Her New Year Baby Secret

by Jessica Gilmore

  She’d spoken too soon. As she got her first glimpse of Venice Sophie realised that nothing could have prepared her for her first glimpse of the magnificent island city. Gianni led her out of the airport and, instead of heading to a car park, Sophie found herself at a dock. ‘This way, please,’ Gianni said, briskly walking her past the ferry port and the queues for the water taxis. Sophie wanted to stop and take in the strange sight of passengers embarking onto a row of boats, swaying on the gangplanks as they tried to balance their suitcases. All around her, voices exclaimed, yelled and barked in a mixture of languages, the fresh salt smell of the sea mixing with the less romantic scent of diesel.

  They walked on for another few minutes until Gianni gestured her forward onto a gangplank that led onto a gleaming wooden boat. Two seats at the front were shielded from the elements by a simple screen and a further three comfortable-looking leather benches were arranged around the walls of the small glassed-in cabin. Gianni heaved her suitcase and bag onto the cabin floor, but when he gestured for Sophie to step inside she shook her head. ‘Oh, please, can I sit up front, next to you? I’ve never been to Venice before.’

  Gianni cast an assessing look at her quilted coat and the black velvet jeans she’d chosen to travel in. ‘Sì, but it gets cold on the sea. Do you have a hat?’

  ‘And a scarf and gloves,’ Sophie assured him as she took her place beside the driver’s seat—or pilot’s seat. She wasn’t entirely sure of the correct term for a boat driver.

  It took just a few moments for Gianni to cast off the ropes and expertly manoeuvre the boat out of the dock and around the fleet of ferries, water taxis and hotel boats out into the lagoon. Sophie sucked in a breath of sheer exhilaration as the boat accelerated through the clear blue water and headed towards the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. The island city rose out of the water like a stately dame.

  ‘“Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety”,’ Sophie quoted as the bell tower in St Mark’s Square came into view. It seemed so familiar and yet so new—a picture she’d seen a thousand times and yet never really got until now. Sophie’s heart squeezed and she knew she would always love this ancient city. It was in her blood already, taking further root with every breath.

  She couldn’t speak as Gianni steered the boat into the Grand Canal, just stared, almost overcome by the beauty all around her. Boats passed them, turning down narrow canals, bridges arched overhead and, glancing down a canal on her right, Sophie thrilled as she saw a boat piled high with a colourful variety of fruit and vegetables moored to the side, the owner twisting up produce in paper bags as he sold to eager customers.

  It wasn’t just the beauty of the city, it was the life thrumming through it. This was no museum, a place existing merely for the multitudes of tourists. It was a living, breathing place—and for the next two days she would be part of it. Would belong.

  At that moment the boat began to turn and headed towards a small gangplank and a set of stairs leading directly to a door to an imposing cream-coloured building right on the Grand Canal. What was going on? She’d done a little research and knew that the hotels overlooking the famous canal were exorbitant. Sophie had expected a little B & B somewhere further out of the city. ‘Wait, where are you going?’

  Gianni looked puzzled. ‘To Palazzo Santoro, of course. Signor Santoro asked me to convey you directly.’

  ‘The palazzo?’ Sophie’s hands tightened on the side of the boat. Marco hadn’t mentioned a palazzo—especially not one right on the Grand Canal. Her stomach twisted. Girls from the Manchester suburbs didn’t belong in places like this—not unless they were serving drinks. She took a deep breath. Palazzo probably didn’t mean anything grand. Maybe Marco’s mother had a flat in this building. No one actually owned a building this big, no one Sophie was ever going to meet.

  Before she could completely gather her thoughts the boat had stilled and Gianni was lifting her bags out of the back of the boat and extending a hand to help her disembark. Sophie climbed gingerly over the side of the boat and followed Gianni, treading carefully up the stone steps. He rapped smartly on the door and, as it opened, set Sophie’s bags inside, gave her a friendly nod and ran lightly back down the steps and into the boat. She looked around wildly, hoping for a clue as to where exactly she was going, but all she could see was the open door. And her suitcase and travel bag were inside.

  It fleetingly crossed Sophie’s mind that no one knew exactly where she was—or who Marco was—and she could enter this house and never be seen again. But if it was a kidnap plot, it was far too elaborate a set-up for a waitress living on the outer edges of Chelsea. She took another step up the last step and entered through the ornately carved wooden door and came to an abrupt standstill.

  Had she fallen down a rabbit hole? Sophie had cleaned and waitressed in some seriously swanky homes over the last year or so, but she had never seen anything quite on this scale or of this antiquity. The door led into an immense tiled hallway with a wooden-beamed ceiling and aged-looking frescos on the wall and ceiling, the only furnishings a few very old and very delicate-looking chairs. The hall ran the entire length of the building; she could see double doors at the other end, windows on either side, the sun streaming through the stained glass at the top. A gallery with intricate wrought-iron railings ran all the way around the hallway, accessed by two wide staircases, one at either end of the hall. Sophie could see several closed doors running the length of the room, discreetly hidden in the faded frescos.

  What she couldn’t see was any sign of life. She stepped further in, swivelling slowly as she took in every detail, jumping at the sight of the elderly woman, clad in sombre black from throat to calf, standing statuelike almost behind the open door. ‘Oh, hello. I mean buongiorno.’ All her hastily learned Italian phrases seemed to have disappeared from her head. ‘Je m’appelle... No, sorry, that’s not right. Erm...mi chiamo Sophie. Marco is expecting me, isn’t he? The driver, boatman, he seemed to think he was at the right place.’

  That’s right, Sophie, just keep babbling.

  She was struck by a sudden thought: maybe this was a hotel and the Santoro was just a coincidence—it could be a totally common name like Smith or Brown. ‘Should I check in?’ she enquired hopefully. A check-in desk she could cope with. House rules, room-service menu, hopefully a fluffy white robe.

  The woman didn’t respond. Instead she bent slowly, so slowly Sophie could almost hear the creak of her waist, before picking up Sophie’s suitcase as if it weighed less than an empty pillowcase. Sophie, who had stepped forward to stop her, froze in place as the woman stepped forward, the suitcase almost swinging from her hand. It had taken all Sophie’s efforts just to heave that suitcase onto the Tube. She eyed the woman with respect and stood back out of her way as the woman strode past her with a grunted ‘This way’ as she did so. Sophie followed meekly behind, along the hallway, up three flights of the sweeping staircase and onto a long landing peopled with portraits of men in tights and women with fans. Sophie was panting by this point, but the woman seemed completely at ease and Sophie yet again promised herself a regular routine of Pilates, Zumba and body pump.

  They came to an abrupt halt outside a wood-panelled door. The woman pushed it open and gestured for Sophie to step inside. With a wondering glance she did so, her aching legs and heaving chest instantly forgotten as she turned around in wonder.

  The room was huge, easily twice the size of Sophie’s entire apartment with three huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the canal, shutters swung open to reveal the Juliet balconies outside each one, Venice framed like a living breathing picture within. Although the walls were painted a simple pale blue the ceiling was alive with a fresco of cherubs and angels, partying riotously across the room, edged in gilt matching the elaborate gilt headboard on the huge bed and the elegant chaise positioned before one of the windows. A huge mirror hung opposite the windows reflectin
g the watery light. The woman—a maid? Marco’s grandmother? A complete stranger? Sophie had absolutely no idea—opened one of two matching doors on either side of the bed to reveal a dressing room, complete with dressing table and two wardrobes. The other door led into a bathroom so luxurious Sophie thought she might never be able to leave it.

  ‘The family will gather in the reception room at six,’ the lady intoned and left, shutting the door firmly behind her, leaving Sophie standing in the middle of the room torn between giddiness at the gorgeousness of her surroundings and fear at trying to find her way through this huge house to meet a set of people she didn’t even have names for.

  ‘Breathe,’ she told herself. ‘Live a lot, remember?’ But as she sank onto the bed she was painfully conscious that all she wanted to do was hide away in this room.

  Okay, here was what she knew: this was not an apartment; Marco’s family appeared to own the entire, immense and very old building. Therefore the family party was unlikely to be just a few close friends, a glass of sherry and some pineapple and cheese sticks in the kitchen. The only person she knew was Marco and he wasn’t even here and didn’t expect to be until the party. She lay down and stared up at the cherubs, hoping they might be able to help her.

  On the other hand she was in Venice. Sophie sat up and rolled off the bed, almost running to the window before the thought had fully formed, staring out with rapt eyes at the palazzos opposite, at the boats sailing below. She was in Venice and about to go to a party with a gorgeous man before returning to the most beautiful room she had ever set eyes on. So she was a little daunted? Time to pull on her big-girl pants—well, the nicest underwear she owned just in case—and try to enjoy every moment because she knew all too well that moments like this didn’t come her way all too often.

  ‘Come on, Sophie. Enjoy it. It’s just a couple of days...’ Two days of being someone new. Nobody here knew her, nobody here knew that she was twenty-six, had wasted the last eight years of her life, that she worked sixteen hours a day trying to pay her bills and get her own business off the ground. She wasn’t Sophie Bradshaw, reliable employee of Maids in Chelsea, waitress, chambermaid and cleaner. She was Signorina Bradshaw, the kind of woman who went to glamorous balls and got invited to stay in palazzos. Why not be that woman for two days? After all, she wasn’t expecting to see Marco again after she went back to London. What harm could it do to live the fantasy, just for a little while?

  But as she turned to look back at the ornate room fear struck her once again. How would a girl like her ever fit in a place like this? Even if it was for just a couple of days?

  * * *

  Marco adjusted his bow tie, painfully aware that he was running almost inexcusably late. It had been a long six days. Since his move to London Marco had kept his visits back to Venice as brief as possible—he’d been confident in his contacts in Italy; it had been the rest of the world he’d needed to concentrate on. But a decade was a long time and it was becoming painfully clear a couple of days twice a year was no longer enough. He needed to start spending some significant amounts of time here if he wanted to continue to grow his business.

  His mother was also making it very clear that it was time he stepped up and assumed his role as head of the family. Only, guided by her, of course... His mouth thinned. He’d already fought that battle with one parent and he wasn’t sure either of them could count a decade-long standoff as a victory. And now his father was gone it all seemed pointlessly self-destructive anyway.

  But how could he complain about the burden of his name when every now and then it opened doors to homes and estates that were kept firmly shut to less exalted sons of the city? Today he had spent the day with an impoverished old Venetian family who were reluctantly selling off some of their family treasures and trusted Marco to do the job for them both lucratively and discreetly. Neither would prove to be difficult; he had a long list of potential buyers who would pay more than market value for first refusal on the beautifully carved furniture, Renaissance paintings and elaborate silverware.

  A negotiation like this took time and he had been all too aware that while he was sitting drinking coffee with the Grigionis and dancing ever so politely around his commission, Sophie had arrived to an empty house with nobody to welcome her but Marta, who was a most excellent woman but not the most gregarious of people—and the chances were very high that she would run into his mother before he could warn Sophie just what he was bringing her into.

  Several times over the last few days he had been on the verge of cancelling Sophie’s visit. His mother had been so focussed on finding him a suitable Venetian bride he’d hoped Sophie’s presence would throw her long enough to give him some space—but he’d underestimated her desire to see him wed. His father’s death seemed to have intensified her hopes, and nationality no longer seemed to matter. His mother’s eyes had lit up at the news he had invited a date to the party and she hadn’t stopped asking him questions about his English ‘friend’.

  At least with Sophie by his side she wouldn’t be able to introduce him to any eligible female guests with that specifically intense focus she usually employed. No, it was probably a good thing he hadn’t cancelled. Sophie was here for just a couple of nights, not long enough for his mother to get too attached to her but long enough to throw her off the scent for the rest of his visit. Bringing a diversion was an excellent idea; he didn’t know why he hadn’t considered it earlier.

  The clock had finished striking six when Marco strolled into the salon, adjusting his cuffs as he did so. Sophie was already there talking to his mother and his sister, Bianca, looking a little paler than he remembered but stunning in a pale pink beaded dress, which hung straight down to mid-thigh from two simple knotted straps. Her long blonde hair was knotted up with tendrils curling around her face, her only jewellery a pair of striking gold hoop earrings, which trembled as she moved. His blood began to pulse hot at the sight of her exposed neck. Inviting her had been an excellent idea for several reasons.

  ‘Sophie,’ he said, striding over to her and kissing her on both cheeks in welcome. ‘Welcome. Did you have any trouble finding us?’

  ‘No, no, even I would find it hard to get lost when a boat delivers me straight to the door.’ Bianca and his mother laughed, but Marco’s eyes narrowed. There was a tartness in her voice he hadn’t heard before, the blue eyes icy and cold. Was she cross because he hadn’t met her at the airport? He hoped not. Maybe a decoy was going to be as much trouble as a real girlfriend.

  ‘Mamma, Bianca, please excuse us, I would like to make my apologies to Sophie properly for not being here when she arrived,’ he said, smoothly drawing Sophie’s arm through his. The pre-party drinks were being held in the reception salon, the largest sitting room on the first floor. Like most of the public rooms it overlooked the Grand Canal. Marco walked Sophie over to the furthest window, away from prying ears. ‘I hope Gianni found you all right. I’m sorry I was detained.’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’ But she was still staring out at the canal, her face set. ‘I just wish you’d warned me, that’s all.’

  ‘I didn’t realise until yesterday...’

  ‘No! Not about being met, for goodness’ sake! About this...’ She looked around and he realised with a stab of compunction that her lips were quivering. ‘Marco, every woman here is in a full-on ballgown. They look like they are going to a coronation, not a family party. And me? I’m wearing a little party dress I made myself. I look so underdressed.’

  ‘You look beautiful.’ And she did. Although she was right, all the other women were in floor-length, brightly coloured silk and chiffon gowns.

  ‘And this house! Family party, you said. You forgot to mention that the family is the Borgias! I’ve never been anywhere like this. My bedroom is like a five-star hotel.’

  ‘You don’t like it?’ Marco was struggling to understand the point she was making. So the family home
was big and the party formal? Women usually loved the palazzo, and they loved knowing he was the future owner—owner, he supposed, not that he had any intention of setting up home here even more.

  ‘Like it?’ She made a queer noise, part gasp, part sob, part laughter. ‘It’s not the kind of place you like, is it? It’s magnificent, beautiful, incredible, but it’s not the kind of place I know as home. I don’t fit in here, Marco. Not in this house, not with this kind of wealth. Your mother is wearing a diamond tiara that’s probably worth more than my parents’ house.’ She shook her head. ‘Oh, God, listen to me. I sound like the worst kind of inverted snob. I just didn’t expect any of this. I’m more than a little thrown.’

  Marco had never heard this kind of reaction before. True, most women who walked into the palazzo knew exactly who he was, briefed by their mammas just as he was by his. But even the wealthiest and most well-bred visitor got a covetous look in their eye when they realised the whole of the building still belonged to the family and therefore, by extension, to Marco. This kind of appalled shock was new, but it was also a relief, like a long sip of cold water after a lifetime of rich, creamy milk.

  And she did have a point. He’d brought her here for his own selfish reasons; it hadn’t occurred to him to warn her just what a Santoro party entailed.

  ‘Just be yourself, Sophie. I promise you, everyone will love you—and they will adore your dress. I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me that this would all be a little overwhelming, but I promise to make it up to you. Tomorrow I’ll show you Venice, not a tiara in sight. What do you say?’

  She didn’t answer for a long moment, indecision clear on her face. Then she turned to him, eyes big with a vulnerable expression in them that struck him hard. ‘Are you sure I look all right? I’m not letting you down?’