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How had it taken seven years? Her parents had known it almost instantly, as had her few friends. And yet she’d chosen Harry over every single one of them, sure that she saw something special in him nobody else could see. Maybe if she’d been more confident, maybe if she hadn’t felt so alone when she met him...
No, there were no maybes. She had only herself to blame. What a fool, young and blinded by lust and romance. Never again.
She looked over at her friends, forcing a smile. ‘I have a request, no, a demand. You must promise to seat me at a table full of fabulous, fun single ladies. No set-ups with your cousin’s best friend’s brother’s boss just because he visited Manchester once and so we’ll have lots in common and no nudging me towards the best man because that’s what happens at weddings. I want a party table.’
‘It’s a promise,’ Ashleigh agreed, turning to greet Lukas with a brilliant smile as he put another champagne-filled ice bucket down on the table along with another bottle of mineral water. Maybe she was too used to cheap cava, but Sophie just couldn’t drink the champagne; every sip tasted sour. Not only was she a third wheel, but she was a sober third wheel...
What was wrong with her? She should be having a good time; she looked okay, her dress had got several appreciative comments, which was always warming to a designer’s ears, the food was really tasty, the band talented and the ballroom looked like a very tasteful winter wonderland. It was New Year’s Eve and she was out with her best friends being wined and dined. Sophie straightened. She was being selfish. She shouldn’t need anything more.
Except...
Sophie’s gaze slid, not for the first time, over to the large round table at the other side of the room. Marco was leaning back in his chair, a glass clasped elegantly in his fingertips, apparently deeply involved in a conversation with the couple sat next to him. Only a slight inclination of the head and a tilt of the glass towards her in a light toast betrayed his awareness of her scrutiny. But he knew, she had no doubt. He’d known every time.
It was only nine o’clock. Two hours until their promised dance.
The third of the six courses had been cleared away and Emma and Jack had taken advantage of the hiatus in the meal to dance—if you called moving very slowly staring intensely at each other dancing. Grace and Finlay were sitting opposite Sophie, but there was no point trying to chat to either of them; they were looking into each other’s eyes, emitting so much heat Sophie had moved the water jug closer in case they suddenly combusted. As for Ashleigh, Sophie hadn’t seen her friend for several minutes, but at last sight she had been towing Lukas determinedly towards the closet Sophie had discovered earlier.
She had a choice. She could spend the next two hours sitting here feeling sorry for herself or she could allow herself some real fun. The kind of fun she’d been too busy accommodating Harry to enjoy before. The kind of fun she hadn’t allowed herself since the breakup. Just looking at Marco made her stomach fall away and her breath hitch, but she was no longer a naïve teenager who couldn’t tell the difference between lust and love. And that was what this was: pure and simple delicious lust. If she knew that, remembered that, then what harm could a few more hours in Marco’s company do?
And as the thought crossed her mind her hand rose, almost by its own volition, and, with her eyes fixed on Marco, Sophie slowly and deliberately wound a lock of hair around her finger and smiled.
* * *
He’d been aware of her every second of the evening, from the moment she’d walked away from him to rejoin her friends. The swish of her hair, the sway of her hips, the curve of her mouth. It was as if an invisible thread stretched across the vast room connecting them; every time she moved he felt it, a deep visceral pull.
It was unlike any reaction he’d ever had towards a woman and it wasn’t hard to work out why; he didn’t need a degree in psychology to realise that she was probably the first woman to walk away from him and he was completely unaccustomed to not calling the shots in all his relationships, personal and professional. No wonder his interest was piqued.
Not that he wanted her to know it. Knowledge was power in every relationship, no matter how temporary.
But Marco knew every time Sophie slid a look in his direction, he felt the tension in her as if it were his, he knew she would cave in eventually and so, with a surge of triumph, he watched her as she reached up and wound a lock of silky blonde hair around her finger, a provocative smile on her full mouth—and a challenge in her eyes.
Marco’s expectations of the evening had risen the second he’d caught sight of the elusive Signorina Bradshaw; at that look in her eyes they took flight. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, pushing his chair back and languidly getting to his feet. No need to rush. She wasn’t going anywhere. ‘I have some personal business to attend to.’
He held Sophie’s gaze as he moved with predatory grace across the dance floor, his steps slow and easy until he came to a halt in front of her. Sophie sat alone on one side of the table, the only other occupants breaking off from an intense conversation to watch, open-mouthed, as he extended a hand. ‘Signorina?’
Sophie arched an elegant bow. ‘Sir?’
He smiled at that, slow and purposeful. ‘Would you do me the honour?’
‘How very unexpected.’ Her eyes laughed up at him. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘I believe the words you are looking for are “Thank you. I would love to.”’
‘Are they? In that case thank you, I would love to.’ And she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to lead her from her chair and onto the dance floor.
She slipped into his arms as if she had never left, every curve fitting perfectly against him, her arms resting naturally around his waist. ‘Are you having a nice evening?’ It was a strangely formal question considering the way her body was pressed to his.
‘I am now,’ Marco answered gravely and, with some satisfaction, watched the colour rise in her cheeks. ‘Have you attended this ball before?’
‘I was here last year.’
‘No, I was here also. How on earth did I miss you? Impossible.’
She smiled, a dimple peeping out. He remembered that dimple; it had enchanted him the first time she had smiled, snowflakes tangled in her hair, slipping on the snowy ground. ‘Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough. So this is a regular event for you?’
He shrugged. ‘Usually. One of my clients always has a table and so here I am.’
‘How very convenient. Don’t you want to...’ But she trailed off, shaking her head. ‘Never mind.’
‘Don’t I want to what?’
‘I’m just being nosy. It’s just, isn’t spending New Year with clients a little, well, impersonal? What about your friends and family?’
His stomach clenched. Tomorrow would be all about family—with one glaring omission. ‘My clients are my friends as well, of course. Most of the people I know in the UK I met through work. What about you? Who are the people you are here with?’
The dimple peeked out again. ‘Work friends,’ she admitted. ‘London can be a lonely place when you first move here.’
‘You’re not from London?’
‘Manchester, and no, I’m not spending New Year with my family either. I did Christmas and that was more than enough.’ A shadow crossed her face so fleetingly he wondered if he’d imagined it. ‘How about you? Whereabouts in Italy are you from?’
‘Venice.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Oh, how utterly gorgeous. What an amazing place to live.’
Amazing, thrilling, beautiful, hidebound, full of rules and expectations no man could be expected to keep. ‘You’ve been?’
‘Well, no. But I’ve read about it, watched films, seen pictures. It’s at the top of my bucket list—lying back in a gondola and watching the canals go by. Masked balls, palazzos, bridges...’ She laughed. ‘Listen to me, I sound like such a tourist.’
‘No, no. It is a beautiful city. You should go.’
‘One day.’ She sounded wistful. ‘How can you bear to live here when you could live there? London is cool and all, but Venice? There’s a story, a view around every corner.’
‘And a member of my family, or an old family friend, or their relative. Sì...’ as her eyes widened in understanding ‘...Venice is beautiful, captivating, unique, all these things and I miss it every day, but it is also an island. A very small island.’
‘Gets a little claustrophobic?’
‘A little. But London? Here a man can be who he wants to be, see who he wants to see, do the work he feels fitting. Be his own man.’
‘London’s not that big,’ she pointed out. ‘After all, I’ve bumped into you twice—literally the first time!’
‘Ah, but, signorina...’ he leaned forward so his breath touched her ear and felt her shiver at the slight contact ‘...that was fate and we don’t question the workings of fate.’
They were so close he could feel her heart racing against him before she pulled back. ‘Still, small or not, it must be a wonderful place to live. Are your parents still there?’
‘My mother,’ he corrected her. ‘My father died ten months ago.’ He steeled himself for the usual hit of guilt, regret and anger. Guilt his father’s heart had been weakened in the first place, regret they had never patched up their relationship—and anger his father would never now admit that Marco had a right to a life of his own.
‘Ten months ago? That’s so recent, I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘She must miss you, your mother.’
He allowed a smile but knew it was wintry at best. ‘Miss me? I’m not sure. Miss telling me how to live my life? Every day.’
‘I know a little about that. What does your mother want that’s so terrible?’
Marco shrugged. ‘What every Italian mother wants for her children, especially her only son. A place in the family business under her eyes, a wife, children, the usual.’
‘And you aren’t hankering for bambinos clustered around your knee?’ She didn’t sound disappointed or disapproving, which made a refreshing change. So many women seemed to see Marco’s lack of interest in a family as a personal affront—or, worse, a challenge. ‘Sunday morning football, wet wipes in every pocket? I have two brothers and they both have kids. I know the drill.’
‘I like my life the way it is. Why complicate it?’
‘And I take it no interest in a wife either.’ She smiled, a small dimple charming him as she did so. ‘Your poor mother.’
‘She only has herself to blame,’ he said lightly. ‘My marriage is an obsession with her. I remember going to my mother’s friend’s house and while the mothers talked I played with the daughter. She was a nice girl, sporty. We got on really well. When we left my mamma asked me if I liked her and when I said I did she said bene she would make a good wife for me. I was five!’
‘All mothers do that. My mother was convinced I’d marry Tom next door. He played the violin and sang in the church choir, always said hello and helped shovel snow or rake leaves. Perfect husband material.’
‘And yet he isn’t here with you tonight?’
‘Well, it turns out that Tom prefers boys to girls, so even if I had been tempted, it was never going to happen.’
‘Lucky for me.’ He pulled Sophie in close and swung her around. ‘Tell me, signorina, why are we here in this beautiful room dancing to this beautiful music and discussing my mother? I can think of many more interesting topics.’
Her eyes laughed up at him. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as how very sexy you look in that dress. Such as how very well you dance. Such as what shall we do with all this time until midnight?’
Sophie swallowed, her eyes luminous in the bright, pulsing disco lights. His eyes were drawn to the graceful column of her neck, the lines of her throat, and he ran his thumb down her skin, feeling her pulse speed up. ‘Do?’ she echoed a little hoarsely. ‘Why, signor, you asked me to dance and so far we’ve just swayed to the music. Less talk, more dancing. It’s New Year’s Eve after all.’
There was no conversation after that, just dancing, movement, an intimacy that could only be conjured by two bodies caught up in the same beat. Sophie could move, hair flying, eyes shining and silver minidress glittering in the disco lights as she swayed and turned. ‘A childhood full of dance lessons,’ she told him during a breathless break. ‘I did it all, ballet, jazz, tap. I have medals and everything.’
But as the night neared midnight the music slowed and she was back in his arms. The ballroom was filled with anticipation as the seconds began to tick away, people gathering in groups ready to welcome in the new year. Marco steered Sophie to a secluded corner of the dance floor, not wanting the shared jollity, the drunken group embraces that so often marked the new year’s first seconds. ‘Felice anno nuovo.’
‘Happy New Year, Marco.’ Her eyes were half shuttered, her lips full and inviting. He knew the taste of them, the sweet plumpness of her bottom lip, knew the way her hands wound into his hair as a kiss deepened, how her skin slid like silk under his fingertips. Just a dance, he’d said. Surely they’d both known that after the night they had shared they couldn’t possibly stop at dancing. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve; it was customary to kiss.
And how he hated to be rude. Just one kiss, to round off the evening, to round off their brief but, oh, so pleasing acquaintanceship.
Sophie purred her approval as he lowered his mouth to hers, her hands tightening on his shoulders, her body swaying closer until he felt every curve pressed tight against him. Marco was dimly aware that the room was erupting with cheers as the new year dawned, could hear bangs and pops as the balloons and streamers were released and the first chords of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ began to echo around the room, but it was as if he and Sophie were separated from the cheerful celebration, hidden in some alternate dimension where all he knew was her mouth under his, her body quivering under his caress, her touch on his neck, light enough to drive a man mad.
And then it was over as she stepped back, trembling and wide-eyed. ‘Thank you for a lovely night. I don’t think...I mean, my friends will be looking for me.’
It took a few moments for her words to penetrate his fogged-up brain. All he wanted was to pull her back in, take her mouth again, hold her still. Marco inhaled, long and deep, pushing the dangerous desire deep down where it belonged.
‘It was my pleasure. I am glad I got to meet you again, signorina.’ He took her hand, bowing formally over it, then stepped back, a final farewell. She hesitated for the briefest of seconds and then, with a quick smile, turned away.
A pleasant interlude and now it was over as all these interludes eventually were. Unless...
Tomorrow he returned home. Returned to a wedding, to play a part, to the weight of parental expectations, no less heavy with the loss of his father. Returned to guilt.
He could do with a distraction.
Sophie obviously wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship; in fact this was the third time she’d walked away from him without a backwards glance. A wry smile curved his mouth; thank goodness her response to his kiss had been so all encompassing or he’d be wondering if the attraction was one-sided. And she had never seen Venice...
She would make the perfect distraction, for himself and for his family.
Marco didn’t want to take any more time to think his idea through, not when Sophie was disappearing into the revelling crowd. ‘Sophie?’ She stopped and turned, a confused expression on her face.
He crossed the distance between them with a few long strides. ‘My mother will be holding her annual party on the sixth of January, for Epiphany. I have to be there, to co-host, in place of my father. Would you like to be my guest?’
The confusion deepened. ‘Me? Come to Venice? But...’
‘You said yourself how much you want to go.’
‘Yes.’ She looked tempted for a moment, then frowned again. ‘But, Marco, I hardly know you. You don’t know me and I’m not really looking for anything, for anyone. I like you, I like spending time with you...’
‘And I like spending time with you and I really would like to get to know you better. And that’s all this is, Sophie. A couple of days in Venice, a party and then we go our separate ways. What do you say?’
* * *
‘Of course you should say yes.’ The ball might officially be over for another year, but the evening was far from finished yet—after all, as Emma pointed out, they hadn’t properly celebrated Grace’s engagement yet—and so they had all piled into taxis and gone back to The Armstrong, the hotel Finlay owned and where the newly engaged couple had met, to finish welcoming the new year in in style. It was a novel experience for Sophie to be escorted up to the exclusive suite as a guest, not a maid, and to sink onto one of the comfortable sofas, the room-service menu at her disposal and the promise of a car to take her home.
A novel experience for Sophie, but all her friends seemed to take this level of luxury almost for granted; even Grace stepped into the private lift as if it were an everyday occurrence for her. And now it was. Grace, just like Ashleigh and Emma, was marrying into some serious wealth.
This evening, lovely as it was, was exposing the very clear differences in Sophie’s future and the paths her friends were headed down—and made her even more determined to shape hers the way she had always intended it to be. This year she’d put some serious effort into the website she’d recently set up and start trying to sell her designs. She clenched her hands at the familiar twist of excitement and fear. What if Harry was right? What if she was wasting her time?
Grace plumped down onto the sofa opposite, heaving her bare feet onto the glass coffee table with a sigh of relief. ‘I agree. Go, have fun. It’s always quiet at work at this time of year—and we’ve been run off our feet for months. Take some time off. You deserve it.’
‘I’ll lend you the fare if you need it. Consider it an early birthday present.’ Ashleigh seated herself next to Sophie and nudged her. ‘Venice, Soph. You’ve always wanted to go.’
‘Marco offered to pay for my ticket. No, don’t look so excited. He has loads of air miles from his work. It’s not a big deal.’ Actually it was. Sophie didn’t want to admit how much his casual ‘I’ll cover all expenses, it’s the least I can do, you’ll be far more of a help than you realise’ had touched her. Harry had not only always expected Sophie to pay her way but frequently his as well. He was a musician after all, above mundane worldly tasks like making a living. ‘It’s just, I hardly know him.’
Grace raised her eyebrows knowingly. ‘Didn’t look that way from where I was sitting tonight. The chemistry between you two...oof!’ She fanned herself dramatically, ducking with a squeal as Sophie threw a cushion at her.
‘What do you need to know?’ Ashleigh asked, squeezing Sophie’s hand. ‘What would make you feel better about going?’
Sophie shrugged, unable to articulate the prickle of unease that ran over her when she thought about accepting Marco’s casual invitation—or, more worryingly, the ripple of excitement overshadowing the unease. ‘I don’t know where he lives. I don’t exactly know what he does for a living. I don’t know if he likes music or books or walks in the country.’
‘What do you know?’ Emma curled up next to Grace. ‘Tell us about him.’
‘He’s Italian, does something to do with art and antiques. Erm...he’s lived in London for ages but really loves Venice, you can hear it in his voice. He has a gorgeous accent, dresses really well, his suits look handmade to me, beautifully designed, great fabric.’
‘Focus, Sophie. We want to know about the man, not his clothes. How does he make you feel?’
How did he make her what? When Sophie had packed her bags, the shattered remaining pieces of her pride and her bruised heart and moved over a hundred miles away to start again, the one thing she had guarded herself against was feeling too much. It was thanks to her emotions she had fallen into such a sorry state in the first place. She picked up a cushion and cradled it close, as if it were a shield between her and the rest of the world while she thought. ‘He makes me feel sexy. Wanted. Powerful.’ Where had those words come from? But even as she spoke them Sophie knew that they were the truth—and that not once, in seven years, had Harry made her feel any of those things. Desperate, insecure, weak, needy, pathetic? All the above. Never powerful. Never wanted.
She straightened, turning to stare at Ashleigh half excited, half terrified. ‘I should go, shouldn’t I?’
