The Italian Groom

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?