Her New Year Baby Secret

by Jessica Gilmore

  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?’

  ‘None of the above. If I wasn’t messing around on a boat, I was always trying to find a way to do some kind of deal.’ He grinned at her surprised expression. ‘I told you, we’re an island of merchants, sailors, traders. Oh, it’s been several hundred years since we had any influence, since we controlled the waves, but it’s still there in any true Venetian’s veins.’

  ‘What did your parents say?’

  ‘Oh, they were proud,’ he assured her. ‘So many families forgot their roots, watched the palazzos crumble around them as the money ran out. My mother is a big believer in a good day’s work, no matter who you are.’ Proud right until she realised his independent entrepreneurial streak wasn’t just a phase.

  It was as if Sophie had read his mind. ‘Was she disappointed when you set up for yourself? Left Venice?’ She leaned against the windscreen, half turned to face him, eyes intent on him as if the answers really mattered.

  ‘Yes. She’s convinced one day I’ll get over my little rebellion and come home, settle down and take over the family affairs.’ He paused as he navigated the boat around a buoy. ‘Of course, since my father died she’s been keener than ever and at some point I need to make a decision about where my future lies. But right now she’s not ready to give up the reins no matter what she says—she’ll spend every second of her retirement second-guessing every decision I make. I have a while yet. Besides...’ Marco had always known the day would come when he would have to step in, but he wanted to see how big his own business could grow first. He already turned over several million euros annually, and there was plenty of room to expand, new territories to trade in.

  ‘Besides what?’

  ‘Bianca. Maybe she could take over the Santoro holdings. She’s an extremely talented businesswoman, she’s got exactly the same heritage as me and I know she wants a family, so she could hand the business on, just as my parents wanted.’

  ‘That makes sense. Hasn’t your mother ever considered it?’

  ‘Neither of my parents have. In many ways they were very old-fashioned. Bianca’s a woman, so in their eyes when she marries she’ll no longer be a true Santoro. But it’s just a name...’ And if Bianca did take over the business, the palazzo and provide the heirs, then he would be free.

  Was it the perfect solution—or was he merely fulfilling his father’s prophecies and eluding his responsibilities? Marco had no idea. It all seemed so clear, so simple in London, but the second he set foot back in Venice he got tangled up in all the threads of loyalty, duty and family he’d spent most of his life struggling to free himself from.

  They had reached the open waters of the lagoon and Marco let out the throttle, allowing the boat to zoom ahead. ‘I miss this,’ he admitted. ‘This freedom.’

  ‘I can imagine. I know there’s a harbour in Chelsea, but sailing up and down the Thames must be a little sedate after living here. What do you like to do in London for fun? Apart from attending parties, that is.’

  Marco eased off on the throttle and let the boat slow as Burano came into view. ‘Is this an interview?’ He was teasing but noted the high colour that rose over her cheeks with interest. ‘An interrogation? Will you lock me up in the Doge’s palace if I answer wrongly?’

  ‘Yes, right next to Casanova. No, no interrogation, I’m just interested. We’re spending all this time together and I know nothing about you. I need to be prepared if you want your mother to think we’re a real couple. What if she gets me alone? Imagine how suspicious she would be if I don’t know your favourite football team, or how you take your coffee.’

  ‘Black, strong, no sugar and of course I support Venezia despite our current ranking. Thank goodness our national team is a little more inspiring.’ Sophie was right, he realised. If they were acting the couple, it made sense to know more about each other. Besides, she was fun company, insightful with a dry wit he appreciated. ‘How about you? City or United?’

  ‘Me?’ She blinked. ‘My family is City, so I am by default, but to be honest I’m not really bothe
red. We were a bit divided on gender lines when I was a child. My father would take my brothers to matches, but I was eight years younger and so I was always left behind with my mother, who was definitely not interested. I think she thought sport was invented to ruin her weekends.’

  ‘Did that annoy you? Being left out by your brothers?’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘No one likes being the baby of the family, do they? But my mother encouraged it, I think. By the time I was born my brothers’ lives revolved around sport. Footie, cricket, rugby—it’s all they talked about, watched, did. She always said she was delighted to have a daughter, an ally at last.’ She sounded wistful, her eyes fixed on the sea.

  ‘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...

  Yes, working at the palazzo certainly had its benefits, but he had far too much to do to allow himself to be continuously distracted, so, for the last couple of days, knowing his mother was so busy with the final details for the wedding she was unlikely to be at work, he had taken to heading off to the office early, returning home during the long lunch break to meet up with Sophie, who was spending most of her mornings working on Bianca’s dress. He didn’t have to come home, she’d assured him, she was happy to explore Venice on her own if he was too busy, but he was enjoying rediscovering his city, seeing it through her eyes as she absorbed the sights and smells of the city.

  The Santoro Azienda offices were a short walk away from the dock. As his parents’ real estate and other business interests had expanded and they had taken on more and more staff it had become increasingly clear they needed professional offices out of the palazzo. The decision to base the offices on the mainland hadn’t been taken lightly, but for the sake of their staff, many of whom no longer lived on the islands, it had made sense and twenty years ago they had moved into the light, modern, purpose-built building. All glass and chrome, it was as different from the palazzo as a building could be.

  Until last week Marco hadn’t set foot in the offices in ten years. It was one of the many things he’d regretted since he’d shouldered his father’s coffin to walk it down the aisle towards the altar—and yet he still couldn’t see any other way, how he could have played things differently. It took two to compromise and he hadn’t been the only one at fault.

  Marco strode through the sliding glass doors and, with a nod at the security guard and the receptionists, headed straight for the lifts and the top floor, exiting into the plush corridors that marked the Santoro Azienda’s Executive Floor. Left led to his parents’ offices, right to the suite of rooms he was using. He hadn’t turned left once since he’d returned to the building.

  He stood and hesitated, then, with a muffled curse, turned left.

  His parents had had adjoining offices on opposite corners of the building, sharing a PA, a bathroom and a small kitchen and seating area. He’d been in his teens when they’d relocated here, spending many days in one office or the other being put to work, being trained up to manage the huge portfolio of properties
and companies they owned. No one had ever asked him if it was what he wanted. If they had noticed that he was happier rolling his sleeves up and engaging on the ground level, they ignored it. He was destined to take over and his interest in art and antiques, in dealing directly with people, was a quirk, a hobby.

  ‘A multimillion-euro hobby, Papà,’ he said softly. Not that it would have made any difference.

  His father’s name was still on his office door and Marco stood there for a long moment staring at the letters before twisting the handle and, with a deep breath, entering the room. It was a shock to see that nothing had changed, as if his father could walk in any moment, espresso in hand. The desk still heaped with papers, the carafe of water filled on the oak sideboard, the comfy chair by the window, where his father had liked to sit after lunch and face the city while he took his siesta. Photographs covered the walls, views of Venice, of buildings they owned, goods they made, food prepared in restaurants they owned. There were no photographs of Marco or Bianca. ‘The office is for work,’ his father used to say. And work he had, in early, out late, deals and successes and annoyances his favourite topic of conversation over the evening meal.

  Marco picked up a piece of paper and stared at it, not taking in the typed words. Was his mother coping, doing the work of two people? She hated delegating as much as his father had, didn’t like handing too much power to people not part of their family.

  They were as stubborn as each other.

  He barely registered her footsteps, but he knew she was there before she spoke.

  ‘Marco.’

  He closed his eyes briefly. ‘Hello, Mamma.’

  He turned, forced a smile. In the bright artificial office light he could see the lines on her forehead, the hollows in her cheeks. She was working too hard, still grieving for his father.

  ‘You’ve been home for two weeks and yet I barely see you.’ Her voice might be full of reproach, but her eyes were shrewd, assessing his every expression.