LITMIR.BIZ

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      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.’

      They were so close he could feel her heart racing against him before she pulled back. ‘Still, small or not, it must be a wonderful place to live. Are your parents still there?’

      ‘My mother,’ he corrected her. ‘My father died ten months ago.’ He steeled

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