LITMIR.BIZ

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admit that Marco had a right to a life of his own.

      ‘Ten months ago? That’s so recent, I’m sorry.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      ‘She must miss you, your mother.’

      He allowed a smile but knew it was wintry at best. ‘Miss me? I’m not sure. Miss telling me how to live my life? Every day.’

      ‘I know a little about that. What does your mother want that’s so terrible?’

      Marco shrugged. ‘What every Italian mother wants for her children, especially her only son. A place in the family business under her eyes, a wife, children, the usual.’

      ‘And you aren’t hankering for bambinos clustered around your knee?’ She didn’t sound disappointed or disapproving, which made a refreshing change. So many women seemed to see Marco’s lack of interest in a family as a personal affront—or, worse, a challenge. ‘Sunday morning football, wet wipes in every pocket? I have two brothers and they both have kids. I know the drill.’

      ‘I like my life the way it is. Why complicate it?’

      ‘And I take it no interest in a wife either.’ She smiled, a small dimple charming him as she did so. ‘Your poor mother.’

      ‘She only has herself to blame,’ he said lightly. ‘My marriage is an obsession with her. I remember going to my mother’s friend’s house and while the mothers talked I played with the daughter. She was a nice girl, sporty. We got on really well. When we left my mamma asked me if I liked her and when I said I did she said bene she would make a good wife for me. I was five!’

      ‘All mothers do that. My mother was convinced I’d marry Tom next door. He played the violin and sang in the church choir, always said hello and helped shovel snow or rake leaves. Perfect husband material.’

      ‘And yet he isn’t here with you tonight?’

      ‘Well, it turns out that Tom prefers boys to girls, so even if I had been tempted, it was never going to happen.’

      ‘Lucky for me.’ He pulled Sophie in close and swung her around. ‘Tell me, signorina, why are we here in this beautiful room dancing to this beautiful music and discussing my mother? I can think of many more interesting topics.’

      Her eyes laughed up at him. ‘Such as?’

      ‘Such as how very sexy you look in that dress. Such as how very well you dance. Such as what shall we do with all this time until midnight?’

      Sophie swallowed, her eyes luminous in the bright, pulsing disco lights. His eyes were drawn to the graceful column of her neck, the lines of her throat, and he ran his thumb down her skin, feeling her pulse speed up. ‘Do?’ she echoed a little hoarsely. ‘Why, signor, you asked me to dance and so far we’ve just swayed to the music. Less talk, more dancing. It’s New Year’s Eve after all.’

      There was no conversation after that, just dancing, movement, an intimacy that could only be conjured by two bodies caught up in the same beat. Sophie could move, hair flying, eyes shining and silver minidress glittering in the disco lights as she swayed and turned. ‘A childhood full of dance lessons,’ she told him during a breathless break. ‘I did it all, ballet, jazz, tap. I have medals and everything.’

      But as the night neared midnight the music slowed and she was back in his arms. The ballroom was filled with anticipation as the seconds began to tick away, people gathering in groups ready to welcome in the new year. Marco steered Sophie to a secluded corner of the dance floor, not wanting the shared jollity, the drunken group embraces that so often marked the new year’s first seconds. ‘Felice anno nuovo.’

      ‘Happy New Year, Marco.’ Her eyes were half shuttered, her lips full and inviting. He knew the taste of them, the sweet plumpness of her bottom lip, knew the way her hands wound into his hair as a kiss deepened, how her skin slid like silk under his fingertips. Just a dance, he’d said. Surely they’d both known that after the night they had shared they couldn’t possibly stop at dancing. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve; it was customary to kiss.

      And how he hated to be rude. Just one kiss, to round off the evening, to round off their brief but, oh, so pleasing acquaintanceship.

      Sophie purred her approval as he lowered his mouth to hers, her hands tightening on his shoulders, her body swaying closer until he felt every curve pressed tight against him. Marco was dimly aware that the room was erupting with cheers as the new year dawned, could hear bangs and pops as the balloons and streamers were released and the first chords of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ began to echo around the room, but it was as if he and Sophie were separated from the cheerful celebration, hidden in some alternate dimension where all he knew was her mouth under his, her body quivering under his caress, her touch on his neck, light enough to drive a man mad.

      And then it was over as she stepped back, trembling and wide-eyed. ‘Thank you for a lovely night. I don’t think...I mean, my friends will be looking for me.’

      It took a few moments for her words to penetrate his fogged-up brain. All he wanted was to pull her back in, take her mouth again, hold her still. Marco inhaled, long and deep, pushing the dangerous desire deep down where it belonged.

      ‘It was my pleasure. I am glad I got to meet you again, signorina.’ He took her hand, bowing formally over it, then stepped back, a final farewell. She hesitated for the briefest of seconds and then, with a quick smile, turned away.

      A pleasant interlude and now it was over as all these interludes eventually were. Unless...

      Tomorrow he returned home. Returned to a wedding, to play a part, to the weight of parental expectations, no less heavy with the loss of his father. Returned to guilt.

      He could do with a distraction.

      Sophie obviously wasn’t looking for any kind of relationship; in fact this was the third time she’d walked away from him without a backwards glance. A wry smile curved his mouth; thank goodness her response to his kiss had been so all encompassing or he’d be wondering if the attraction was one-sided. And she had never seen Venice...

      She would make the perfect distraction, for himself and for his family.

      Marco didn’t want to take any more time to think his idea through, not when Sophie was disappearing into the revelling crowd. ‘Sophie?’ She stopped and turned, a confused expression on her face.

      He crossed the distance between them with a few long strides. ‘My mother will be holding her annual party on the sixth of January, for Epiphany. I have to be there, to co-host, in place of my father. Would you like to be my guest?’

      The confusion deepened. ‘Me? Come to Venice? But...’

      ‘You said yourself how much you want to go.’

      ‘Yes.’ She looked tempted for a moment, then frowned again. ‘But, Marco, I hardly know you. You don’t know me and I’m not really looking for anything, for anyone. I like you, I like spending time with you...’

      ‘And I like spending time with you and I really would like to get to know you better. And that’s all this is, Sophie. A couple of days in Venice, a party and then we go our separate ways. What do you say?’

      * * *

      ‘Of course you should say yes.’ The ball might officially be over for another year, but the evening was far from finished yet—after all, as Emma pointed out, they hadn’t properly celebrated Grace’s engagement yet—and so they had all piled into taxis and gone back to The Armstrong, the hotel Finlay owned and where the newly engaged couple had met, to finish welcoming the new year in in style. It was a novel experience for Sophie to be escorted up to the exclusive suite as a guest, not a maid, and to sink onto one of the comfortable sofas, the room-service menu at her disposal and the promise of a car to take her home.

      A novel experience for Sophie, but all her friends seemed to take this level of luxury almost for granted; even Grace stepped into the private lift as if it were an everyday occurrence for her.

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