Jane Porter - The Italian Groom

“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.”

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.