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Three hours later Sophie was light-headed and slightly nauseous. They had toured the Doge’s Palace, crossed the infamous Bridge of Sighs and, thanks to an old school friend of Marco’s, got a chance to see some of the hidden parts of the palace including the pozzi, tiny, dank, dark cells where Casanova had once been imprisoned. When Marco suggested a walk down to the Rialto Bridge she gave him a pleading smile. ‘Can I have some lunch first? I know it’s early, but I’m hungry and my legs don’t seem to want to walk anywhere without sustenance and a sit down.’
‘Sì, of course.’ He didn’t seem at all put out that she hadn’t fallen in with his suggestion. It was so refreshing; she’d never been able to make off-the-cuff suggestions to Harry. At the merest hint that his itinerary didn’t suit her he would fall into a monumental sulk, which would need all her best cajoling and coaxing to pull him out of. Her heart clenched at the thought. What had she been thinking of? To allow such a spoilt brat to dictate her life for so long? Of all the ways to choose to assert her independence. If she could only go back in time and talk sense into her eighteen-year-old self, then...eighteen-year-old Sophie would probably have ignored her as she’d ignored everyone else. Too giddy with lust, with independence, too convinced it was love. Too foolish.
But no, she wasn’t going to sully one moment of this perfect day thinking about her past, indulging in regrets. She was in Venice with a gorgeous, attentive man and he was about to provide lunch. Life really didn’t get much better than that.
* * *
Marco knew the perfect place for lunch. Close enough to St Mark’s for his hungry companion, far enough away to avoid tourist prices and menus. A locals’ café, with fresh food, a menu that changed daily depending on what was in at the markets and a bustling, friendly atmosphere. He used to eat there with his father, but when long, conversational lunches had turned into lectures with food he had stopped coming. He couldn’t wipe out the last ten years of cold civility, couldn’t repair his father’s heart—but maybe he could reclaim some of the spaces they used to inhabit.
They had barely set foot over the threshold when he saw her, straight-backed, elegant and as lethal as a tiger eyeing her prey. His chest tightened. She hadn’t come in here to wait for them, had she? Surely even his mother wasn’t that conniving. But it was barely noon and she usually ate a little later than this. And that was an unusually triumphant look in her eyes.
‘Marco, vita mia, how lovely to see you and your bella friend.’ She leant in and embraced Sophie, who returned the traditional two kisses with a dumbstruck look Marco was sure must be mirrored on his own face.
‘Mamma,’ he said drily. ‘What a coincidence.’
‘Sì,’ she agreed, but even though her eyes were wide and candid, Marco knew better. ‘But a lovely one, no? I barely got to talk to Sophie yesterday. I hear you are staying for Bianca’s wedding? We are delighted to have you with us for longer and, Sophie, cara, please consider the palazzo your home the whole time you are in Venice.’
There was no way out. Half amused, half annoyed, Marco accepted his mother’s invitation to join her and they were soon seated at an intimate table for three so his mother could begin her interrogation. At least the food would be good, he thought as he ordered a vermicelli al nero di seppia for himself, a dish he refused to eat anywhere other than Venice, and advised Sophie, who still looked a little pale, to try the risotto. He then poured them all a glass of the local Soave and sat back to watch the show.
‘So, Sophie, what is it you do in London?’ And she was off... If Sophie had any secrets, they would be expertly extracted before the bread and oil reached the table.
Or not. By the end of the meal Marco knew very little more than he had at the start. Maybe she was secret-service trained because Sophie Bradshaw had avoided every one of his mother’s expertly laid traps like a professional—and what was more, she had done it in such a way Marco doubted his mother had noticed. She had mentioned two brothers and nieces and nephews—and then, while his mother had gone misty-eyed at the very thought of babies and grandchildren, had turned the tables and asked his mother so many questions about Bianca’s forthcoming wedding his mother had been quite disarmed. Very clever.
Marco leaned back in his chair and eyed Sophie thoughtfully. It hadn’t mattered that he knew little more than her name when she had been due to spend less than forty-eight hours with him, but now she was staying with his dangerously excitable family for over a week he found himself a little more curious. Who was Sophie Bradshaw and what did she really want? Was she really as happy with a casual relationship as she’d made out? She liked fashion and designing—although she had told his mother that she took other jobs while she worked to get her business off the ground. What other jobs? She came from Manchester but at some unspecified point had moved to London. She had two brothers and five nieces and nephews. That was it. All he knew.
