The Italian Groom
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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.”
CHAPTER THREE
NICCOLO froze, his hand on the doorknob. Maggie, his Maggie, in trouble? No, he hadn’t heard right. Maggie was doing just fine.
“That poor family!” Another grower spoke. “They’ve certainly had their share of trouble. The last thing John and Eileen need is more heartache.”
Niccolo felt rooted to the spot. He knew he should open the door and interrupt. He knew he should intervene. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“They said she wasn’t drinking,” a woman said. “They tested her at the police station.”
“But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t driving recklessly,” one of the men interrupted. “I don’t know another teenager that pierced more body parts than Maggie Buckner.”
“It was just her ears. She had a whole row of studs up and down her ear.”
The gossip infuriated Niccolo. He knew people in small towns liked to talk, but this was ridiculous. He opened the door and stepped into the room, but no one saw him. They were too busy wagging their tongues.
“Why didn’t her parents do something?” the vintner from Copper Cellars demanded. “I’ll tell you why. They couldn’t. Maggie had John and Eileen over a barrel. If Maggie’s in trouble, she has no one to blame but herself. If she cared about anyone but herself Jared would be alive today—”
“That’s enough!” Niccolo’s voice sliced through the room. “It’s been years since the accident. Why can’t you leave her alone?”
The growers gazed at him, white-faced and uncomfortable.
A moment ago voices had filled the tasting room. Now silence lay like a suffocating blanket. Finally, one of the growers spoke. “Niccolo, it was just talk. No harm was meant.”
“I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you using Maggie as a topic for discussion.”
“Don’t be mad, Nic—”
“I’m not mad, I’m furious. You’ve never cared a whit about Maggie other than labeling her difficult and a troublemaker.” His voice rang in the hushed room. “By the way, Maggie is in town. She’s my guest. She’s staying at my house while she works with the Hunts on their garden renovation.”
His chest tightened, his anger turning on himself. This was his fault. They blamed Maggie because they didn’t know the truth. He should have spoken up years ago, put the matter straight. Instead he’d bitten his tongue and looked the other way. “And one last thing,” he added, his voice throbbing with emotion. “Maggie’s not in trouble. If she was in trouble, I’d be the first to know.”
The sun was setting when Meg pulled into the Dominici driveway. The ten-hour workdays were putting a strain on her nerves. Today her headache threatened to reduce her to tears. She desperately craved rest and a quiet, dark room.
Francesca met her at the door. She anxiously knotted her apron. “Niccolo is waiting for you by the pool.”
“I’m not interested in a swim.”
The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t think he’s thinking of a swim, either.”
Meg heard the warning in Francesca’s voice. “Has something happened?”
“I’ve told him nothing.”
“Francesca—”
“He returned from a winery meeting in a black mood.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, but I warn you, something’s eating at him.”
Meg sighed, already exhausted. She wasn’t prepared for a scene with Nic. He was the strongest, most stubborn man she’d ever met. If he had a bone to pick, he picked it clean. She stepped out of the villa’s cool interior onto the broad steps leading to the pool. The setting sun cast long red-gold rays across the water’s surface, reflecting onto the sweeping stone deck and illuminating the massive Italian clay pots filled with dwarf citrus trees. The heady perfume of lemon blossoms hung in the air, a favorite fragrance of Meg’s since she had been a girl. But it was impossible to enjoy the scent now, not with her anxiety about Niccolo’s mood.
She spotted a towel stretched across one of the chaise longues, but she didn’t see Nic.
Relief briefly washed over her. He must have returned to the house for something.
Her shoulders dropped, and she took a deep breath. What on earth had happened at the winery meeting? How could it involve her?
Slowly Meg walked along the edge of the pool. The garden had always enchanted her. She responded to the luxurious use of blue tile and stone, the garden a fanciful interpretation of life in ancient Rome. More massive pots, clinging vines, small citrus trees. The enclosed garden was a perfect balance of light and scent and sound.
“I thought you trusted me.”
Meg started, surprised by the grate of Nic’s deep voice. She turned toward the sound, a small shiver coursing down her spine. She shouldn’t let him unnerve her. He couldn’t do anything to her. They were adults. Equals.
Nic sat beneath a market umbrella, his face hidden in the shade. “You should have come to me if you needed help.” Disappointment tinged his voice.
“I don’t need help,” she answered sharply, defensive.
He pushed up from the chair and walked toward her. His casual shirt hung open, unbuttoned to reveal his bronzed chest and the hard, flat muscles in his abdomen.
Meg inhaled quickly, taken aback by his blatant virility. He’d never been shy, but he’d never been so confident, either.
“I hate hearing others talk about you.”
She felt a lump form in her chest. It threatened to seal her throat.
He glanced at her as he walked past her. “Because they do talk, Maggie. They enjoy your escapades.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?”
“No.” She barely managed to get the word out, her voice strangled, her chest tight like a vise. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t have found out.
But he would, sooner or later.
The intensity in his golden eyes held her captive. She swallowed hard, lifted her chin. “Is there a point to this, Nic? I’m not in the mood for games.”
“And I’ve never played games, cara.”
She bristled at his tone. He made her feel sixteen again, and it was all she could do to keep from rolling her eyes. “So what do you want?”
Niccolo smoothed the towel on the chaise longue. “I want you to sit down here—” he patted the chaise “—and tell me what you’re trying so hard to hide.”
“I’m not trying to hide anything.”
“Lie number one.”
“Nic!”
“I’ll ask you again. What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing. I’m here to do a job. I’m doing the job. That’s it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He wanted to fight. He was trying to be insulting. For a split second she considered telling him the truth. It would shut him up. Stun him to silence. Because of course Nic would be furious. She would have committed the ultimate sin.
But she wouldn’t tell him. It wasn’t his problem. She refused to let him interfere. “I’m going back to the house. I don’t have to put up with this.”
His expression changed, his fierce features softening. “Cara, I don’t want to quarrel. Why can’t you sit down and let us talk? You once told me everything.”
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