The Italian Groom. Jane Porter
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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