Her New Year Baby Secret(19)

       
           



       

His mother walked over to the desk and picked up the fountain pen his  father had always used. 'My own mother always said one of her greatest  joys was watching you and Bianca grow up.'

This was a new one. 'Nonna was a very special person. I miss her.'

'She was in her early twenties when I was born, and I, of course, was  very young when I had you. She was still only in her forties when she  became a grandmother. Young enough to be active, to be able to play with  you. Of course, her dearest wish was to see you marry, have a family of  your own.'

'She was taken from us too early.'

'I will be sixty next year, Marco. Sixty.'

He was impressed; she didn't usually admit to her age. 'And you don't  look a day over forty-five. Are you sure you have the right year?'

But she wasn't in the mood for gallantry, barely raising a smile at the  compliment. 'I want to see my grandchildren, Marco. I want to know them,  watch them grow up, not be an old lady, too tired and ill to be able to  play when they finally arrive.'

Marco sighed. 'Mamma...'

'I want you back home, back here, where you belong, heading up the  Santoro family. I want you settled down and married with children of  your own.'

'I know you do. It's all you've ever wanted.'

'I just want you to be happy, Marco.'

He fought to keep his voice even. 'I know. But you have to accept that  happiness comes in many different forms, in many different ways. I like  what I do. I like London.'

'And what of me? Of the business?'

'There are other options. Bianca, for instance. Come on, Mamma, you must  have considered it. Bianca is more than fit to take over from you.  She's the best of us all when it comes to figures, she's ambitious and  she's a Santoro to her fingernails, no matter who she marries and what  her last name is. Don't overlook her. You'll be doing all of us a  disservice.'

His mother only smiled. 'You think I haven't considered her? That your  father didn't? Of course we have. You're right, in many ways she's the  cleverest of us all and when it comes to the finances there's no one I  would rather have in charge. But she doesn't have what your father  had-what you have-she doesn't have the flair, the inspired spark.'

Guilt flared as she compared him to his father and Marco's hands curled into fists involuntarily. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Yes, you do,' she said, staring at him as if she could imprint her  words into him. 'Bianca and I can manage, we can audit, we can run-but  you and your father can build. Can take an idea and make it grow, see  where opportunity lies and grab it with both hands. I'm not discounting  Bianca because she's a woman and getting married, I'm discounting her  because she won't grow the company like you will. Because you are the  heir your father wanted.'

Bitterness coated his mouth. 'Papà didn't want me to be inspired. He  didn't want me to be anything but an obedient clone. He sat in this  room, at this desk, and told me if I went to England, continued to mess  around with antiques, we were finished.'

'They were just words. You know what he was like. Words came too easily  and he never meant them-it was what he did which counted. And he was  proud of you, Marco. He followed your every move. People would tell him  of you, people you worked with in Venice, further afield, would seek him  out to talk of you and he would drink in every word.'

The ache in Marco's chest eased, just a little. 'He never said, never showed that he even knew what I was doing...'

'You didn't give him the opportunity. Besides...' she shrugged '...he  was too proud to make the first move. He was proud, you are proud and  here you are.'

'He sat there and disowned me and when I disobeyed him he...' But he couldn't say the words.

'He had a heart attack,' she finished calmly. 'It wasn't your fault, Marco.'

Easy for her to say. He knew better; he'd always known. 'Of course it was. If I had settled to be what he wanted...'

'Then you wouldn't be you. He knew that. But it hurt him that you barely  returned. That from the moment you went to London you never again spent  a night under our roof.'

Misunderstandings, pride, stubbornness. Family traits passed on from  father to son. 'I couldn't. I didn't dare. I couldn't let his health  blackmail me into compliance, nor could I let him work himself into one  of his passions. It was better to stay away.' He stopped, bleak. 'He  died anyway.'                       
       
           



       

'Sì. But not because of anything you said or didn't say but because he  didn't listen to his doctor, didn't listen to me, didn't exercise or  take his pills or cut down on red meat. Stubborn. But it's not your  fault, Marco. That first heart attack would have happened anyway, you  must know that. We're lucky we had him for another ten years.'

But Marco hadn't had him; he'd lost his father long before. 'And now  it's too late, he's gone and he didn't even know I said goodbye.'

Her eyes were soft with understanding, with love. 'He knew. You came  straight away. He was conscious enough to know you were there. Forgive  yourself, Marco. Nobody else blames you for any of it, nobody ever did.  But I would like you to come home, at least to be here more often. To  advise me even if you won't take over. I just want to see my son more  than a couple of hours once or twice a year.'

'Yes.' His mind was whirling. Why had his father never told him that he  was proud of him, never said he hadn't meant a word of the bitter  denunciation that had left him in the hospital and Marco in exile? But  his mother was right. Marco hadn't stayed away just out of fear he would  trigger another heart attack, he'd stayed away out of pride. Just as  bad as his father. Maybe it was time to let some of that pride go.

'Yes,' he said again. 'I can be here more often. And I can't promise you  I'll take over, but I can advise-and make sure you have the right  people in place to help you. You need to delegate more, Mamma, and  accept that people who aren't Santoros can still care about the  company.'

'It's a deal.'

Relief flooded through him. They had compromised and, for the first  time, he didn't feel that she had tried to manipulate him; she had  respected his decision. He would, should spend more time in Venice. It  was only right that he at least took a board role in his family company.

He bent, kissed his mother's cheek and turned to leave but stopped as she called his name softly. 'Marco?'

'Yes?'

'Ten years wasted, Marco, out of pride, out of anger...' She paused.  'Don't make that mistake again. I know you say you aren't ready to marry  and I know you are angry with me, with your father, for what happened  ten years ago. But don't let that pride, that anger, push Sophie away.  She's a lovely girl, Marco. But I don't think there will be second  chances with that one. You need to get it right.'

'Mamma, we've only just met.'

'I know, and I am staying out of it.' Despite his prickle of annoyance  he couldn't help an incredulous laugh at her words. 'Just think about  it. That's all I'm asking. Just take care with her.'

'Okay.' He could promise that with an easy mind. Taking care came easily  to him; he knew how to tread for an easy relationship and an easier  exit. 'I'll take care. Now I really have to get on.' But as he walked  away her words echoed in his mind. No more second chances. He didn't  need a second chance. He liked Sophie, he liked her a lot, enough to  know that she deserved a lot better than anything a man like him could  offer. He should thank her though, for all her help. He might not be  able to offer her happy ever after-and she probably wouldn't take it if  he did-but he could offer her one perfect day. It was the least he could  do. It had to be; it was all that he had.





CHAPTER NINE

TO SOPHIE'S AMAZEMENT Marco was still in the breakfast room when she  came down, having overslept again. She stopped and hovered at the door,  stupidly shy.

How she could feel shy when he'd left her bedroom just four short hours  ago, how she could still feel shy after the things they'd done in that  bedroom, eluded her and yet her stomach swooped at the sight of him and  her tongue was suddenly too large for her mouth, like a teenager seeing  her crush across the hallway.

They hadn't eaten breakfast together since that first morning. He was  usually already out working when she came downstairs, their first  communication of the day at lunch. Lunch was civilised, easy to  navigate, but breakfast? Breakfast was an intimate meal. She wasn't  ready for breakfast...

His presence wasn't the only thing that had changed. The atmosphere in  the palazzo seemed lighter somehow, less fraught. Less weighted with the  air of things left unsaid, when the silences were more eloquent than  words. For the first time since the party she and Marco had stayed at  the palazzo for dinner last night and Marco hadn't tensed up too much  when his mother had quizzed Sophie once more about her future plans and  shot him meaningful glances every time she did so. Marco's mother was  very charming, but over the space of the evening she'd ramped up the  inquisitional levels to almost overbearing, her hints so broad Sophie  hadn't known where to look half the time. She'd aimed for obliviousness,  but it was difficult to look unknowing when she was invited to try on  Marco's dead grandmother's engagement ring, asked about her perfect  honeymoon plans or how many children she wanted and didn't she think her  eyes with Marco's colouring would look cute in a baby?