Her New Year Baby Secret. Jessica Gilmore

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СКАЧАТЬ a dance wouldn’t hurt—would it?

      * * *

      Sophie had had no intention of using any of the secret signs Marco had suggested. She kept her hands firmly on her lap, on her knife and fork, or wrapped around her water glass to ensure that she didn’t inadvertently summon him over. But, as the night wore on, her resolve wavered. It wasn’t that her friends and their partners intentionally excluded her, but they just couldn’t help themselves. They kept separating off into cosy little pairs to sway intimately on the dance floor, no matter what the music, or to indulge in some very public displays of affection over the smoked salmon starter. In some ways it was worse when they emerged from their love-struck idyll and remembered Sophie’s presence, tumbling over themselves to apologise and making Sophie feel even more like a third—or seventh—wheel than ever.

      Then when the men sauntered off to the bar between courses, leaving the four friends alone, the conversation turned, inevitably Sophie supposed, to Grace’s and Ashleigh’s forthcoming weddings.

      ‘Definitely a church wedding,’ Grace said. ‘Probably in Scotland, although it would be a shame not to hold the reception at The Armstrong. After all, that’s where we met. The only thing is a church can be a little limiting. Do you think it would be okay for the bridesmaids to wear short dresses in a church?’

      ‘The bridesmaids were in minidresses at the last church wedding I attended. They were certainly effective.’ So effective that Harry, Sophie’s ex, hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the head bridesmaid as she had paraded down the aisle all tumbled hair and bronzed, lithe legs. Nor, it had transpired just a few hours later, had he been able to keep his hands off her either. Sophie swallowed, reaching for her water blindly to try to mask the metallic taste she always noticed when she thought about that night. The taste of humiliation. Not just because Harry had treated her like that; if she was honest with herself, he’d behaved like that for far too many years. Nor was it because he had chosen to do so in front of all of their friends; after all, Sophie had spent many occasions making excuses for him or turning a well-practised blind eye. No, the scalding shame she still experienced every day was because it had taken such a blatant humiliation to force her to act, to realise that this bad boy couldn’t be redeemed and he wasn’t worth one more of her tears.

      How had it taken seven years? Her parents had known it almost instantly, as had her few friends. And yet she’d chosen Harry over every single one of them, sure that she saw something special in him nobody else could see. Maybe if she’d been more confident, maybe if she hadn’t felt so alone when she met him...

      No, there were no maybes. She had only herself to blame. What a fool, young and blinded by lust and romance. Never again.

      She looked over at her friends, forcing a smile. ‘I have a request, no, a demand. You must promise to seat me at a table full of fabulous, fun single ladies. No set-ups with your cousin’s best friend’s brother’s boss just because he visited Manchester once and so we’ll have lots in common and no nudging me towards the best man because that’s what happens at weddings. I want a party table.’

      ‘It’s a promise,’ Ashleigh agreed, turning to greet Lukas with a brilliant smile as he put another champagne-filled ice bucket down on the table along with another bottle of mineral water. Maybe she was too used to cheap cava, but Sophie just couldn’t drink the champagne; every sip tasted sour. Not only was she a third wheel, but she was a sober third wheel...

      What was wrong with her? She should be having a good time; she looked okay, her dress had got several appreciative comments, which was always warming to a designer’s ears, the food was really tasty, the band talented and the ballroom looked like a very tasteful winter wonderland. It was New Year’s Eve and she was out with her best friends being wined and dined. Sophie straightened. She was being selfish. She shouldn’t need anything more.

      Except...

      Sophie’s gaze slid, not for the first time, over to the large round table at the other side of the room. Marco was leaning back in his chair, a glass clasped elegantly in his fingertips, apparently deeply involved in a conversation with the couple sat next to him. Only a slight inclination of the head and a tilt of the glass towards her in a light toast betrayed his awareness of her scrutiny. But he knew, she had no doubt. He’d known every time.

      It was only nine o’clock. Two hours until their promised dance.

      The third of the six courses had been cleared away and Emma and Jack had taken advantage of the hiatus in the meal to dance—if you called moving very slowly staring intensely at each other dancing. Grace and Finlay were sitting opposite Sophie, but there was no point trying to chat to either of them; they were looking into each other’s eyes, emitting so much heat Sophie had moved the water jug closer in case they suddenly combusted. As for Ashleigh, Sophie hadn’t seen her friend for several minutes, but at last sight she had been towing Lukas determinedly towards the closet Sophie had discovered earlier.

      She had a choice. She could spend the next two hours sitting here feeling sorry for herself or she could allow herself some real fun. The kind of fun she’d been too busy accommodating Harry to enjoy before. The kind of fun she hadn’t allowed herself since the breakup. Just looking at Marco made her stomach fall away and her breath hitch, but she was no longer a naïve teenager who couldn’t tell the difference between lust and love. And that was what this was: pure and simple delicious lust. If she knew that, remembered that, then what harm could a few more hours in Marco’s company do?

      And as the thought crossed her mind her hand rose, almost by its own volition, and, with her eyes fixed on Marco, Sophie slowly and deliberately wound a lock of hair around her finger and smiled.

      * * *

      He’d been aware of her every second of the evening, from the moment she’d walked away from him to rejoin her friends. The swish of her hair, the sway of her hips, the curve of her mouth. It was as if an invisible thread stretched across the vast room connecting them; every time she moved he felt it, a deep visceral pull.

      It was unlike any reaction he’d ever had towards a woman and it wasn’t hard to work out why; he didn’t need a degree in psychology to realise that she was probably the first woman to walk away from him and he was completely unaccustomed to not calling the shots in all his relationships, personal and professional. No wonder his interest was piqued.

      Not that he wanted her to know it. Knowledge was power in every relationship, no matter how temporary.

      But Marco knew every time Sophie slid a look in his direction, he felt the tension in her as if it were his, he knew she would cave in eventually and so, with a surge of triumph, he watched her as she reached up and wound a lock of silky blonde hair around her finger, a provocative smile on her full mouth—and a challenge in her eyes.

      Marco’s expectations of the evening had risen the second he’d caught sight of the elusive Signorina Bradshaw; at that look in her eyes they took flight. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, pushing his chair back and languidly getting to his feet. No need to rush. She wasn’t going anywhere. ‘I have some personal business to attend to.’

      He held Sophie’s gaze as he moved with predatory grace across the dance floor, his steps slow and easy until he came to a halt in front of her. Sophie sat alone on one side of the table, the only other occupants breaking off from an intense conversation to watch, open-mouthed, as he extended a hand. ‘Signorina?’

      Sophie arched an elegant bow. ‘Sir?’

      He smiled at that, slow and purposeful. ‘Would you do me the honour?’

      ‘How very unexpected.’ СКАЧАТЬ