The Italian Groom. Jane Porter
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“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