Her New Year Baby Secret(13)

'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.'