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.
