of muscle in his jaw revealed her barb had hit home. She’d insulted him, bruising his considerable Italian machismo. Nic stared at her through narrowed eyes. “You’re fortunate that we have a very old friendship.”

“It’s not much of a friendship,” she retorted grimly. “In fact, you’re the last person I’d describe as a friend.”

His jaw tightened again, but he didn’t answer her. Instead his eyes searched her face. She kept her expression purposely blank. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see how strongly he still affected her. “Give me the key.”

“No.”

“My parents know I’ll be staying there. I left a message with the cruise line.”

“You cannot stay there alone.”

“I live alone.”

His mouth pinched tighter, and he crossed his arms, straining his green sport jacket. Yellow light glowed behind him, the villa’s French doors open to embrace the warm California night. “Which is quite dangerous in New York. The city is full of strangers who prey on young women.”

Inadvertently Mark, her baby’s father, came to mind.

What was the expression? A wolf in sheep’s clothing?

But she didn’t want to think about Mark, didn’t want to be reminded that she’d fallen for Mark partly because he’d reminded her so much of Niccolo. The fact that even after ten years Meg still desired men like Nic confounded her. Nic might be sinfully attractive, but he was also insufferably high-handed.

As it turned out, Mark and Nic were really nothing alike. Whereas Nic had scruples, Mark had none.

Mark wasn’t just any old wolf, but a married wolf with three kids and a wife tucked in an affluent Connecticut neighborhood. Greenwich, to be precise.

Her stomach heaved at the memory. Mark had insisted she get rid of the baby, going so far as to make an appointment at a clinic, but Meg refused, and used the opportunity to head to California to get a start on her new landscape renovation.

Her stomach gurgled again, a squeamish reminder that it had been a long day and promised to be an equally long night. She was four and a half months into this pregnancy and still quite sick. She’d been prepared for nausea, but this…it felt like a flu that wouldn’t end.

“I’m only in town for a few days,” she said, bone-weary and beginning to feel a little desperate. “I’m meeting with clients till Thursday and then back to New York on Friday.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re only staying for a night. It’s not safe.”

Meg swallowed hard and fast. “I’ll lock the door.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Nic, you’re not my dad. And you’re not Jared.”

For a moment he said nothing, stunned to silence. Then the small muscle popped again in his jaw, revealing his tightly leashed temper. “Is that so?”

She swallowed her anger, appalled at what she’d said.

Of course he wasn’t her brother. Nic had been her brother’s best friend. Jared and Nic had been inseparable up until the minute Jared had crashed the car that one horrible Christmas Eve.

It was a terrible thing to say to Nic, and she took a frightened step back, hating herself for her unkindness. Silently she cursed her quick temper and even quicker tongue. There were times she wished she had a little of Niccolo’s control.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized, completely ashamed.

He nodded, his full lips pressed tight beneath his straight nose. She’d once teased him that he had a face Michelangelo would have loved. Nic had responded that he’d rather have been drawn by da Vinci. Something basic and spare. But there was nothing basic or spare about Niccolo. He was beautiful.

Repentant, she gazed at Nic, still horrified by her thoughtlessness. She’d struck below the belt and she knew it. Bile rose in her throat. She’d broken her cardinal rule. Any discussion of Jared and the accident was absolutely off-limits. “I shouldn’t have said that about Jared—”

“It’s okay. You’re tired. It’s late.”

Instead of feeling relieved, she felt worse. “I don’t want to fight with you. Please just let me have the key.”

“There’s a rash of robberies in the area lately. Nine local ranches and wineries have been hit. Last time an elderly woman, a very nice woman, was hurt. I can’t let you take that risk.”

Some of her anger dissipated. Meg’s shoulders slumped wearily. So that was it. There’d been trouble in the area, and he was afraid for her. So like Niccolo. Still trying to protect her.

Meg turned and gazed across the villa’s flagstone terrace to the magnificent view of the valley. In the moonlight the orderly row of grapes looked like olive green pinstripes against rounded hills.

In the ten years she’d been away, it seemed that nothing—not the grapes nor handsome, proud Niccolo—had changed. Oh, she’d been back a number of times, but she’d made it a point to visit when Nic was away. Somehow Nic and Jared and the past were so tangled together that she found it too painful to return home often.

“Who was hurt?” she asked, still drinking in the moonlit landscape. Unlike so many others, her parents used their fertile land for cattle and crops. Nic had once approached them about buying their acreage for top dollar. Her father had quietly but firmly refused. Nic had never brought the subject up again.

“Mrs. Anderson,” he answered.

Her old piano teacher.

“How awful,” Meg whispered.

“Which is why I can’t let you go to your parents’ home.” Nic towered above her, exuding authority even in a casual sport coat and khaki trousers. “I’ve promised to look after your parents’ place while they’re gone. I know they wouldn’t want you there, not after what happened to Mrs. Anderson.”

“Of course.” But she couldn’t help a flash of disappointment. It was so late and she was so incredibly tired. It would have been wonderful to creep into bed in her old room with the nubby white chenille bedspread, the girlish ballet pictures on the wall, the row of Raggedy Anns on a shelf, and just sleep. To momentarily escape the exhaustion and her worry about the future and just be young Maggie again.

But young Maggie was long gone. When she left Healdsburg for college on the East Coast ten years ago, she’d vowed to make a new life for herself with people who didn’t know her past or her name.

After finishing her studies Meg took a job with a prominent Manhattan landscape design firm, working her way up from fetching coffees to designing secret jewel-box gardens for Fifth Avenue mansions.

Meg knew she had a talent for design and was willing to work harder than anyone else in the firm. Which is how she’d landed the Hunt account in California. Actually, landed wasn’t quite right. She’d fought for the job tooth and nail. The Hunts’ garden renovation would take years and yet it would be the jewel in her crown. With the Hunt renovation on her résumé, she could open her own design firm, work from home, be independent.

Thus she’d squashed her apprehension about returning to Napa, resolving to give the Hunts the very best of her time and ability.

She’d be her own woman. She’d be her own boss. And she’d be a great mother, too.

Her convictions were undermined by moisture beading her brow, her nausea growing worse. “That’s fine,” she said, striving to sound casual. “I’ll stay at a hotel tonight.”

“That’s absurd. I won’t have you staying in a hotel. If you need a place to stay, you’ll stay here.”

The moisture on her skin felt cool and clammy. It was no longer a question of if she’d be sick, it was a question of when. “I don’t want to put you out. There’s a good hotel not far from here.”

Quickly, she moved down the front steps toward her car, concentrating on every blue colored flagstone. Just walk, she told herself, one foot and then the other. Don’t let yourself get sick here. Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

Niccolo’s footsteps sounded behind her. She tried to hurry, practically running the last several feet. Just as she reached her car, he grabbed her arm and spun her around.

“Stop it!” Emotion vibrated in his voice. “Stop running away.”

Her stomach heaved. Her forehead felt as if it were made of paste. Her mouth tasted sweet and sour. “This isn’t the time for this.”

His fingers gouged her arm, his grip tight and punishing. “Will there ever be a good time? We haven’t talked in ten years. I haven’t seen you since you ran away the last time. Why does it have to be like this?”

“Nic.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be sick.”

He passed a fresh facecloth to her in the bathroom. Meg gratefully accepted the cool, damp cloth and placed it against her temple. She leaned against the bathroom sink, her legs still weak, her hands shaking. “Thank you.”

“You should have told me you weren’t well.”

His gruffness drew a lopsided smile. This was Niccolo at his most compassionate. She ought to be grateful for small mercies. Fortunately the facecloth hid her smile. It would only infuriate him. “I’m fine,” she breathed, her voice still quivering. “Just tired, but nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

“You’re not one to throw up when you’re tired.”

Lifting her head slightly, she met his eyes. His expression unnerved her. There was nothing gentle in his cool golden gaze.

She buried her face in the damp cloth again. “It was a long trip,” she said. “I haven’t eaten much today.”

She couldn’t tell him that sometimes just the smell of food made her stomach empty and that lately, Mark’s relentless pressure had killed what little remained of her appetite. Mark’s constant phone calls had changed in tone, becoming increasingly aggressive as she refused to cooperate with his plans. Mark made it sound so simple. Just terminate the pregnancy. That was all there was to it.

Meg trembled inwardly, furious. Terminate the pregnancy, indeed! As if her baby was an appointment or an insurance policy.

She couldn’t tell Niccolo any of this. Instead she answered glibly something about not having enough time. His brows drew together. His expression was severe.

“When did you arrive in Napa?” he asked.

“I flew into San Francisco this morning.” She lifted her head, her hands resting against the cool porcelain of the sink. The sink was imported from Italy, like nearly everything in the stone villa. “The flight was delayed—fog, I think it was—so I drove straight up to make my appointment on time.”

“You couldn’t call and let your appointment know you needed a lunch break?”

“I bought a sandwich at the airport.”

“Cuisine at its finest.” His lovely mouth curled derisively and she sat back, still fascinated by the faint curve of his lips. That one night she’d kissed him years ago burned in her memory. He kissed the way she’d imagined he would. Fiercely. With passion. Not at all the way boys her own age kissed.

“Francesca is in the kitchen putting something together for you,” he continued. “She had fresh tomatoes and little shrimp she thought would be perfect.”

Fresh shrimp? Meg’s stomach churned. She’d never be able to eat shrimp. “Really. That’s not necessary.”

Nic’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell that to Francesca. She’s got three pots on the stove and is singing in Italian. You’d think we were having a midnight dinner party from the way she’s carrying on.” He turned and leaned against the doorjamb. “But then, she’s always had a soft spot for you. You are part of the family.”

“Even if I don’t call or write for ten years?” She’d meant to be flippant, but Nic didn’t crack a smile.

“I don’t laugh at your bad jokes.”

He could be so stuffy sometimes. She wrinkled her nose and rolled her eyes. “It’s not really a bad joke. I think it’s more your mood—”

“You see, cara, I did call,” he interrupted smoothly. “I wrote, too. I wrote to you at your university. Then later when you had your first apartment. Even during the year you spent in London, as an apprentice for Hills and Drake Design.”

Her legs suddenly felt shaky again, and she sat down rather heavily on the edge of the toilet. “Yes, you wrote me. You wrote pages and pages in the harshest tone imaginable.” His censure had hurt, hurt terribly. “Of course I didn’t answer your letters! You were cruel—”

“I’ve never been cruel to you.”

“Nic, you humiliated me!”

“You humiliated yourself. I still don’t understand what you were thinking, climbing on my lap, acting like a—a…”

“Say it.”

He visibly recoiled. “Never mind.”

She balled up the facecloth in her hands, frustrated with his rigid views. Poor, proper Nic raised to view girls as helpless creatures and boys as inheritors of the earth.

“I won’t apologize for that evening,” she told him, blood surging to her cheeks. “I’ll never apologize. I did nothing wrong.”

“Cara, you weren’t wearing panties.”

Her face burned and yet she tilted her head, defiant. She’d been crazy about him, utterly infatuated, and she’d desperately wanted to impress him. “I’d read it was considered sexy.”

“You were a schoolgirl.”

“I was seventeen.”

“Sixteen.”

“Almost seventeen.”

“And you were wearing a white lace—what do you call it?”

“Garter belt.”

“Yes, garter belt beneath your skirt. White lace garter belt and no panties. What was I supposed to think?”

It was beyond his ability to see her as anything but Jared’s kid sister. “That I liked you, Nic. That I had a teenage crush and I was trying to impress you.” She stood up and tossed the crumpled facecloth at him.

He caught the damp cloth, knuckling it. “It didn’t impress me. It made me sick.”

This was exactly why she hadn’t answered his letters. He didn’t understand how harsh he’d been. How harsh he could be. Niccolo had been raised in a wealthy, aristocratic Italian family. His values were old-world, old-school, and despite the fact that he embraced much of the American culture, he still believed a woman’s virtue was by far her most precious asset. Instead of being flattered by her attempt at seduction, he’d been appalled. Appalled and disgusted.

Meg stood up, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Shadows formed blue crescents beneath her eyes. Her dark curls had come loose from their twisted knot, creating inky tendrils around her pale face.

She turned from the mirror, too tired and worn out to make an attempt at smoothing her stray curls. “This won’t work, Nic. Let me go to a hotel. Francesca will understand.”

He stopped her as she tried to step past him, catching her by the hand, his fingers sliding up to capture her wrist. He held her closely against him, just as he had when she was younger and needing comfort after Jared died.

“But I won’t understand,” he murmured. “I don’t know what’s happened to us. I don’t know why you’re so angry with me. You can’t even talk to me without spitting and hissing like a frustrated kitten.”

She didn’t hear his words, only felt his warmth. She’d forgotten how sensitive he made her feel, as if her limbs were antennae, her skin velvet-covered nerve endings. It was a dizzying sensation to be so close to him, intense and dazzling. He might have been Jared’s best friend but he didn’t feel like Jared. He didn’t feel like a brother at all.

Her heart thumped painfully hard, and for a second she longed to wrap her arms around him, to seek the warmth she’d once found in him.

Before she could speak, Francesca, the housekeeper of the last thirty three years, appeared, wiping her hands on a white apron.

“Dinner’s ready,” Francesca announced, beaming with pleasure. “Come, Maggie, I’ve made you a special pasta, very light, very fresh. I think you will like it very much. Please. Come. Sit down.”

The kitchen smelled of olive oil and garlic. Francesca had set two places at the rough-hewn pine table near the massive stone fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the fat beeswax pillar candles on the table glowed with light.

“Smells wonderful,” Meg said, surprised that the scent of garlic and onion didn’t turn her stomach. She sniffed again, checking for a fishy smell or a hint of shrimp, but nothing rankled her nose. In fact, her stomach growled with hunger. But then, Francesca had always been an incredible cook. She could make the simplest ingredients taste exquisite.

Niccolo held a chair out for her, and Meg took a seat at the table.

“Everything is very fresh,” Francesca said again, serving the bowls of pasta and presenting them at the table. “I remember you like olives in your pasta, and these are just perfect. Clean and sweet, not bitter.”

Nic opened a bottle of Dominici red from his private reserve. They ate in near silence, making small talk about the weather and the local wines.

Meg was grateful that Nic steered the conversation away from personal topics, and gradually her tension headache began to ease.

The phone rang down the hall. Although it was close to midnight, Francesca answered it. “The papa,” she said, returning to the kitchen.

“My father,” Nic said, standing. “I must take this call.”

“Of course,” Meg answered, breaking her crusty roll. She knew that with the time difference between California and Florence, Nic did a lot of business late at night. The Dominici family owned wineries in Italy and northern California. Niccolo was in charge of the California winery. His father and younger brother managed the Italian estates.

Francesca waited until Nic was gone to approach Meg. She didn’t waste any time with small talk. Instead she gave Meg a long, considering look. Meg shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the housekeeper’s eyes.

Tension mounted. Francesca didn’t move.

Finally Meg dropped the crusty roll on her plate and wiped her fingers on her napkin. “Yes, Francesca?”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“No.” The denial was so automatic, the response so instinctive, that Meg didn’t even consider admitting the truth.

The housekeeper clucked and shook her head. “Do your parents know?”

“They’ve been on vacation.”

“So you are pregnant.” Francesca folded her hands across her middle. “You came to the right place. Niccolo will take care of you.”

“No! No, Francesca, that’s not even an option. Nic and I…no. Absolutely not.”

The housekeeper looked offended. “What’s wrong with my Niccolo?”

“Nothing’s wrong with Nic, but this isn’t his problem.” More firmly, she said, “I’m doing very well. I don’t need help.”

“But you’re not married.”

“I don’t have to be married to have a baby.”

Francesca’s displeasure showed. “You don’t know anything about babies. It’s not easy being a mother. I know.”

“I’ll learn.” Meg pushed back from the table. “I’ve always wanted children. This is a good thing. I’m not ashamed.”

“So why won’t you tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Nic asked from the doorway. He took his seat at the large pine table and glanced from his housekeeper to Meg. “What should I know?”

Meg raised her chin. “About my new job working with the Hunts.”

He shot the housekeeper a quick glance. Francesca shrugged and turned away. Nic looked at Meg. “Your job?” he prompted.

“Yes,” Meg answered, sending a wary glance in Francesca’s direction. “With the Hunts. They’re interested in renovating their gardens.”

Pots suddenly banged in the deep cast-iron sink.

Meg raised her voice. “It’s a century-old estate.” More pots crashed. Meg winced but bravely continued. “I’ve spent the last year courting them. I really wanted this opportunity—”

“Francesca.” Niccolo’s reproach silenced the pot banging. The housekeeper shrugged and turned to other tasks. “Please, cara,” he said to Meg, “finish your story.”

“It’s not really a story. It’s just my job.” And the opportunity of a lifetime, she mentally added.

“Your parents mentioned that the Hunts interviewed six landscape designers, but you were the only American.”

“Flattering, isn’t it?”

“They picked you.”

“Yes.” She couldn’t hide her pride, or her pleasure. The Hunt gardens were among the finest in California. “I’m thrilled. This isn’t just work, it’s a dream. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve been fascinated with the Hunt estate. I remember creeping around their hedges, hiding in the old maze. Their gardens were magical, and now I have a chance to work new magic.”

“Is that who you were meeting with today?”

“Yes. I’ll be meeting with them for the next several months. I’ll commute back and forth from New York. It’ll be quite an intensive project.”

Nic raised his wineglass. “To you, cara. I’m proud of you. This is really quite an achievement.”

She raised her glass, and Niccolo clinked goblets with her, the fine crystal tinging. But instead of sipping the wine she set her goblet down and took another bite from her pasta.

“You’re not drinking?” Niccolo set his goblet down.

Of course he’d notice something like that. He was a winegrower. He made some of the finest table wines in California. “I have to be up early,” she answered. “I’ll need to be sharp.”

“Of course,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her.

Francesca suddenly turned from the sink. “I’ll make a lunch for you tomorrow. A roll, some fruit, meat and cheese. You like yogurt, yes? I shall send a yogurt, too, that way you can nibble whenever your stomach doesn’t feel so good.”

Meg remembered the picnic lunches the housekeeper used to pack for them when they were kids. They were the best sack lunches in the world. “Thank you, Francesca,” she said, touched by the housekeeper’s kindness. “I’d like that very much, as long as it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Francesca answered stoutly. “You’re family. You will always be family.”

It was the same thing Niccolo had said earlier.

This time the words evoked a rush of longing so intense that Meg’s eyes nearly filled with tears. She was suddenly reminded of the years come and gone and the pain they’d all shared when Jared died that horrible Christmas and Maggie had taken the blame. For a split second she wished she could go back through time and make it the way it once was, but that was an impossible wish. Jared was gone, and her friendship with Niccolo had never been the same.

“Thank you, Francesca,” Meg answered softly. “Have a good night.”

“Seeing you again makes it a good night.”

Despite her protests, Niccolo walked with her to her car to claim her overnight bag. “You’re not worried I’m going to sneak away, are you?”

The corner of Nic’s mouth lifted wryly. “No. I have your parents’ house key here,” he said, patting his sport jacket.

“You don’t trust me.”

“Should I?”

“I’m wearing panties, I promise.”

“These jokes…I don’t find them funny at all.”

She stood up on tiptoe and patted his cheek. He smelled like oranges and sandalwood, decidedly Roman. He had his fragrance made for him on the Continent. Another little luxury he took for granted. “You never did, Nic. I drove you crazy even when I was eleven.”

His golden eyes glinted in the moonlight. She thought he looked troubled, almost sad. He gazed at her, taller by a full head and shoulders. His thick hair hung long enough to brush his collar. He’d always worn his hair long. It was more European, and it suited his features. Niccolo might own a home in northern California, but he was pure Italian. Old-world Italian, at that.

“You look thin,” he said, after a moment. “Are you starving yourself?”

“You only date broomsticks, Nic. How can I be too thin?”

His mouth curved, transforming his darkly handsome face into something impossibly beautiful. She suddenly wondered if he knew how devastating his smile was. He had to know.

She tried to picture him practicing his smile at the mirror but failed. Niccolo didn’t practice charm. It just happened. He wore his strength and elegance as if it were one of his Armani suits.

“But you’re Maggie,” he answered, his smile fading. “You’re not meant to be a broomstick.”

He still didn’t understand that she’d grown up. She was certain he only saw the sixteen-year-old hellion when he looked at her. “I’m twenty-eight, Niccolo, and I’m not Maggie anymore. I go by Meg.”

“No.”

“Yes. Meg or Margaret, take your pick.”

His brow furrowed, his upper lip curled. She reached up and pressed two fingers against his lips. “Oh, Nic, don’t. That’s an awful face.”

“But you give me such awful choices, cara,” he said against her fingertips.

Her fingers tingled, and she pulled them away. “But those are your choices. Meg or Margaret.”

“Never Margaret. You’re not a Margaret. And Meg? That sounds like a seasoning. I prefer Maggie. It fits you. Quick, lovely, unpredictable. That’s my Maggie.”

A bittersweet emotion filled her. “Am I lovely?”

He didn’t immediately answer, considering her question. Then deliberately he tilted her face up, studying her in the moonlight. The intensity in his gaze stole her breath. “More lovely than you have the right to be after all the heartache you’ve caused me.”

“I’ve caused you heartache?” She felt her mouth tremble. Hope and pain blistered her heart. She hated the complexity of her emotions. It wasn’t fair. Her world had changed. She had changed, and yet here she was, still so drawn to Niccolo.

His palm felt rough against her jaw. The pad of his thumb lightly caressed her cheek. “More than you’ll ever know.”