Her New Year Baby Secret(6)

How had it taken seven years? Her parents had known it almost instantly,  as had her few friends. And yet she'd chosen Harry over every single  one of them, sure that she saw something special in him nobody else  could see. Maybe if she'd been more confident, maybe if she hadn't felt  so alone when she met him...

No, there were no maybes. She had only herself to blame. What a fool, young and blinded by lust and romance. Never again.

She looked over at her friends, forcing a smile. 'I have a request, no, a  demand. You must promise to seat me at a table full of fabulous, fun  single ladies. No set-ups with your cousin's best friend's brother's  boss just because he visited Manchester once and so we'll have lots in  common and no nudging me towards the best man because that's what  happens at weddings. I want a party table.'

'It's a promise,' Ashleigh agreed, turning to greet Lukas with a  brilliant smile as he put another champagne-filled ice bucket down on  the table along with another bottle of mineral water. Maybe she was too  used to cheap cava, but Sophie just couldn't drink the champagne; every  sip tasted sour. Not only was she a third wheel, but she was a sober  third wheel...

What was wrong with her? She should be having a good time; she looked  okay, her dress had got several appreciative comments, which was always  warming to a designer's ears, the food was really tasty, the band  talented and the ballroom looked like a very tasteful winter wonderland.  It was New Year's Eve and she was out with her best friends being wined  and dined. Sophie straightened. She was being selfish. She shouldn't  need anything more.

Except...

Sophie's gaze slid, not for the first time, over to the large round  table at the other side of the room. Marco was leaning back in his  chair, a glass clasped elegantly in his fingertips, apparently deeply  involved in a conversation with the couple sat next to him. Only a  slight inclination of the head and a tilt of the glass towards her in a  light toast betrayed his awareness of her scrutiny. But he knew, she had  no doubt. He'd known every time.

It was only nine o'clock. Two hours until their promised dance.

The third of the six courses had been cleared away and Emma and Jack had  taken advantage of the hiatus in the meal to dance-if you called moving  very slowly staring intensely at each other dancing. Grace and Finlay  were sitting opposite Sophie, but there was no point trying to chat to  either of them; they were looking into each other's eyes, emitting so  much heat Sophie had moved the water jug closer in case they suddenly  combusted. As for Ashleigh, Sophie hadn't seen her friend for several  minutes, but at last sight she had been towing Lukas determinedly  towards the closet Sophie had discovered earlier.                       
       
           



       

She had a choice. She could spend the next two hours sitting here  feeling sorry for herself or she could allow herself some real fun. The  kind of fun she'd been too busy accommodating Harry to enjoy before. The  kind of fun she hadn't allowed herself since the breakup. Just looking  at Marco made her stomach fall away and her breath hitch, but she was no  longer a naïve teenager who couldn't tell the difference between lust  and love. And that was what this was: pure and simple delicious lust. If  she knew that, remembered that, then what harm could a few more hours  in Marco's company do?

And as the thought crossed her mind her hand rose, almost by its own  volition, and, with her eyes fixed on Marco, Sophie slowly and  deliberately wound a lock of hair around her finger and smiled.

* * *

He'd been aware of her every second of the evening, from the moment  she'd walked away from him to rejoin her friends. The swish of her hair,  the sway of her hips, the curve of her mouth. It was as if an invisible  thread stretched across the vast room connecting them; every time she  moved he felt it, a deep visceral pull.

It was unlike any reaction he'd ever had towards a woman and it wasn't  hard to work out why; he didn't need a degree in psychology to realise  that she was probably the first woman to walk away from him and he was  completely unaccustomed to not calling the shots in all his  relationships, personal and professional. No wonder his interest was  piqued.

Not that he wanted her to know it. Knowledge was power in every relationship, no matter how temporary.

But Marco knew every time Sophie slid a look in his direction, he felt  the tension in her as if it were his, he knew she would cave in  eventually and so, with a surge of triumph, he watched her as she  reached up and wound a lock of silky blonde hair around her finger, a  provocative smile on her full mouth-and a challenge in her eyes.

Marco's expectations of the evening had risen the second he'd caught  sight of the elusive Signorina Bradshaw; at that look in her eyes they  took flight. 'Excuse me,' he said, pushing his chair back and languidly  getting to his feet. No need to rush. She wasn't going anywhere. 'I have  some personal business to attend to.'

He held Sophie's gaze as he moved with predatory grace across the dance  floor, his steps slow and easy until he came to a halt in front of her.  Sophie sat alone on one side of the table, the only other occupants  breaking off from an intense conversation to watch, open-mouthed, as he  extended a hand. 'Signorina?'

Sophie arched an elegant bow. 'Sir?'

He smiled at that, slow and purposeful. 'Would you do me the honour?'

'How very unexpected.' Her eyes laughed up at him. 'I don't know what to say.'

'I believe the words you are looking for are "Thank you. I would love to."'

'Are they? In that case thank you, I would love to.' And she slipped her  hand into his and allowed him to lead her from her chair and onto the  dance floor.

She slipped into his arms as if she had never left, every curve fitting  perfectly against him, her arms resting naturally around his waist. 'Are  you having a nice evening?' It was a strangely formal question  considering the way her body was pressed to his.

'I am now,' Marco answered gravely and, with some satisfaction, watched  the colour rise in her cheeks. 'Have you attended this ball before?'

'I was here last year.'

'No, I was here also. How on earth did I miss you? Impossible.'

She smiled, a dimple peeping out. He remembered that dimple; it had  enchanted him the first time she had smiled, snowflakes tangled in her  hair, slipping on the snowy ground. 'Maybe you weren't looking hard  enough. So this is a regular event for you?'

He shrugged. 'Usually. One of my clients always has a table and so here I am.'

'How very convenient. Don't you want to...' But she trailed off, shaking her head. 'Never mind.'

'Don't I want to what?'

'I'm just being nosy. It's just, isn't spending New Year with clients a  little, well, impersonal? What about your friends and family?'

His stomach clenched. Tomorrow would be all about family-with one  glaring omission. 'My clients are my friends as well, of course. Most of  the people I know in the UK I met through work. What about you? Who are  the people you are here with?'

The dimple peeked out again. 'Work friends,' she admitted. 'London can be a lonely place when you first move here.'

'You're not from London?'

'Manchester, and no, I'm not spending New Year with my family either. I  did Christmas and that was more than enough.' A shadow crossed her face  so fleetingly he wondered if he'd imagined it. 'How about you?  Whereabouts in Italy are you from?'                       
       
           



       

'Venice.'

Her eyes lit up. 'Oh, how utterly gorgeous. What an amazing place to live.'

Amazing, thrilling, beautiful, hidebound, full of rules and expectations no man could be expected to keep. 'You've been?'

'Well, no. But I've read about it, watched films, seen pictures. It's at  the top of my bucket list-lying back in a gondola and watching the  canals go by. Masked balls, palazzos, bridges...' She laughed. 'Listen  to me, I sound like such a tourist.'

'No, no. It is a beautiful city. You should go.'

'One day.' She sounded wistful. 'How can you bear to live here when you  could live there? London is cool and all, but Venice? There's a story, a  view around every corner.'

'And a member of my family, or an old family friend, or their relative.  Sì...' as her eyes widened in understanding '...Venice is beautiful,  captivating, unique, all these things and I miss it every day, but it is  also an island. A very small island.'

'Gets a little claustrophobic?'

'A little. But London? Here a man can be who he wants to be, see who he  wants to see, do the work he feels fitting. Be his own man.'

'London's not that big,' she pointed out. 'After all, I've bumped into you twice-literally the first time!'

'Ah, but, signorina...' he leaned forward so his breath touched her ear  and felt her shiver at the slight contact '...that was fate and we don't  question the workings of fate.'