That elusive, kissable dimple peeked out at the corner of her mouth. ‘Another room for unsuspecting guests to get lost in?’
‘Did you see how the door was almost hidden in the panelling? It’s an assignation room. Ancestors would slip away in the middle of a ball to meet their lovers here discreetly.’
‘Not Grandfather Lorenzo surely?’
‘Probably not him. But the rest of the Santoros. We’re a degenerate lot.’
‘Consider me warned. So, Signor Santoro, did you bring me here for nefarious purposes?’
His voice was soft but full of intent and satisfaction ran through him as he saw her shiver, her eyes dilating at his words. ‘I wanted to say hello to you properly.’
‘And how were you planning to do that?’
She was teasing him, leading him exactly where she wanted him to go, exactly where he wanted to be. Here, now, no need to plan or think ahead. Just two people enjoying all the benefits of mutual attraction. He took another step and then another, backing her up until she hit the wall, her breath coming in short pants. Slowly but with absolute intent Marco put one arm on the wall and leaned in so she had to look up at him, her body guarded by his, surrounded by his. It took all his strength not to pull her in close, crush her against him, not to lose himself in that mouth, that small perfect body, her sweet-smelling hair. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi yourself.’
Her mouth curved, the dimple provoking him, daring him, tempting him and, with a groan, he succumbed, dipping his tongue into the small hollow, her answering shiver pushing the last restraints away. With a smothered growl he swung her up in his arms, capturing her mouth with his, inhaling, demanding, needing, taking as he carried her over to the chaise, discreet in the corner of the room. Her kiss was equally fierce, her hands twisted in his hair as he lowered her onto the green brocade. Sophie lay, hair fanned out around her, eyes half closed, chest heaving. Marco stared down at her, trying to regain some vestiges of control. She extended a hand, her eyes wicked in the lamplight. ‘Come on, then, signor, show me just how a Santoro conducts an illicit liaison.’
CHAPTER SIX
‘GOOD MORNING, SLEEPYHEAD.’ Marco looked up as Sophie entered the ridiculously huge breakfast room. He looked completely at home—not surprising, she reminded herself. This was his home. He sat back in a comfortable-looking chair, newspaper spread open before him on the polished table, coffee in one hand. It was all quite normal—or at least it would be if the table weren’t large enough to seat thirty, every chair an antique and the view out of the line of shuttered windows not one she had seen in a hundred iconic photos.
‘It’s only eight a.m.—and considering I’m still on London time and got lost three times finding the breakfast room...’ Was this whole room seriously just to eat breakfast in? It was plausible. The palazzo was big enough to have a brunch room, afternoon-tea room, supper room and midnight-snack room if the owners wished. ‘I think I’m pretty bright and early.’
Especially as the man lounging opposite with a wicked grin in his eyes had kept her up half the night, leaving her room sometime in the early hours. It was better to be discreet, he’d said; his mother would be calling the banns if she found him in there—but Sophie hadn’t minded. Sex was one thing, it was just intense chemistry, but sleeping together? That was real intimacy.
Marco smiled, the slow, sexy grin that made the breath leave her lungs and her knees weaken. ‘I thought we’d get breakfast out, the Venetian way. Are you ready to go or do you need more time?’
‘Ready? I’ve been ready since you mentioned this trip, ready since I got a passport, since I first saw Indiana Jones. I mean, we have canals in Manchester, but it’s not quite the same. And the sun’s shining. In January! What else could I possibly need?’ Sophie had dressed with care for a day’s sightseeing in a grey wool dress she had bought from a Chelsea charity shop and then redesigned, taking it in, shortening it and adding pink and purple flower buttons in two vertical rows to the flared skirt. A pair of black-and-grey-striped tights, her comfiest black patent brogues, her thick black jacket and a bright pink hat and gloves completed her outfit. She bounced on her toes. ‘Let’s go.’
Marco took a last, deliberate swig of his coffee before pushing his chair back and languidly getting to his feet. ‘In that case, signorina, I’m at your service. I thought we’d start the day on foot and head onto the water later. Does that sound agreeable?’
‘On foot. By boat, or even on a donkey. I’m happy any way you choose.’
Sophie had been too anxious the day before to really take Venice in. She had clear flashes of the city like snapshots of memory: the first glimpse of the Grand Canal, the flaking pastel paint on the canal-side palazzos, a gondola, boats crammed with people pulling in at a stop as nonchalantly as a red London bus stopping outside her flat. The greengrocer boat bartering and trading just like a market stall at the Portobello Market and yet strange and exotic. But the whole had escaped her and she was at fever pitch as Marco guided her along the gallery and down the stately staircase back into the vast hallway. It was almost an anticlimax when Marco ushered her out of the palazzo’s grand double doors, at the other end of the hallway from the water door she had entered by, to find herself on a street, no water to be seen.
Okay, it was as far from her busy, traffic-filled, bustling London home as a street could be. Narrow and flagstoned, almost an alley, with aged buildings rising on either side. Doors lined up on both sides, some preceded by a step, others opening directly onto the street, and shuttered windows punctuated the plaster and stone of the graceful buildings. Voices floated from open windows, the Italian fast and incomprehensible. The air throbbed with vibrancy and life.
She hadn’t expected this somehow. Venice was a fairy-tale setting, a film backdrop, a picture; she had forgotten it was a home too. How could Marco bear to live away from this unique beauty?
‘This way,’ he said, slipping on a pair of sunglasses against the sun’s glare. He was more casually dressed than she had seen him so far in a pair of faded jeans, which clung perfectly in all the right places, a thin grey woollen jumper and a double-breasted black jacket. Somehow he managed to look both relaxed and elegant, a combination few British men could pull off. ‘Hungry?’
‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘Actually a lot. I could barely eat anything last night.’ Nor had she managed much in the day, her stomach twisting with nerves.
‘We don’t usually have much for breakfast in Venice,’ he said to her dismay. ‘A coffee, maybe a brioche or small pastry standing up at the bar. But on a special occasion we visit a pasticceria for something a little more substantial. You do have a sweet tooth, don’t you?’
Obviously it was far more sophisticated to say no, actually she only liked to nibble on raw cacao and a few olives were more than enough to satisfy her snack cravings, but honesty won out. ‘Like a child in a sweet shop.’
‘Bene, then I think you’ll be more than happy.’
The next few hours slipped by like a dream. First Marco took her to a little neighbourhood pasticceria, which showcased a breathtaking array of little pastries and cakes in the display cabinets under the glass and wood counters. People dressed for work queued at the long polished wooden bar, where they quickly tossed back a small, bitter-looking coffee and maybe ate a pastry before ducking back out into the street, another caffeine seeker seamlessly moving into their place. Breakfast almost on the go. Marco and Sophie elected to take a little more time and sat at one of the elegant round tables, where Marco introduced Sophie to frittelle, round, doughnut-style pastries stuffed with pine nuts and raisins. ‘They are usually eaten during carnivale,’ he explained as Sophie uttered a moan of sheer delight at the taste. ‘But some places make them all year round.’
‘I’d love to see carnivale,’ she said, licking her fingers, not wanting to waste even the tiniest crumb. ‘It sounds so
exotic.’
‘It’s crowded, noisy—and utterly magical. I have missed the last few, thanks to work, and every year I wish I’d been able to make the time to be here. There’s nothing like it.’
Her curiosity was piqued by the longing in his voice. ‘But you could live here if you wanted, couldn’t you? You were working yesterday. Couldn’t your business be based here?’
‘Like I said in London, Venice is a village on an island. There’s no escape. Besides, it’s good to try somewhere new, you know that. Where are you from? Manchester, didn’t you say? You moved cities too.’
He was eyeing her keenly and Sophie shifted, not comfortable with the conversation turning to her and her decision to move to London. ‘I think every home town can feel like a village at times. So, what else are we going to do today and will it involve more cake?’
After their brief but sugar-filled breakfast Marco led her along some more twisty streets. At the end of every junction she could see water, her throat swelling with excitement every time she heard the swish of waves lapping against stone, until finally she was walking along a pavement bordering not a road, but a broad canal complete with boats; private boats, taxis, even a police boat serenely cruising along. Sophie had to stop and photograph everything, much to Marco’s amusement—especially the fat ginger cat sunning himself on one of the wooden jetties.
She was especially charmed when their route brought them out at a traghetto pier and Marco, after a quick conversation and handshake, gestured for her to get in and stand in the long, narrow boat. Two more passengers joined them before the two oarsmen—one at the front and one at the rear—pushed off and began to steer the boat across the Grand Canal.
‘These are the traditional way to cross the Grand Canal.’ Marco was standing just behind her, one hand on her shoulder, steadying her as the boat rocked in the slight swell of the water. ‘There are seven crossings, although there were many more when my parents were small. The businesses have often been in families for generations, passed on from father to son.’
‘Why are there two prices? Is one a return?’
‘One for tourists and one for residents, but Angelo here considered you a resident this time.’
‘Because I’m with you?’
‘And because he said you have beautiful eyes.’
Sophie could feel her cheeks heat up and she was glad Angelo was too busy rowing to notice her reaction—and that Marco couldn’t see her face at all.
After disembarking from the traghetto they headed to the tourist mecca of St Mark’s square. It was still too early for many visitors to be out and about—and now that the Christmas holidays were finished Venice was entering its quiet season—but they were far from alone in the vast space. People were taking photos of the ubiquitous pigeons and the imposing tower or were sitting outside one of the many cafés that lined the famous piazza. Sophie’s camera was in her hand instantly, every view, every angle needing capturing whether it was the blue of the canal and the lagoon beyond or the old palace, dominating the other end of the square.
Three hours later Sophie was light-headed and slightly nauseous. They had toured the Doge’s Palace, crossed the infamous Bridge of Sighs and, thanks to an old school friend of Marco’s, got a chance to see some of the hidden parts of the palace including the pozzi, tiny, dank, dark cells where Casanova had once been imprisoned. When Marco suggested a walk down to the Rialto Bridge she gave him a pleading smile. ‘Can I have some lunch first? I know it’s early, but I’m hungry and my legs don’t seem to want to walk anywhere without sustenance and a sit down.’
‘Sì, of course.’ He didn’t seem at all put out that she hadn’t fallen in with his suggestion. It was so refreshing; she’d never been able to make off-the-cuff suggestions to Harry. At the merest hint that his itinerary didn’t suit her he would fall into a monumental sulk, which would need all her best cajoling and coaxing to pull him out of. Her heart clenched at the thought. What had she been thinking of? To allow such a spoilt brat to dictate her life for so long? Of all the ways to choose to assert her independence. If she could only go back in time and talk sense into her eighteen-year-old self, then...eighteen-year-old Sophie would probably have ignored her as she’d ignored everyone else. Too giddy with lust, with independence, too convinced it was love. Too foolish.
But no, she wasn’t going to sully one moment of this perfect day thinking about her past, indulging in regrets. She was in Venice with a gorgeous, attentive man and he was about to provide lunch. Life really didn’t get much better than that.
* * *
Marco knew the perfect place for lunch. Close enough to St Mark’s for his hungry companion, far enough away to avoid tourist prices and menus. A locals’ café, with fresh food, a menu that changed daily depending on what was in at the markets and a bustling, friendly atmosphere. He used to eat there with his father, but when long, conversational lunches had turned into lectures with food he had stopped coming. He couldn’t wipe out the last ten years of cold civility, couldn’t repair his father’s heart—but maybe he could reclaim some of the spaces they used to inhabit.
They had barely set foot over the threshold when he saw her, straight-backed, elegant and as lethal as a tiger eyeing her prey. His chest tightened. She hadn’t come in here to wait for them, had she? Surely even his mother wasn’t that conniving. But it was barely noon and she usually ate a little later than this. And that was an unusually triumphant look in her eyes.
‘Marco, vita mia, how lovely to see you and your bella friend.’ She leant in and embraced Sophie, who returned the traditional two kisses with a dumbstruck look Marco was sure must be mirrored on his own face.
‘Mamma,’ he said drily. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Sì,’ she agreed, but even though her eyes were wide and candid, Marco knew better. ‘But a lovely one, no? I barely got to talk to Sophie yesterday. I hear you are staying for Bianca’s wedding? We are delighted to have you with us for longer and, Sophie, cara, please consider the palazzo your home the whole time you are in Venice.’
There was no way out. Half amused, half annoyed, Marco accepted his mother’s invitation to join her and they were soon seated at an intimate table for three so his mother could begin her interrogation. At least the food would be good, he thought as he ordered a vermicelli al nero di seppia for himself, a dish he refused to eat anywhere other than Venice, and advised Sophie, who still looked a little pale, to try the risotto. He then poured them all a glass of the local Soave and sat back to watch the show.
‘So, Sophie, what is it you do in London?’ And she was off... If Sophie had any secrets, they would be expertly extracted before the bread and oil reached the table.
Or not. By the end of the meal Marco knew very little more than he had at the start. Maybe she was secret-service trained because Sophie Bradshaw had avoided every one of his mother’s expertly laid traps like a professional—and what was more, she had done it in such a way Marco doubted his mother had noticed. She had mentioned two brothers and nieces and nephews—and then, while his mother had gone misty-eyed at the very thought of babies and grandchildren, had turned the tables and asked his mother so many questions about Bianca’s forthcoming wedding his mother had been quite disarmed. Very clever.
Marco leaned back in his chair and eyed Sophie thoughtfully. It hadn’t mattered that he knew little more than her name when she had been due to spend less than forty-eight hours with him, but now she was staying with his dangerously excitable family for over a week he found himself a little more curious. Who was Sophie Bradshaw and what did she really want? Was she really as happy with a casual relationship as she’d made out? She liked fashion and designing—although she had told his mother that she took other jobs while she worked to get her business off the ground. What other jobs? She came from Manchester but at some unspecified point had moved to London. She had two brothers and five nieces an
d nephews. That was it. All he knew.
He didn’t need to know more. Why would he? After next week he would probably never see her again. But he’d never met a woman less willing to share—and there was a shadow behind those blue eyes that made him suspect there was a reason she was so reticent.
Whatever the reason, it was her business; he didn’t need to get involved. Once you got involved, then expectations got raised, then things got messy. He knew that all too well.
It was with some amusement that Marco watched his mother kiss Sophie on both cheeks and embrace her warmly as they left the restaurant—and even more amusement that he heard Sophie suck in a huge sigh of relief. ‘Well done, you held her off beautifully.’
‘I thought I was going to crack any minute.’
‘It was a good move to bring up Bianca’s wedding. That’s been her sole focus for the last year and the only thing guaranteed to distract her.’
‘It nearly backfired though.’ Sophie pulled on her gloves as they emerged into the bright, sunny but cold street. ‘She managed to bring every question back to me. Would I prefer an A-line or a fitted dress, didn’t I agree that an heirloom tiara was classier than a newly bought one, what colour scheme did I like, would I prefer a princess cut or a pear shape or maybe I wanted sapphires to match my eyes? I got the impression if I gave a straight answer to any question I’d have a ring on my finger and find myself frogmarched down an aisle whether I wanted to be or not.’
Her tone was light, but her words still struck him. He’d expected his mother to take an overactive interest in Sophie, but it was frustrating to have it confirmed that nothing had really changed, that ten years of exile, all the drama and anger had been for nothing. His mother had no intention of respecting his decisions. He tried to keep his own voice equally light, not to let his anger show. ‘You can see why I asked you here. Mamma is obsessed with weddings. While she thinks there’s a chance we might end up together she won’t be busy matchmaking. It’s perfect. I owe you, Sophie. Thank you.’
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