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‘You weren’t into sport, then?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘I didn’t really have the option. Like I said, Dad would take the boys to matches or whatever and Mum and I would be left behind. Besides, she was determined not to lose me to their side. She had me in classes of her choosing as soon as I could walk. Dance,’ she confirmed at his enquiring look. ‘I wasn’t kidding when I told you at the Snowflake Ball that I’d done every kind of dancing.’
‘A dancer? Professionally?’ It made sense. She had the build, petite as she was, strong and lithe, and he dimly remembered her mentioning it on New Year’s Eve.
‘Could have been. Mum thought I’d be a ballerina. She wanted me to train properly at sixteen, dance at Covent Garden one day.’
‘But you didn’t want to?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s not just about talent, it’s luck, build, you know, having the right body, discipline but most of all drive. I was good, but good enough? Probably not. I didn’t want it enough. I stopped just before I turned sixteen. It broke her heart.’
She looked down at her hands and he didn’t pursue it—he knew all about breaking parental hearts, was a gold medallist in it. ‘What did you want to do instead?’ It wasn’t just about polite conversation; he was actually interested. His hands tightened on the wheel as the realisation dawned.
Sophie smiled, slow and nostalgic. ‘The thing I did really like about ballet, about performing, was the costumes. Every show involves a lot of net and tulle and gluing sequins—I loved that part. I was always much happier with a needle than a pointe shoe. So I guess I’m lucky, trying to make a go of the thing I love. If I’d become a ballet dancer, I’d be over halfway through my career by now. Not that I can imagine I’d have had much of one. Like I say, I was never driven enough.’ She stopped and stared as they neared the pretty harbour and the brightly coloured fishermen’s cottages came into view. ‘Oh, my goodness, how beautiful. Where’s my camera?’ She turned away, grabbing her camera and exclaiming over the colours, the boats, the sea, the sky.
As he guided the boat into the harbour, mooring it at a convenient stop, Marco’s thoughts were preoccupied with Sophie, still chattering excitedly and snapping away. Why was he so intrigued by her? Sure, she was fun, they had chemistry and she was proving extremely helpful in calming Bianca’s ever more volatile nerves and keeping his mother off his back. But next week she would return to London and their brief relationship would be over. There was no point in prolonging it when they both knew they weren’t heading anywhere. Short, sweet and to the point just as all perfect liaisons should be.
But what would it be like not to feel as if every relationship was ticking towards an expiration date, not to worry about getting in too deep, about not raising expectations he had no intention of fulfilling? For every new woman to be an adventure, a world to be explored, not a potential trap? He’d never cared before, happy with the limits he set upon himself, upon his time, upon his heart. But, for the first time in a really long time, as he helped Sophie ashore, felt the warm clasp of her hand, watched her face alight with sheer happiness as she took in every detail on the colourful island, Marco was aware that maybe, just maybe, he was missing some colour in his perfectly organised, privileged, grey life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS THE MOST beautiful commute in the world. How many people travelled to their office by boat? Marco took a deep breath, his lungs glad of the fresh salty air, a much-needed contrast to the polluted London air he usually breathed in on his way to work. No, he thought as he steered his boat across the lagoon towards the dock at the mainland Venetian district of Mestre, this was a much better way to spend his early mornings.
Marco hadn’t intended to work from the Santoro Azienda offices, but he found it easier to concentrate away from the palazzo. Bianca was staying at home until her wedding and every room was full of tulle or confetti or wedding favours—it was like living in a five-year-old girl’s dream doll’s house. Besides, working at the palazzo meant working in close proximity to Sophie and that, he was discovering, was distracting. And if his mother and sister were at home, then they kept interrupting him to ask his opinion on everything from how the napkins should be folded to where Gia Ana should be seated, given that she had fallen out with every other member of the family.
And when they weren’t at home, then it was almost impossible for him not to seek Sophie out on some barely disguised pretext—or for her to casually wander by him—knowing that within seconds their eyes would meet, hold, and, like teenagers taking advantage of an empty house, they would drag each other into the nearest bedroom... There was something particularly thrilling about the illicitness of it all, the sneaking down corridors, the stolen kisses, the hurried pulling off clothes or pulling them back on again. Not that his mother or Bianca were fooled for a moment, but that wasn’t the point. It was all about appearances. His mother would only countenance an engaged couple sleeping together under her roof. Or not sleeping...
