“Ten years, and you still haven’t changed.” Niccolo’s softly-accented voice echoed with disgust, his sensual mouth flattening in anger. “You never would listen to reason –“

“Nic, I’m only asking for the spare set of keys to my parents’ house,” Meg interrupted, trying to ignore the churning in her stomach. “These are not trade secrets.”

One of his black eyebrows lifted. “Is that a joke?”

She fought her fatigue and impatience. It wouldn’t help to get into an argument with Nic. Nic would win. He always won.

Struggling to sound reasonable, she reminded him of the long-standing agreement between their families. “It’s always been policy to keep a spare key for each other, in case of emergency. It’s never been a problem before, and I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of it now.”

“Because it’s not safe for you to stay alone at your parents. The ranch is isolated. I’m ten minutes away if something should happen.”

“Nothing will happen.”

His voice fairly crackled with contempt. “Maggie, you attract trouble like pollen attracts bees. I’ve saved your skin from more scrapes –“

“I never asked for your help!”

“No, but you needed it.”

“You don’t know what I need, Nic. You just like to think you do.” She clenched her jaw, furious with herself for coming to the villa in the first place. If she hadn’t misplaced the key ring to the house, she wouldn’t be having this conversation with Niccolo Dominici, nor would she be receiving another of his famous lectures.

He made a choking sound and muttered something in Italian.

“What was that?” she demanded, knowing how he loved to resort to Italian when he wanted to say something particularly unflattering.

“I said I should give up on you.”

Meg stiffened indignantly, her shoulders squaring. She’d allowed him to crush her years ago, her tender seventeen-year-old heart broken by his harsh rejection, but thankfully she wasn’t a teenager anymore. “Then do! I don’t need your so-called help.”

“So-called?” he bristled, golden eyes glinting. The rapid pull of muscle in his jaw revealed her barb hit home. She’d insulted him, bruising his considerable Italian machismo. Nic stared at her through narrowed lashes. “You’re fortunate that we have a very old friendship.”

“It’s not much of a friendship,” she retorted grimly. “In fact, you’re the last person I’d describe as a friend.”