The Italian Groom. Jane Porter

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