Her New Year Baby Secret(18)

But what would it be like not to feel as if every relationship was  ticking towards an expiration date, not to worry about getting in too  deep, about not raising expectations he had no intention of fulfilling?  For every new woman to be an adventure, a world to be explored, not a  potential trap? He'd never cared before, happy with the limits he set  upon himself, upon his time, upon his heart. But, for the first time in a  really long time, as he helped Sophie ashore, felt the warm clasp of  her hand, watched her face alight with sheer happiness as she took in  every detail on the colourful island, Marco was aware that maybe, just  maybe, he was missing some colour in his perfectly organised,  privileged, grey life.





CHAPTER EIGHT

IT WAS THE MOST beautiful commute in the world. How many people  travelled to their office by boat? Marco took a deep breath, his lungs  glad of the fresh salty air, a much-needed contrast to the polluted  London air he usually breathed in on his way to work. No, he thought as  he steered his boat across the lagoon towards the dock at the mainland  Venetian district of Mestre, this was a much better way to spend his  early mornings.

Marco hadn't intended to work from the Santoro Azienda offices, but he  found it easier to concentrate away from the palazzo. Bianca was staying  at home until her wedding and every room was full of tulle or confetti  or wedding favours-it was like living in a five-year-old girl's dream  doll's house. Besides, working at the palazzo meant working in close  proximity to Sophie and that, he was discovering, was distracting. And  if his mother and sister were at home, then they kept interrupting him  to ask his opinion on everything from how the napkins should be folded  to where Gia Ana should be seated, given that she had fallen out with  every other member of the family.

And when they weren't at home, then it was almost impossible for him not  to seek Sophie out on some barely disguised pretext-or for her to  casually wander by him-knowing that within seconds their eyes would  meet, hold, and, like teenagers taking advantage of an empty house, they  would drag each other into the nearest bedroom... There was something  particularly thrilling about the illicitness of it all, the sneaking  down corridors, the stolen kisses, the hurried pulling off clothes or  pulling them back on again. Not that his mother or Bianca were fooled  for a moment, but that wasn't the point. It was all about appearances.  His mother would only countenance an engaged couple sleeping together  under her roof. Or not sleeping...

Yes, working at the palazzo certainly had its benefits, but he had far  too much to do to allow himself to be continuously distracted, so, for  the last couple of days, knowing his mother was so busy with the final  details for the wedding she was unlikely to be at work, he had taken to  heading off to the office early, returning home during the long lunch  break to meet up with Sophie, who was spending most of her mornings  working on Bianca's dress. He didn't have to come home, she'd assured  him, she was happy to explore Venice on her own if he was too busy, but  he was enjoying rediscovering his city, seeing it through her eyes as  she absorbed the sights and smells of the city.

The Santoro Azienda offices were a short walk away from the dock. As his  parents' real estate and other business interests had expanded and they  had taken on more and more staff it had become increasingly clear they  needed professional offices out of the palazzo. The decision to base the  offices on the mainland hadn't been taken lightly, but for the sake of  their staff, many of whom no longer lived on the islands, it had made  sense and twenty years ago they had moved into the light, modern,  purpose-built building. All glass and chrome, it was as different from  the palazzo as a building could be.

Until last week Marco hadn't set foot in the offices in ten years. It  was one of the many things he'd regretted since he'd shouldered his  father's coffin to walk it down the aisle towards the altar-and yet he  still couldn't see any other way, how he could have played things  differently. It took two to compromise and he hadn't been the only one  at fault.                       
       
           



       

Marco strode through the sliding glass doors and, with a nod at the  security guard and the receptionists, headed straight for the lifts and  the top floor, exiting into the plush corridors that marked the Santoro  Azienda's Executive Floor. Left led to his parents' offices, right to  the suite of rooms he was using. He hadn't turned left once since he'd  returned to the building.

He stood and hesitated, then, with a muffled curse, turned left.

His parents had had adjoining offices on opposite corners of the  building, sharing a PA, a bathroom and a small kitchen and seating area.  He'd been in his teens when they'd relocated here, spending many days  in one office or the other being put to work, being trained up to manage  the huge portfolio of properties and companies they owned. No one had  ever asked him if it was what he wanted. If they had noticed that he was  happier rolling his sleeves up and engaging on the ground level, they  ignored it. He was destined to take over and his interest in art and  antiques, in dealing directly with people, was a quirk, a hobby.

'A multimillion-euro hobby, Papà,' he said softly. Not that it would have made any difference.

His father's name was still on his office door and Marco stood there for  a long moment staring at the letters before twisting the handle and,  with a deep breath, entering the room. It was a shock to see that  nothing had changed, as if his father could walk in any moment, espresso  in hand. The desk still heaped with papers, the carafe of water filled  on the oak sideboard, the comfy chair by the window, where his father  had liked to sit after lunch and face the city while he took his siesta.  Photographs covered the walls, views of Venice, of buildings they  owned, goods they made, food prepared in restaurants they owned. There  were no photographs of Marco or Bianca. 'The office is for work,' his  father used to say. And work he had, in early, out late, deals and  successes and annoyances his favourite topic of conversation over the  evening meal.

Marco picked up a piece of paper and stared at it, not taking in the  typed words. Was his mother coping, doing the work of two people? She  hated delegating as much as his father had, didn't like handing too much  power to people not part of their family.

They were as stubborn as each other.

He barely registered her footsteps, but he knew she was there before she spoke.

'Marco.'

He closed his eyes briefly. 'Hello, Mamma.'

He turned, forced a smile. In the bright artificial office light he  could see the lines on her forehead, the hollows in her cheeks. She was  working too hard, still grieving for his father.

'You've been home for two weeks and yet I barely see you.' Her voice  might be full of reproach, but her eyes were shrewd, assessing his every  expression.

'I've been busy. As have you.'

'Sì, weddings don't organise themselves. Maybe you'll find that out one  day.' She linked her arm through his and gave a small tug. 'Come, Marco,  take coffee with me. Let's have a proper catch-up.'

Words guaranteed to strike a chill through any dutiful child's heart. 'No coffee for me, Mamma. I have a lot to do.'

She stepped back and looked up at him. It was many years since she had  topped him yet he still had the urge to look up-she carried herself as  if she were seven feet tall. 'You work too hard, Marco. A young man like  you should be out, enjoying himself. Sophie must be feeling sadly  neglected.'

'I doubt it. She's making herself a dress for Bianca's wedding. I'm not sure I would be of much help.'

'Clever girl. She's so creative.' Her eyes flickered over his face and  Marco stayed as expressionless as possible. 'We lack that in our family.  We're all good at facts, at figures, at making money, but none of us  has any creativity. It would be nice...' Her voice trailed off, but he  knew exactly what she meant. Nice to breed that creativity in. 'She has  such lovely colouring as well, the peaches-and-cream English  complexion.' As if Sophie were a brood mare, waiting to be mated with a  prize stallion.

The old feelings of being imprisoned, stifled, descended like physical  bars, enclosing him in, trying to strip all choice away. His mouth  narrowed as he fought to keep his cool. 'Yes, she's very pretty.'

'Oh, Marco, she's beautiful. And so sweet. Bianca adores her, says she  is just like a sister. We'll all miss her when she returns to London.  We'll miss you as well. It's been lovely having you home.'

'Luckily for Bianca they have invented these marvellous little devices  which make it possible to communicate over large distances. In fact she  usually has one glued to her hand. I'm sure she can speak to Sophie as  much as she would like to.'