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Grace raised her eyebrows knowingly. ‘Didn’t look that way from where I was sitting tonight. The chemistry between you two...oof!’ She fanned herself dramatically, ducking with a squeal as Sophie threw a cushion at her.
‘What do you need to know?’ Ashleigh asked, squeezing Sophie’s hand. ‘What would make you feel better about going?’
Sophie shrugged, unable to articulate the prickle of unease that ran over her when she thought about accepting Marco’s casual invitation—or, more worryingly, the ripple of excitement overshadowing the unease. ‘I don’t know where he lives. I don’t exactly know what he does for a living. I don’t know if he likes music or books or walks in the country.’
‘What do you know?’ Emma curled up next to Grace. ‘Tell us about him.’
‘He’s Italian, does something to do with art and antiques. Erm...he’s lived in London for ages but really loves Venice, you can hear it in his voice. He has a gorgeous accent, dresses really well, his suits look handmade to me, beautifully designed, great fabric.’
‘Focus, Sophie. We want to know about the man, not his clothes. How does he make you feel?’
How did he make her what? When Sophie had packed her bags, the shattered remaining pieces of her pride and her bruised heart and moved over a hundred miles away to start again, the one thing she had guarded herself against was feeling too much. It was thanks to her emotions she had fallen into such a sorry state in the first place. She picked up a cushion and cradled it close, as if it were a shield between her and the rest of the world while she thought. ‘He makes me feel sexy. Wanted. Powerful.’ Where had those words come from? But even as she spoke them Sophie knew that they were the truth—and that not once, in seven years, had Harry made her feel any of those things. Desperate, insecure, weak, needy, pathetic? All the above. Never powerful. Never wanted.
She straightened, turning to stare at Ashleigh half excited, half terrified. ‘I should go, shouldn’t I?’
‘You should totally go. Who cares about his address and what exactly something in art and antiques means? As long as he isn’t a drug smuggler and doesn’t live with his wife and six kids, it’s irrelevant. Sexy and powerful? Now, they’re relevant.’
‘Who knows where it might lead? Look at me. I went to Scotland for a bit of adventure and came back head over heels. Go for it!’ Grace practically clapped in excitement, but Sophie shook her head emphatically.
‘I am so happy for you, Grace, for all of you. But believe me, I’m not going to come back engaged. Marco made it very clear he’s not interested in anything long-term and that suits me perfectly. There’s a lot I want to achieve, that I need to achieve, and wedded bliss is very far down that list. But this will be good for me. I’ve been so scared of being sucked back into a relationship I’ve gone too far the other way. This is a big city. I should date and see people occasionally, live a little.’
‘Live a lot,’ Emma corrected her. ‘You should, Sophie, you deserve to. And we’ll be cheering you on every step of the way.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘LIVE A LOT,’ Sophie reminded herself as she passed through the customs gate and into the arrivals hall. Her new mantra. She’d been repeating it throughout the flight, torn between excitement at seeing Venice—and Marco—at last and apprehension about the next few days. What if she and Marco had nothing to say to each other now she was here, or what if his mother didn’t like her?
No, those negative thoughts were old Sophie, not new, improved, positive, life-grabbing Sophie. Pushing them aside, she scanned the arrivals hall, impatient to see Marco. She hadn’t spoken to him since New Year’s Eve as he had flown out the very next day, but he had sent an itinerary with her ticket and promised that she would be met at the airport.
Maybe he was running late...
As she scanned the waiting crowd again a sign bearing a familiar name caught her eye and, as she paused to read it again, the bearer, a slight man in his forties, formally dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform and cap, caught her eye and smiled. ‘Signorina Bradshaw?’ he asked in heavily accented but perfect English. ‘Signor Santoro asked me to meet you. He has been called away.’ He handed Sophie an envelope as he deftly relieved her of her suitcase and bag.
Disappointment warred with a cowardly relief. Work had predictably been quiet over the last few days, leaving Sophie far too much time to second-guess her decision and, even though she’d tried to bury herself in her designs or wrestle with the unnecessarily complicated content management system on her still-not-live website, she often found herself sitting still staring into space, her heart thumping with panic at the prospect of stepping outside the narrow life she’d built herself.
