The Italian Groom

The local wineries had formed a co-op to promote northern California wines. The council was in the final stages of planning and implementing an international advertising campaign highlighting Napa’s outstanding red wines.

The television and print advertisements would feature the Italian film star Sonia Carlo sipping a California Cabernet. It was hoped her celebrity endorsement would create excitement in the foreign markets.

At last the discussion came to an end, and Nic politely excused himself, knowing he didn’t have much time if he wanted to make it home to take the conference call with his father.

Yet after reaching his car, he realized he’d left his cell phone behind. With a soft oath, Nic returned to the building and crossed the cool, dark lobby, pungent with the smell of oak, sulfur and fermenting grapes. When he was a boy he’d thought the smell too sour and raw. Now it was comforting. Like coming home.

Opening the door to the wine-tasting room, Niccolo heard Maggie’s name mentioned. He froze, sure he’d been mistaken. But the vintner at the far end of the table repeated himself.

“That’s right. I saw her myself. Maggie Buckner is back, and from what I heard, she’s in some serious trouble.”

CHAPTER THREE

NICCOLO froze, his hand on the doorknob. Maggie, his Maggie, in trouble? No, he hadn’t heard right. Maggie was doing just fine.

“That poor family!” Another grower spoke. “They’ve certainly had their share of trouble. The last thing John and Eileen need is more heartache.”

Niccolo felt rooted to the spot. He knew he should open the door and interrupt. He knew he should intervene. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t bring himself to speak.

“They said she wasn’t drinking,” a woman said. “They tested her at the police station.”

“But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t driving recklessly,” one of the men interrupted. “I don’t know another teenager that pierced more body parts than Maggie Buckner.”

“It was just her ears. She had a whole row of studs up and down her ear.”

The gossip infuriated Niccolo. He knew people in small towns liked to talk, but this was ridiculous. He opened the door and stepped into the room, but no one saw him. They were too busy wagging their tongues.

“Why didn’t her parents do something?” the vintner from Copper Cellars demanded. “I’ll tell you why. They couldn’t. Maggie had John and Eileen over a barrel. If Maggie’s in trouble, she has no one to blame but herself. If she cared about anyone but herself Jared would be alive today—”

“That’s enough!” Niccolo’s voice sliced through the room. “It’s been years since the accident. Why can’t you leave her alone?”

The growers gazed at him, white-faced and uncomfortable.

A moment ago voices had filled the tasting room. Now silence lay like a suffocating blanket. Finally, one of the growers spoke. “Niccolo, it was just talk. No harm was meant.”

“I’m tired of this. I’m tired of you using Maggie as a topic for discussion.”

“Don’t be mad, Nic—”

“I’m not mad, I’m furious. You’ve never cared a whit about Maggie other than labeling her difficult and a troublemaker.” His voice rang in the hushed room. “By the way, Maggie is in town. She’s my guest. She’s staying at my house while she works with the Hunts on their garden renovation.”

His chest tightened, his anger turning on himself. This was his fault. They blamed Maggie because they didn’t know the truth. He should have spoken up years ago, put the matter straight. Instead he’d bitten his tongue and looked the other way. “And one last thing,” he added, his voice throbbing with emotion. “Maggie’s not in trouble. If she was in trouble, I’d be the first to know.”

The sun was setting when Meg pulled into the Dominici driveway. The ten-hour workdays were putting a strain on her nerves. Today her headache threatened to reduce her to tears. She desperately craved rest and a quiet, dark room.

Francesca met her at the door. She anxiously knotted her apron. “Niccolo is waiting for you by the pool.”

“I’m not interested in a swim.”

The housekeeper’s forehead furrowed. “I don’t think he’s thinking of a swim, either.”

Meg heard the warning in Francesca’s voice. “Has something happened?”

“I’ve told him nothing.”

“Francesca—”

“He returned from a winery meeting in a black mood.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, but I warn you, something’s eating at him.”

Meg sighed, already exhausted. She wasn’t prepared for a scene with Nic. He was the strongest, most stubborn man she’d ever met. If he had a bone to pick, he picked it clean. She stepped out of the villa’s cool interior onto the broad steps leading to the pool. The setting sun cast long red-gold rays across the water’s surface, reflecting onto the sweeping stone deck and illuminating the massive Italian clay pots filled with dwarf citrus trees. The heady perfume of lemon blossoms hung in the air, a favorite fragrance of Meg’s since she had been a girl. But it was impossible to enjoy the scent now, not with her anxiety about Niccolo’s mood.

She spotted a towel stretched across one of the chaise longues, but she didn’t see Nic.

Relief briefly washed over her. He must have returned to the house for something.

Her shoulders dropped, and she took a deep breath. What on earth had happened at the winery meeting? How could it involve her?

Slowly Meg walked along the edge of the pool. The garden had always enchanted her. She responded to the luxurious use of blue tile and stone, the garden a fanciful interpretation of life in ancient Rome. More massive pots, clinging vines, small citrus trees. The enclosed garden was a perfect balance of light and scent and sound.

“I thought you trusted me.”

Meg started, surprised by the grate of Nic’s deep voice. She turned toward the sound, a small shiver coursing down her spine. She shouldn’t let him unnerve her. He couldn’t do anything to her. They were adults. Equals.

Nic sat beneath a market umbrella, his face hidden in the shade. “You should have come to me if you needed help.” Disappointment tinged his voice.

“I don’t need help,” she answered sharply, defensive.

He pushed up from the chair and walked toward her. His casual shirt hung open, unbuttoned to reveal his bronzed chest and the hard, flat muscles in his abdomen.

Meg inhaled quickly, taken aback by his blatant virility. He’d never been shy, but he’d never been so confident, either.

“I hate hearing others talk about you.”

She felt a lump form in her chest. It threatened to seal her throat.

He glanced at her as he walked past her. “Because they do talk, Maggie. They enjoy your escapades.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.” She barely managed to get the word out, her voice strangled, her chest tight like a vise. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t have found out.

But he would, sooner or later.