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The Italian Groom
Jane Porter
Soon Meg's secret would show she was pregnant! However, she was determined to keep it to herself while she visited her hometown in California and came to terms with her future as a single mom.But there was no fooling Niccolo Dominici, darkly handsome winery owner and longtime family friend. In true Italian style, he insisted that he should take care of her and the baby. But Meg knew that marriage to Nicco didn't mean just in name only….



“This marriage. It’s not going to be easy. It won’t be impossible, it’s just not…natural.”
“No.” She laughed shakily. “It’s definitely not natural.”
“But that doesn’t mean we can’t make it work. We just have to try harder.”
“Niccolo, don’t you think this has gone far enough? I’d thought you’d back off from the marriage discussion by now. You’re not really going to go through with this.”
“Oh, yes, we are.”
“Maybe I’m misunderstanding you. Maybe you mean something in name only, an arrangement—”
“That would be convenient, wouldn’t it?” he interrupted. “You have your baby, you have your safety net. Sorry, Maggie, our marriage would be real.”
Shocked, she could only stare at him. A real marriage. Naked, beds, sex. Niccolo making love to her…

VIVA LA VIDA DE AMOR!


They speak the language of passion.
In Harlequin Presents
, you’ll find a special kind of lover—full of Latin charm. Whether he’s relaxing in denims or dressed for dinner, giving you diamonds or simply sweet dreams, he’s got spirit, style and sex appeal!
Latin Lovers is the new miniseries from Harlequin Presents
for anyone who enjoys hot romance!
Look out for our next LATIN LOVERS title in May: Claiming His Wife by Diana Hamilton
Harlequin Presents #2178

The Italian Groom
Jane Porter


For my grandmother, Elizabeth.
I adore you.
Jane

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE
“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.”

CHAPTER TWO
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.
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.
Tease her or kiss her.
Niccolo gazed at Maggie’s mouth. She was wearing sheer lipstick, a soft shade that suited her dark hair and fair complexion. Despite the elegant cut of her blue tailored jacket and the thick strand of pearls around her neck, she looked far from cool, definitely not conservative. It was her mouth that betrayed her warmth. Her lips were lush, her upper lip bowed, a mouth made for champagne, dark chocolate and lovemaking.
Niccolo sucked in air, stunned by the thought. Make love to Maggie? Never. She might not be a girl anymore, but she was still young, still inexperienced. He cared for her deeply, but his feelings were platonic. She was the sister he’d never had.
He was resolved that nothing would come between them again. He refused to let their relationship change. She needed him, and he needed her. Period.
Francesca opened the door and emerged balancing a silver tray with pots of hot coffee and warm milk.
He seated Maggie, and Francesca poured her café au lait, heavy on the milk.
“Would you prefer less milk?” he asked Maggie, noticing Francesca’s heavy handed pouring.
“She likes milk,” Francesca answered firmly, passing a platter of sliced melon and another of warm pastries. “Milk is good for her.”
Niccolo didn’t comment and Maggie lifted her coffee cup, inhaling the steam and fragrant blend. “I’ve tried to give this up, but I can’t. I love good coffee too much. One cup every morning, that’s my limit, yet I do enjoy it.”
“If coffee is your only vice, you’re doing quite well, cara.”
“It all depends on your definition of vice, doesn’t it?” she answered.
He noticed the delicate pink blush staining her cheeks, her coloring so fine that even a hint of a blush made her vivid, exquisite.
“Amore, you’ve grown up. I don’t see how you could possibly have a vice.”
She shook her head, biting her lower lip. He stared at the soft lip with fascination and almost envy. There was so much sweetness in her, sweetness and mystery.
“I’m having guests tonight. A dinner party that’s been planned for months. I’m introducing my new Chianti. It’s one of the first American Chianti ever made with Tuscany grapes. I hope you’ll be free to join us.”

Meg’s second day with the Hunts was again spent in deep discussion. Though the Hunts were committed to renovating their century-old gardens, they found it painful to discuss removing aging trees even though they understood many of the older trees were diseased and dying. Most of the afternoon was spent working through their concerns and acknowledging their sorrow at losing such majestic trees.
Their great devotion to the land was something she understood. Meg sometimes felt trapped in New York, even though she’d chosen for business purposes to make it her home. There were times when all the concrete and asphalt made her head spin. Too much noise, too much smog, too much activity.
Perhaps that’s why she’d channeled her love of gardens into a career. People needed places of refuge. Sanctuary from the busy, modern world. Trees, shade, cool green places, these could restore one’s soul.
Meg’s eyebrows arched at her archaic word. Soul. It wasn’t a very modern notion, and yet nearly everyone called her a very modern woman. Especially her father. But when her father called her modern, he didn’t mean it as a compliment.
Her eyebrows arched even higher as she imagined his reaction to the news of the baby. He’d be upset, angry, disappointed—but not surprised. Certainly not surprised. He’d come to expect the worst from her. He almost expected her to fail him again.
Meg flexed her hands against the steering wheel, miserably aware that her cool relationship with her father was about to get colder.
She pulled into the formal gates leading to the Dominici villa. Valet drivers waved her over. She’d forgotten all about Niccolo’s dinner party, and approaching the stucco and stone house, she heard the sweet plaintive notes of a violin. The Dominicis always mixed music and wine.
Meg hesitated outside the massive front door, listening to the string quartet. It was gorgeous music. A piece by Pachelbel. The brighter notes were tempered by an underlying longing. Much like her own emotions.
Jared. Her father. Niccolo. Everything here felt so complicated. Coming home was the hardest thing she knew how to do. There was a reason she avoided Napa Valley, and suddenly she was in the thick of it, caught up in the intensity and the memories and sorrow. If it weren’t for the Hunts, she’d grab her suitcase and catch the nearest plane to New York. Right now the noise and glare of Manhattan seemed infinitely more palatable than this muddle of emotion.
The Pachelbel piece ended, and Meg shook off her melancholy mood. She was here to work, not to continuously examine her feelings.
Meg discovered Niccolo in the great room that had been designed as a ballroom. It was Niccolo’s favorite room for large parties and winery-related entertaining.
Although Francesca was present, tuxedo-attired waiters served the catered appetizers. Offered a tray of toasted Brie rounds, Meg accepted one and nibbled on it, watching Nic mingle with his guests. He wore a pale green suit and a crisp white shirt. The shirt was open at the neck, revealing a hint of his broad chest, his skin golden from hours in the sun.
He laughed at something one of his guests said, throwing his head back, his dark hair brushing his collar. Supremely male, Meg thought, as he turned to greet another guest. Beautiful, sleek. Powerful.
Suddenly he was looking at her. Their eyes met, and slowly one corner of his mouth lifted in recognition. She felt a bubble of warmth form inside her chest and she smiled back, pleased.
He broke free from the circle of guests and moved through the crowd toward her. Meg balanced the remains of the toasted round on a paper napkin, her appetite gone.
His arms encircled her. His face dipped. Her nose was pressed against the exposed skin at the base of his throat. She felt his pulse and the heat of his chest.
A tremor coursed through her as he lifted her chin, kissing both cheeks. “Maggie, cara, when did you arrive?”
He held her loosely, and yet she was aware of the length of him, his taut hips inches from hers, his strong chest brushing her breasts. Her nipples tingled. She tingled. “Just a bit ago,” she answered breathlessly, disposing of the appetizer on a server’s empty tray.
It was crazy to respond to him like this. She knew how he felt about her, knew he wasn’t attracted to her, and yet her body ignored her brain and flooded her limbs with warmth, filling her with a hot, languid need that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with desire.
“You look tired,” he said, brushing a tendril from her cheek.
“Do I?” She reached up to pat her French twist, feeling better than she had in days. She hadn’t felt all that tired until now. In fact, she hadn’t been queasy once today. “Perhaps I should go upstairs and put on some lipstick.”
“Not to worry, you look lovely. Now come, let me introduce you around.”
Dinner was delicious, and Niccolo’s guests were interesting, but by ten o’clock Meg had slipped away from the festivities to her room.
The guest wing in Niccolo’s stone villa offered elegant sanctuary, and after a long soak in the sunken tub, and after lathering lotion on her skin, Meg pulled on her cotton nightshirt and sat at the dressing table.
Mark hated her roomy blue striped nightshirt. She’d taken it with her on their one and only weekend getaway. Later he’d gone out and bought her a satin and feather concoction that made her giggle. She remembered holding the scrap of fabric to the light. “Mark, what on earth is this?”
“You don’t like it,” Mark had answered flatly, his feelings obviously injured.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just not me.”
Mark had told her to take it back and carelessly tossed the sales receipt at her. Realizing she’d hurt him, she’d tried to appease him. They’d ended up in bed.
They’d kissed before, but never made love. It was the first time they’d been so intimate, as well as the last. But once was more than enough. They’d made a baby, a baby Mark refused to acknowledge.
“There’s been no one else,” she’d told him, horrified that he even suggested she’d been sleeping around.
“I don’t care,” he’d answered bitterly. “I don’t want this baby. You can’t keep it.”
“You’re just angry.”
“I’m not angry. Because I know you’ll do the right thing—”
“Right thing?” she’d challenged.
“Yes, the right thing. This baby isn’t an option.” It was then he’d confessed he was married. He’d said he loved his wife and he didn’t want to hurt her and that if Meg kept the baby, it would ruin his life.
Ruin his life.
Her eyes burned, and she picked up the hairbrush, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out.
How dared he? How could anyone be so self-absorbed?
His life. What about their baby’s life?
Meg dragged the brush through her hair until her scalp tingled and her arm grew weary, refusing to stop until her anger subsided.
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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