Jane Porter - The Italian Groom

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.