Her New Year Baby Secret

And okay, she hadn’t looked for him either, not even when she’d confessed her one-night stand to her friends just a few days ago. Not only was Marco Santoro out of her league in every way, but Sophie had allowed infatuation to cloud her judgement before. She wasn’t foolish enough to mistake lust for anything deeper, not again.

Although it had been an incredible night...

The sound of the buzzer interrupted her slide into reminiscences just as she was picturing the curve of Marco’s mouth. Sophie shivered as she pushed the all too real picture away and picked up the answerphone. ‘Yes?’

‘Sophie, it’s me, Ashleigh.’ Her old friend’s unmistakably Australian tones sang out of the intercom and Sophie’s spirits immediately lifted. So all her friends would be married to insanely wealthy, influential and hot men? It wouldn’t really make a difference, not where it counted most.

‘Come on up.’ She pressed the buzzer and looked around wildly. Was it possible to clear a space in just twenty seconds? There was a knock on the door before she had managed to do more than pick up several scraps of material and, with them still clasped in her hand, Sophie opened the door to discover not just Ashleigh but Grace and Emma as well, brandishing champagne and a thick white envelope.

‘Surprise!’ they sang out in chorus, surging into the room in a wave of perfume, silk and teetering heels. The dress code for the Snowflake Ball was white or silver, but blonde, tall Emma had added red shoes and accessories to her long white silk shift, Grace, glowing with happiness, was sultry in silver lace and Ashleigh had opted for a backless ivory dress, which set off the copper in her hair and the green in her eyes. They all looked gorgeous. Sophie tried not to look over at her black waitress’s dress, ironed and hung on the back of the door.

‘How lovely to see you all.’ She narrowed her eyes at Grace. ‘You must have called me from just around the corner.’

‘From the taxi,’ Grace confirmed, her eyes laughing.

‘Congratulations again. Finlay’s a lucky man and I’ll tell him so when I finally meet him. I’d hug you, but I don’t want to crease your dress.’

‘Where are the glasses?’ Emma, of course, was already at the counter optimistically known as a kitchenette looking in one of the three narrow cupboards allotted for crockery and food. ‘Aha!’ She brandished them triumphantly, setting them down before twisting the foil off the bottle. It was real champagne, Sophie noted, a brand well out of her price bracket. Funny to think just a few weeks ago they would have happily been drinking cheap cava from the off-licence at the end of her street. So the divide between her lifestyle and her friends’ had begun. Just as it had ten years ago when she had opted for paid work and domesticity while her few friends went to university.

She pushed the thought away as the champagne cork was expertly popped. ‘Not for me, Em. I can’t. You know what Clio says about drinking on the job and I need to be at the hotel for staff briefing in an hour.’

‘Now, that,’ Ashleigh said triumphantly, ‘is where you are wrong. We’ve asked Keisha to cover your shift and you, Miss Sophie Bradshaw, will be going to the ball! Here you are, a formal invitation.’ She thrust the envelope towards Sophie, who took it mechanically.

‘I’ve always wanted to be a fairy godmother,’ Grace said, holding out her hand to accept one of the full glasses Emma was handing out.

Sophie stared at the three beaming faces, completely flabbergasted as she took in their words, the envelope still clutched unopened in her hand. ‘I’m what?’

‘Going to the Snowflake Ball!’

‘We’re taking you as our guest!’

‘You didn’t think we’d leave you out, did you?’ Ashleigh finished, taking a glass from Emma and pressing it into Sophie’s unresisting hand. ‘Cheers!’

‘But...but...my hair. And what will I wear?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Emma said. ‘If only one of us was an aspiring fashion designer with a wardrobe crammed full of original designs. Hang on a minute...’ She strode into the minuscule bedroom—so tiny Sophie could only fit in a single cabin bed—and pulled back the curtain that divided the crammed clothes rails from the rest of the room. ‘Ta-dah!’

‘I couldn’t wear one of my designs to an event like this! Everyone else will be in dresses like, well, like yours. Expensive, designer...’

‘And you will outshine us all in an original Sophie Bradshaw.’ Grace beamed at her. ‘Oh, Sophie, it’s going to be a magical night. I am so very happy you are coming with is. Let’s get you ready...’

* * *

Why on earth did I agree to attend this ball?

More to the point, why did he agree to attend the Snowflake Ball every New Year’s Eve? It was always the same, filled with the same people, the same talk, the same tedium. Marco cast a scowling look at the crowded ballroom. Oh, it was tastefully done out with abstract snowflakes suspended from the ceiling and the glitter kept to a minimum, but it was still not a patch on Venice on New Year’s Eve. His was a city that knew how to celebrate and New Year was a night when the stately old city came alive.

He hadn’t spent a New Year in Venice for over a decade, although there were times when the pull of the city of his birth ran through his veins like the water in the canals and he missed the alleyways and bridges, the grand old palazzos and the markets with an almost physical ache that no amount of excellent champagne and food could make up for. His hands folded into fists. Tomorrow he would return home, not just for a fleeting visit, some business and a duty dinner with his mother and sister. Tomorrow he would return for a fortnight, to host the Santoros’ annual Epiphany Ball and then stay to walk his sister down the aisle.

Tomorrow he would step into his father’s shoes, no matter that he wasn’t ready. No matter that he didn’t deserve to.

Marco took a deep sip of wine, barely tasting the richness. He wouldn’t think about it tonight, his last night of freedom. He needed a distraction.

His eyes skimmed the room, widening with appreciation as four women stopped at a table opposite. They were talking over each other, faces lit with enthusiasm as they took their seats. His gaze lingered on a laughing blonde. Her silver minidress was an interesting choice in what was a mainly conservatively dressed ballroom, but Marco wasn’t complaining, not when the wearer possessed such excellent legs. Excellent legs, a really nice, lithe figure and, as she turned to face him as if she were aware of his scrutiny, a pair of familiar blue eyes. Eyes staring straight back at him with such undisguised horror Marco almost turned and checked, just to make sure there wasn’t an axe murderer creeping up behind him.

The girl from the snow. The one who had disappeared...

Marco muttered a curse, unsure whether to coolly acknowledge her or ignore her presence; it had been a novel experience to wake up and find himself alone without as much as a note. Novel and not exactly pleasant; in Marco’s experience women clung on long after the relationship was over, they didn’t disappear before it had even begun.

And they certainly didn’t run away before dawn.

His eyes narrowed. She owed him an explanation at the least, apology at best. There were rules for these kinds of encounters and Sophie Bradshaw had broken every one. Besides, he was damned if he was going to spend the evening marked as the big bad wolf with Little Silver Dress going all wide-eyed at the very sight of him. He had a fortnight of difficult encounters ahead of him; tonight was supposed to be about having fun.

Mind made up, Marco took a step in Sophie’s direction, but she was already on her feet and shouldering her way through the ballroom. Away from him. So she liked to play, did she? He set off at an unhurried pace, following the silver dress as it darted across the crowded room and through a discreet door set in the wooden panelling. The door began to close behind her, but his long stride shortened the distance enough for him to catch it before it could close fully and he slipped inside...

To find himself inside a closet. A large closet, but a closet nonetheless, one filled with towering stacks of spare chairs, folded tables and several cleaning trolleys. Sophie was pressed against one of the tables, her hands gripping the sides, her heart-shaped face pale.

He allowed the door to close behind him, leaning against it, his arms folded, staring her down. ‘Buongiorno, Sophie.’

‘Marco? Wh-what are you doing here?’

‘Catching up with old friends. That’s what I like about these occasions, you never know who you might bump into. Nice corner you’ve found here. A little crowded, lacking in decoration, but I like it.’

‘I...’ Her eyes were wide. Scared.

Incredulity thundered through him. He’d assumed she had hidden because she was embarrassed to see him, that maybe she hadn’t told her friends—or boyfriend—about him. Or because she was playing some game and trying to lure him in. It hadn’t occurred to him that she would be actually terrified at the very thought of seeing him.

Although she had fled from his bed, run away from her friends the moment she had recognised him. How many clues did he need? His mouth compressed into a thin line. ‘Apologies, Sophie,’ he said stiffly. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. Please rest assured that I will leave you alone for the rest of the evening.’ He bowed formally and turned, hand on the door handle, only to be arrested by the sound of her low voice.

‘No, Marco. I should apologise. I didn’t expect to see you here, I didn’t expect to see you ever again actually and I overreacted. I’m not...I don’t really do... You know. What we did. I have no idea how these things work.’

What we did. Marco had spent the last three weeks trying to put what they’d done out of his mind. Tried not to dwell on the satin of her skin, the taste of her, the way she laughed. The way she moaned.

Ironically he usually did know how these things worked. Temporary and discreet were the hallmarks of the perfect relationship as far as Marco was concerned. Not falling into bed with strangers he’d met on street corners. He was far too cautious. He needed to be certain that any and every prospective partner knew the rules: mutually satisfying and absolutely no strings.

But somehow that evening all his self-imposed rules had gone flying out of the window. It had been like stepping into another world; the snow deep outside, the city oddly muted, the world contracting until it was only the two of them. It seemed as if there had been no other route open to him, booking the hotel room an unsaid inevitability as they’d moved on to their second drink, walking hand in hand through the falling snow but not really touching, not yet, waiting until the room door had swung closed behind them.

And then...

Marco inhaled, the heat of that night burning through his body. He didn’t know what he’d have done if she’d been there when he woke up, pulled her to him or distanced himself in the cold light of day. But he hadn’t had to make that decision; like the melted snow outside, she was gone. He’d told himself it was for the best. But now that she was here, it was hard to remember why.

He turned. Sophie was still staring at him, her blue eyes huge in her pale face. ‘How these things work?’ he repeated, unable to stop the smile curving his mouth. ‘Does there have to be a set path?’

Colour flared high on her cheekbones. ‘No, I’m not looking for Mr Right, but neither am I the kind of girl who spends the night with a stranger. Usually. So I don’t know what the etiquette is here.’

‘Nor do I, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t require us to spend half the evening in a cleaning closet.’

‘No,’ she said doubtfully as if the cleaning closet were actually the perfect place to spend New Year’s Eve. ‘But what happens when we get out there? Do we acknowledge that we know each other or pretend that none of it ever happened?’

The latter was certainly the most sensible idea—but hadn’t he decided he needed a distraction? Sophie Bradshaw in a silver minidress was the epitome of distraction. Marco stepped away from the door, leaving it a little ajar, and smiled as ruefully as he could. ‘Are those my choices? They seem a little limited. How about I throw a third option in there—I ask you to dance?’

‘Ask me to dance?’ Her eyes were even wider than before if that was possible and she pressed even further into the table. ‘But I walked out on you. Without a note! And I ran away as soon as I saw you.’

‘Sì, both of these things are true, but if you dance with me, then I am willing to overlook both transgressions.’

‘I did mention that I don’t want a relationship, didn’t I?’

‘You did. Sophie, I am also not looking for anything serious and, like you, I’m not in the habit of picking up strangers in the snow. So if neither of us is interested in a relationship and neither of us indulges in one-night stands, then why not get to know each other better? Retrospectively. Unless you’re here with someone else?’ His hands curled into loose fists at the thought, the thrill of possession taking him by surprise. It was only because they had barely scratched the surface of their attraction, he reminded himself. Only because spending the evening with Sophie would be safe and yet satisfying. No expectations beyond fun and flirtation, although if the evening did end the same way as their past encounter, he wouldn’t complain. His gaze travelled down the sixties-inspired minidress to the acres of shapely leg, lingering on the slight swell of her hips. No, he wouldn’t be complaining at all.

‘No. I’m here with my friends and their husbands and fiancés. They are all lovely and doing their best to include me, but they’re all so madly, sickeningly in love that I can’t help feeling like a spare part.’

She was wavering. Time to press his advantage. ‘Then this is fate,’ he said promptly. ‘Every time you feel like a spare part, dance with me. We can have a code.’

Her eyebrows raised. ‘A code?’

‘Sì, you rub your nose or tug your ear and I will know you need rescuing from the tedium of romance.’

‘They don’t mean to be tedious.’ But the wariness had disappeared from her face and she was smiling. ‘What if you’re not watching, when I signal?’

‘Oh, I’ll be watching,’ he assured her. ‘But just in case you forget to signal, let’s make an appointment now to see the new year in together. I’ll meet you...’ He paused, trying to think of a landmark in the ballroom.

‘Outside this closet?’

‘Perfect. Yes, I’ll meet you outside here at eleven.’

‘But that’s a whole hour before midnight.’

‘You owe me half an hour of dancing for running out on me and half an hour for escaping into a closet. I’m Italian, the hurt to my machismo could have been catastrophic.’

A dimple flashed in her cheek. ‘Okay, eleven it is. Unless I need rescuing, in which case I’ll...I’ll twizzle my hair. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ Marco opened the door and held it, standing to one side while Sophie passed through it, brushing past him as she did so, his body exploding into awareness at each point she touched. He took her hand as he stepped out of the small room and raised it to his lips. ‘Until eleven, signorina. I look forward to further making your acquaintance.’

Marco leaned against the door as he watched Sophie disappear back into the ballroom. Yes, she would do very nicely as a distraction, very nicely indeed. Suddenly he was looking forward to the rest of the Snowflake Ball after all.

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