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She slumped down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, every fat cherub leg, every beaming cherub grin on the fresco an unneeded reminder. The thing was she did want children. Had planned to have them with Harry—although she had never got him to admit the time was right. Thank goodness. She shuddered; if she had had his baby, would she ever have got out? Ever freed herself or would she still be there now? Holding down a job, taking care of the house, looking after the kids while Harry lied and cheated and manipulated...
But Marco wasn’t like Harry. He was, well, he was... ‘Face it,’ Sophie said aloud. ‘You know nothing about him except he doesn’t want to get married. He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s good in bed. He seems kind, when it suits him to be...’ Added together it didn’t seem an awful lot to know about the father of her baby.
Father. Baby. She swallowed a hysterical sob.
She had to tell him; it was the right, the fair, thing to do.
And then what? He might walk away although, she conceded, he didn’t seem the type. Sophie wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hug some warmth into her suddenly chilled body. He might accuse her of entrapment. Think this was done on purpose...
He didn’t want to get married, she knew that, and that was okay. After all, they didn’t really know each other. But what about when his mother found out? She wanted grandchildren, heirs, and here Sophie was carrying a Santoro heir as a good little wife should.
She shivered again, nausea rolling in her stomach. She’d been free for one year and six months, independent for such a short while. No placating, no begging, no reassuring, no abasing, no making herself less so someone else could be more. No eggshells. She was pretty sure Marco wasn’t another Harry, she knew his mother had all the best intentions, but if they knew she was pregnant, she would have every choice stripped away, be suffocated with kindness and concern and responsibility until every bit of that hard-won independence shrivelled away and she belonged to them. Just as she had belonged to Harry. Besides, Bianca was getting married in a week. This was her time. It wouldn’t be fair to spoil her wedding with the inevitable drama Sophie’s news would cause.
I won’t tell him yet, she decided. I need to know him first, know who the real Marco is. Know if I can trust him. I’ll get to know him over this week and then I’ll tell him. After the wedding.
* * *
Marco manoeuvred his boat out of the Grand Canal with practised ease. It came more naturally than driving, even after a decade in London. Sometimes he thought he felt truly alive only when he was here on the water, the sun dancing on the waves around him, Venice at his back, the open lagoon his for the taking.
‘Warm enough?’ He’d elected not to take the traditional, bigger family boat with its polished wood and spacious covered seating area. Instead they were in his own small but speedy white runabout, which didn’t have any shelter beyond the splash screen at the front. He’d reminded Sophie to wrap up warmly for the journey over, but she was so pale and silent maybe she’d underestimated the bite of the January wind out in the lagoon.
‘Hmm? No, thanks, honestly I’m toasty.’ He could see her visibly push away whatever was occupying her thoughts as she turned to him and smiled. ‘Bianca says Burano is beautiful. I’m really looking forward to seeing it.’
‘It is,’ he assured her. ‘Very different from Venice, but equally stunning in a quieter way.’
‘Did you visit the islands a lot when you were younger? What about the rest of Italy? It’s such a beautiful country. It must have been wonderful to have had it all on your doorstep,’ she added quickly as he raised an eyebrow at her series of questions.
‘It is beautiful and, yes, most of our childhood holidays were spent in Italy. Venice gets so hot and busy in the summer and we have a villa by Lake Como, so every summer we would spend a month there. And I don’t remember a time when I didn’t explore the islands. Every Venice child grows up able to handle a boat before they learn to ride a bike.’
‘And swim?’
‘Sì, and swim.’
‘I still can’t imagine what it was like, actually living here, crossing water to get to school. It just seems impossibly exotic.’
‘Not when it’s your normal. To me, your childhood in Manchester would have seemed equally exotic. What was your route to school? A bus?’
‘I doubt it. Suburbia is suburbia, nothing exciting there. But a school boat? Now, that’s fun.’ And once again she turned his question aside effortlessly. Was there some dark secret there or did she really think her past was of so little interest? ‘What else did you do when you were little? Were you a football player or addicted to video games or a bookworm?’
