The Italian Groom

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.