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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 himself for the usual hit of guilt, regret and anger. Guilt his father’s heart had been weakened in the first place, regret they had never patched up their relationship—and anger his father would never now admit that Marco had a right to a life of his own.
