скачать книгу бесплатно
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.
Meg stood up, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. Shadows formed blue crescents beneath her eyes. Her dark curls had come loose from their twisted knot, creating inky tendrils around her pale face.
She turned from the mirror, too tired and worn out to make an attempt at smoothing her stray curls. “This won’t work, Nic. Let me go to a hotel. Francesca will understand.”
He stopped her as she tried to step past him, catching her by the hand, his fingers sliding up to capture her wrist. He held her closely against him, just as he had when she was younger and needing comfort after Jared died.
“But I won’t understand,” he murmured. “I don’t know what’s happened to us. I don’t know why you’re so angry with me. You can’t even talk to me without spitting and hissing like a frustrated kitten.”
She didn’t hear his words, only felt his warmth. She’d forgotten how sensitive he made her feel, as if her limbs were antennae, her skin velvet-covered nerve endings. It was a dizzying sensation to be so close to him, intense and dazzling. He might have been Jared’s best friend but he didn’t feel like Jared. He didn’t feel like a brother at all.
Her heart thumped painfully hard, and for a second she longed to wrap her arms around him, to seek the warmth she’d once found in him.
Before she could speak, Francesca, the housekeeper of the last thirty three years, appeared, wiping her hands on a white apron.
“Dinner’s ready,” Francesca announced, beaming with pleasure. “Come, Maggie, I’ve made you a special pasta, very light, very fresh. I think you will like it very much. Please. Come. Sit down.”
The kitchen smelled of olive oil and garlic. Francesca had set two places at the rough-hewn pine table near the massive stone fireplace. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the fat beeswax pillar candles on the table glowed with light.
“Smells wonderful,” Meg said, surprised that the scent of garlic and onion didn’t turn her stomach. She sniffed again, checking for a fishy smell or a hint of shrimp, but nothing rankled her nose. In fact, her stomach growled with hunger. But then, Francesca had always been an incredible cook. She could make the simplest ingredients taste exquisite.
Niccolo held a chair out for her, and Meg took a seat at the table.
“Everything is very fresh,” Francesca said again, serving the bowls of pasta and presenting them at the table. “I remember you like olives in your pasta, and these are just perfect. Clean and sweet, not bitter.”
Nic opened a bottle of Dominici red from his private reserve. They ate in near silence, making small talk about the weather and the local wines.
Meg was grateful that Nic steered the conversation away from personal topics, and gradually her tension headache began to ease.
The phone rang down the hall. Although it was close to midnight, Francesca answered it. “The papa,” she said, returning to the kitchen.
“My father,” Nic said, standing. “I must take this call.”
“Of course,” Meg answered, breaking her crusty roll. She knew that with the time difference between California and Florence, Nic 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.
