Her New Year Baby Secret(14)

'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 and 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.'                       
       
           



       

There was just the most infinitesimal pause before Sophie echoed, 'Yes,  perfect. As long as I don't crack. Don't leave me alone with her, that's  all I'm saying. I'm not sure I'd win in a straight duel. Has she always  been this way?'

Marco began to stroll down towards the Rialto Bridge. He planned for  them to cross over the famous bridge and then head back to the palazzo  to collect his boat for the afternoon. 'As long as I can remember.'

'But why? It's usually the other way round, isn't it? Pressure on the  daughter to marry? I'm sure you're a catch and all...' The dimple was  out again and he couldn't stop smiling back in response even though his  mother's obsession with his future was his least favourite topic. And it  wasn't easy to put into words.

'It's not about me, not really. She's obsessed with the past, the  future, the palazzo. Venice is changing, has been for the last fifty  years. More and more real estate is owned by foreigners, many of whom  don't live here, which means more and more families moving onto the  mainland. Both my parents came from ancient Venetian families, together  they owned a lot of real estate, a lot of businesses around the city.'  He allowed himself a brief smile. 'We're a city of traders, of  merchants. Even I, though I wanted to set out on my own, trade goods  back and forth. It's in my blood, like the sea.'

'What does that have to do with marriage?'

'It's about not letting the old bloodlines die out, with keeping a  Santoro in the palazzo, running the family business, sons at his knees,  just like the old days. Now Bianca is getting married-and to another  scion of an ancient family-her attentions can be fully focussed on me.  London might not be far enough. I may try Mars.'

'Would it be so bad? Marriage?' She held her hands up, laughing as he  turned to look at her. 'That's not a proposal, by the way, not even a  leading question. Just plain curiosity.'

'I'm the Santoro heir,' he said. 'It's a position that comes with  privilege, sure, but also with expectations. I'm the only son. And from  the moment I was born I was reminded that I had a duty to the family, to  the name, to Venice. That what I want doesn't matter, that to pursue my  dreams is a selfishness unbefitting a Santoro.' He could hear his  father shouting the words as he spoke them. 'Marriage is part of that  responsibility. So to me it isn't something natural, something healthy,  something good. It's a heavy expectation I'm expected to bear. And now  my father is gone...' He swallowed as he said the words. It still didn't  seem possible. Venice seemed emptier without him, the palazzo hollower.  'Now I'm not just the only son, I'm the only remaining male, it's  become even more imperative to my mother that I marry and soon. But the  more she pushes, the less ready I feel. And I love my city, my family,  of course I do. But I won't sacrifice myself, my integrity to  tradition.'