The Italian Groom. Jane PorterЧитать онлайн книгу.
can anyone love a place and yet hate it at the same time? How can such a good place be so brutal?” Her voice quivered with passion.
“The land didn’t kill your brother.”
“No, but it took him anyway.”
He didn’t contradict her. Even now he couldn’t drive the back road where Jared had crashed without feeling anger and loss. And guilt. Guilt that Jared had been the one at the wheel. Guilt that he’d survived and Jared died. Guilt that Maggie had taken the blame for Jared’s mistake. He knew better than anyone that the accident had nearly destroyed Maggie’s parents.
He glanced down at her bent head. “I still miss him.”
She tried to smile through her film of tears. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank me. I loved your brother.”
She bit her lip, working the flesh between her teeth. He could feel her silent pain, and it tore at him. “Your brother was my closest friend. He was more of a brother to me than my own.”
“Mom and Dad don’t talk about him anymore. I know it’s painful for them, but I miss saying Jared’s name. I miss hearing stories about him.”
“You can always talk about him to me. I like to remember him, too. I like to remember the good times.” Then he lifted the travel bag off her shoulder. “So you will stay tonight. It’s decided.”
“Nic—”
“We agreed last night that this was the best place for you to stay.”
“We didn’t agree. You told me to stay. That’s different than me agreeing.”
He tried to keep a straight face. “Must be a translation problem.”
“Your English is perfect. So is your tendency to dominate. Which is why it’d be better if I stayed somewhere else. I don’t need to quarrel with you. I have too much on my mind.”
He merely smiled. Maggie had never been easy. “Agreed. Now, come sit down and tell me about your work. I’m anxious to learn more about the Hunt gardens.”
She wrinkled her nose again, obviously skeptical. “You don’t like gardening, Nic. You only care about grapes and wine.”
“That’s not true. I’m very proud of the Dominici gardens.”
“The only reason you have gorgeous gardens is your grandfather and mother labored over them for nearly forty years. You’d plow the whole thing under if you thought you could get away with it.”
“But I’d put the soil to good use.”
“Pinot noirs, perhaps?”
He chuckled, delighted. She might have grown up, but she was still feisty, still spirited. “They’re certainly easier on the tongue than topiaries.”
She laughed, just as he intended, and he felt a rush of tenderness. Jared had once said there were two ways to change Maggie’s mood—tease her or kiss her. Either worked to diffuse her notoriously quick temper.
Tease her or kiss her.
Niccolo gazed at Maggie’s mouth. She was wearing sheer lipstick, a soft shade that suited her dark hair and fair complexion. Despite the elegant cut of her blue tailored jacket and the thick strand of pearls around her neck, she looked far from cool, definitely not conservative. It was her mouth that betrayed her warmth. Her lips were lush, her upper lip bowed, a mouth made for champagne, dark chocolate and lovemaking.
Niccolo sucked in air, stunned by the thought. Make love to Maggie? Never. She might not be a girl anymore, but she was still young, still inexperienced. He cared for her deeply, but his feelings were platonic. She was the sister he’d never had.
He was resolved that nothing would come between them again. He refused to let their relationship change. She needed him, and he needed her. Period.
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