The Italian Groom. Jane Porter
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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