Jane Porter - The Italian Groom

“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.