Her New Year Baby Secret(22)

'It's far too early for dinner,' he explained. 'But I thought you might  enjoy a picnic. And don't worry, I've remembered your 'no drinking in  January' rule. The bottle is actually lightly sparkling grape juice,  although it really should be Prosecco.'

Sophie didn't need Prosecco, the unexpected sweetness of the surprise he  had so carefully planned more intoxicating than any drink could  possibly be. The grape juice wasn't too sweet, the tartness a welcome  relief against the flaky pastry and sugared fruit of the delicious  tarts. Replete, she snuggled back against Marco's arm and watched Venice  go by. She'd spent many hours on the canals, but the city felt closer,  more magical from the gondola, as if she were in a dream, part of the  city's very fabric.

Marco had obviously planned the route with his friend in advance and the  gondola took them into several hidden corners of the city, going  through water gates into some of the palazzos and even slipping beneath  churches into secret passages. Their route took them through the back  waters and quieter canals and at times it was as if they were the only  people in the city, even their gondolier fading into the background as,  with a final burst of orange and pink, the sun finally began to sink  into the water and the velvety dusk fell.

'I don't know why you said a gondola was a tourist trap. It is the most  romantic thing that has ever happened to me,' Sophie said as the last of  the day disappeared, their way now lit by the soft gold of the lamps,  their reflections glowing in the murky water.                       
       
           



       

'More romantic than you knocking me over in the snow?'

She pretended to think about it. 'Almost. Even more romantic than you chasing me into a cupboard on New Year's Eve.'

'I have fond memories of that cupboard,' he said and she elbowed him.

'Nothing happened in that cupboard, unless you're mixing me up with someone else that night.'

'Oh, no, you are definitely one of a kind,' Marco said softly. 'The first girl who ever ran away from me.'

'I find that hard to believe.' But she didn't. She found it hard to  believe that she ever had run away, that she had had the strength of  will to walk away that first night and again on New Year's Eve. 'Is that  why you asked me here, because I walked away?'

'Ran,' he corrected her. 'One sight of me and you were tearing through  that ballroom like an Olympic medallist in heels. And maybe that's why. I  was intrigued for sure, wanted to spend more time with you.'

And now? She wanted to ask, but she didn't quite dare. The carefully  orchestrated romance of the evening was perfect but could so easily be a  farewell gesture. 'You didn't bargain for quite so much time,' she said  instead. 'Thank you, Marco, I know you were blindsided by your sister,  but thank you for making me feel welcome, for making me feel wanted...'

He leaned over then, pulling her close, his mouth on hers, harder than  his usual sweet kisses, more demanding. He kissed her as if they were  the only two people in the whole of Venice, as if the world might stop  if she didn't acquiesce, fall into it, fall into him. The world fell  away, the heat of his mouth, his hands holding her still, holding her  close all she knew, all she wanted to know. Her own arms encircled him  as she buried one hand in his hair, the other clutching at his shoulder  as if she were drowning and he all that stood between her and a watery  grave.

It was the first time he'd kissed her for kissing's sake, she realised  in some dim part of her mind. That first night they didn't lay a hand on  each other until they were in the hotel room, New Year's Eve she had  walked away from his touch-but if she hadn't, she knew full well they  would have ended up in that same hotel room, the kiss a precursor, a  promise of things yet to come. It would have been another hotel, not his  house; close as it must have been, that was too intimate for Marco, not  her flat, too intimate for her.

Even here in Venice they were curiously separate... Oh, he kissed her  cheek in greeting, held her arm to guide her, but there were no gestures  of intimacy; no holding hands, no caresses as they passed each other,  no cuddles or embraces. No kisses on bridges or boats. Kisses, caresses,  embraces-they were saved for under cover of darkness, saved for passion  and escape. But there could be no passion or escape here in the middle  of a canal, visible to anyone and everyone walking by. This was kissing  for kissing's sake. Touching for touching's sake. This was togetherness.

Her heart might burst-or it might break-but all she could do was kiss  him back and let all her yearning, her need, her want pour out of her  and into him. Savour each second-because if this was it, if this was a  farewell gesture, she wanted to remember every single moment, remember  what was good before she blew his world apart.

* * *

Sophie hadn't expected the evening to continue after the gondola ride,  but after they reluctantly disembarked Marco took her to a few of his  favourite bàcaro, small bars serving wine and cicchetti, little  tapas-type snacks. In one bàcaro Sophie was enchanted by the selection  of francobollo, teeny little sandwiches filled with a selection of meats  or roasted vegetables. 'They're so tiny it's like I'm not eating  anything at all,' she explained to a fascinated Marco as she consumed  her tenth-or was it eleventh? 'Less than a mouthful doesn't count,  everyone knows that.' In another she tried the tastiest meatballs she  had ever eaten and a third offered a selection of seafood that rivalled  the fanciest of restaurants. One day, she promised herself, she would  return when the smell of the different house wines didn't make her  wrinkle her nose in disgust and she could sample the excellent coffee  without wanting to throw up.

She had no idea how long they spent in the friendly, noisy bars as early  evening turned into evening. Marco seemed to know people everywhere  they went and introduced her to all of them until she had completely  lost track of who was a school friend, who a college friend and who had  got who into the most trouble in their teens. Everyone was very  welcoming and made an effort to speak in English, but Sophie was very  conscious of their curious glances, a confirmation that Marco seldom, if  ever, brought girlfriends back to Venice.                       
       
           



       

'Okay,' Marco announced as Sophie was wondering if she could possibly  manage just one more francobollo. 'Time to go.' She glanced up,  surprised; she'd assumed that this was the purpose of the evening, that  they didn't have anywhere else to go.

'Go?' she echoed.

He nodded, his face solemn but his eyes gleaming with suppressed mischief.

Sophie got to her feet. They couldn't possibly be going out for dinner,  not after the almost constant snacking starting with the pastries in the  gondola and ending with that last small sandwich, and it was too dark  to head back out on the water. She was relieved that she'd dressed  smartly that morning, and some bright lipstick and mascara had been  enough to make her look bar ready; she just hoped it would work for  whatever Marco had planned next. 'Okay, I'm ready. Lead on, MacDuff.'

It didn't take them more than five minutes to reach their mystery  destination, a grand-looking palazzo, just off St Mark's Square. The  main door was ajar, guarded by a broad, suited man, and to Sophie's  surprise Marco produced two tickets and handed them over. The man  examined them and then with a nod of his head opened the door and bade  them enter. They were ushered through a grand hallway, beautifully  furnished in the formal Venetian style, up the sweeping staircase and  into a grand salon, where around sixty people were milling around, all  smartly dressed. In the corner a string quartet were tuning their  instruments.

One end of the room was empty, furniture carefully placed in a way that  reminded Sophie of a stage set; chairs had been placed in semicircles  facing the empty area. 'Is this a recital?'

'Not quite. Have you been to the opera before?'

'The opera? No, never. Is that what this is? In a house?'

'La Traviata,' Marco confirmed. 'Each act takes place in a different  room in the palazzo so that the audience is both spectator and part of  the scene. It's one of my favourite things to do when I'm home. I  thought you might enjoy it.'

'Oh, I'm sure I will.' Sophie knew nothing about opera, had no idea if  she would like the music, but it didn't matter-what mattered was the  effort Marco had put into her last free evening here. The effort he had  put in to show her the parts of Venice that meant something to him, show  her the city he loved and missed. 'Thank you, Marco. This is the  loveliest thing anyone has ever, ever done for me.'

He smiled, but before he could reply they were asked to take their seats.