Книга - A Dangerous Infatuation

A Dangerous Infatuation
Chantelle Shaw


Off-limits…but irresistible! Rocco D’Angelo doesn’t do needy women – and he certainly doesn’t do commitment! But the spark notorious playboy Rocco feels with his beloved grandmother’s nurse Emma Marchant is more than the usual thrill-of-the-chase adrenalin!Never in her wildest dreams did cautious Emma imagine she would be swept from a sleepy English village to the exotic climes of the Italian Riviera – especially by a man as disreputable as Rocco. Emma could be the one to tame the untameable – unless her infatuation is more dangerous than she imagined…










By the end of the week he felt as wound up as a coiled spring.

Sexual frustration was not conducive to a good mood, he’d discovered. There were several women he could call—casual mistresses who would be happy to join him for dinner at an exclusive restaurant followed by a night of mutually enjoyable sex, with no strings attached. So why wasn’t he tempted to pick up the phone?

The answer could be found in a pair of grey eyes that regarded him coolly across the dinner table every evening. Sometimes the expression in those eyes was not as dismissive as he suspected their owner wished. Emma was fighting the sexual chemistry between them. But it was there, simmering beneath the surface of their polite conversation, and blazing in the stolen glances they shared. He heard her swiftly indrawn breath when he leaned close to refill her wine glass, and he knew they both felt a tingle of electricity if their hands accidentally brushed.

Their attraction to one another was undeniable, but for the first time in his life Rocco could not simply take what he wanted.




About the Author


CHANTELLE SHAW lives on the Kent coast, five minutes from the sea, and does much of her thinking about the characters in her books while walking on the beach. She’s been an avid reader from an early age. Her schoolfriends used to hide their books when she visited—but Chantelle would retreat into her own world, and still writes stories in her head all the time. Chantelle has been blissfully married to her own tall, dark and very patient hero for over twenty years, and has six children. She began to read Mills & Boon


as a teenager, and throughout the years of being a stay-at-home mum to her brood found romantic fiction helped her to stay sane! She enjoys reading and writing about strong-willed, feisty women, and even stronger-willed sexy heroes. Chantelle is at her happiest when writing. She is particularly inspired while cooking dinner, which unfortunately results in a lot of culinary disasters! She also loves gardening, walking, and eating chocolate (followed by more walking!). Catch up with Chantelle’s latest news on her website: www.chantelleshaw.com

Recent titles by the same author:

AFTER THE GREEK AFFAIR

HIS UNKNOWN HEIR



Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk


A Dangerous

Infatuation







Chantelle Shaw






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


SNOW had been falling across Northumbria all day, burying the moors beneath a thick white blanket and icing the peaks of the Cheviot Hills. Picturesque it might be, but it was no fun driving on slippery roads, Emma thought grimly as she slowed the car to a crawl to negotiate a sharp bend. With the onset of dusk the temperature had plummeted to well below freezing, and most of the minor country lanes had not been gritted, making journeys treacherous.

The north-east of England often saw snow in the winter, but it was unusual to last this late into March. Thankfully, her battered old four-by-four, which had once seen service on her parents’ Scottish hill-farm, coped well with the conditions. It might not be the most stylish vehicle, but it was practical and robust—rather like her, Emma acknowledged, with a rueful glance down at the padded ski jacket she was wearing over her nurse’s uniform. The jacket made her resemble a beach ball, but at least it kept her warm, and her thick-soled boots were sturdy and sensible.

The narrow road wound uphill, bordered on either side by the walls of snow that had been piled up when a farmer had cleared the route with a tractor earlier in the day. Nunstead Hall was still three miles ahead, and Emma was growing concerned that even if she made it to the isolated house she was in danger of being stranded there. For a moment she contemplated turning back, but she hadn’t visited Cordelia for two days, and she was anxious about the elderly lady who lived alone.

A frown furrowed her brow as she thought of her patient. Although Cordelia Symmonds was in her eighties she was fiercely independent. But six months ago she had fallen and broken her hip, and then recently she had had an accident in the kitchen and badly burned her hand. Cordelia was becoming increasingly frail, and it was no longer safe for her to live alone at Nunstead, but she had refused to consider moving to a smaller house closer to the village.

It was a pity Cordelia’s grandson did not do more to help his grandmother, Emma thought darkly. But he lived abroad, and always seemed too busy with his high-powered career to have time to visit Northumberland. She had heard the pride and affection in Cordelia’s voice on the many occasions when she had spoken of her grandson, but sadly the old lady seemed to have been abandoned by her only living relative.

It wasn’t right, Emma thought fiercely. The subject of care for the elderly was close to her heart—particularly after the terrible event at the beginning of the year when she had visited a ninety-year-old man and discovered he had passed away in his armchair in a freezing cold house. His family had gone away for Christmas and had not arranged for anyone to check on him. The thought of the poor man dying alone still haunted her.

Remembering Mr Jeffries, Emma knew she could not allow the situation with Cordelia to continue. Perhaps she could somehow contact Cordelia’s grandson and persuade him that he needed to take some responsibility for his grandmother? she brooded.

The car slid on the icy road, and she concentrated on driving through the increasingly heavy snowfall. It had been a long and difficult day, due mainly to the weather. Just this last visit, she thought wearily, and then she could collect Holly from the childminder, go home to the cottage and light a fire before she started cooking dinner.

She chewed on her lip as she recalled how her daughter had been coughing again when she had dropped her at nursery that morning. Her flu virus had been particularly severe, and the long winter wasn’t helping the little girl to pick up. Spring couldn’t come soon enough. Warm sunshine and the chance to play outside in the garden would do Holly the world of good, and hopefully put some colour back on her pale cheeks.

Rounding the next bend, Emma gave a startled cry when she was faced with car headlights blazing in front of her. Instantly she braked, and let out a shaky breath when she realised that the other car was not moving. A quick inspection of the scene told her that the car must have skidded on ice, spun around and then hit the bank of snow at the side of the road. The back end had actually crashed through the snow wall, and was partly submerged in the ditch.

There only seemed to be one occupant—a man—who flung open the driver’s door and climbed out, apparently unhurt.

Halting her car beside him, Emma leaned over and wound down the window.

‘Are you all right?’

‘I am, but that’s more than can be said for my car,’ he replied tersely, his eyes on the sleek silver sports car half buried beneath a mountain of snow.

His voice was deep-timbred, with a faint accent that Emma could not immediately place but sent a tiny frisson down her spine. It was a very sexy voice—as rich and sensuous as molten chocolate. She frowned at the unexpected turn of her thoughts. A practical and down-to-earth person, she was not prone to wild flights of fancy.

The man was standing to one side of his car, out of the glare of the headlights, so she could not make out his features. But she noted his exceptional height. He was easily several inches over six feet tall. His superbly tailored sheepskin coat emphasised the width of his broad shoulders. Although she could not see him clearly, she sensed his air of wealth and sophistication, and she wondered what on earth he was doing in this remote area. The nearest village was miles back down the road, whilst ahead stretched the vast Northumberland moors. She glanced down at his leather shoes, which were covered in snow, and immediately dismissed the idea that he might be a hiker. His feet must be freezing.

Even as the thought came into her head he stamped his feet, as if to get the blood circulating, and pulled a mobile phone from his pocket.

‘No signal,’ he muttered disgustedly. ‘Why anyone would choose to live in this godforsaken place is beyond me.’

‘Northumbria is renowned for its unspoilt beauty,’ Emma felt compelled to point out, feeling a tiny spurt of irritation at his scathing tone.

In her opinion, anyone who chose to drive across the moors in a snowstorm should have the sense to pack a spade and other emergency supplies. Personally, she loved Northumberland’s dramatic landscapes. When she had been married to Jack they had rented a flat in Newcastle, but she hadn’t enjoyed living in a busy city and had missed the wildness of the moors.

‘There are some wonderful walks through the National Park—although it is rather bleak in the winter,’ she conceded.

Sensing the man’s impatience, she continued, ‘I’m afraid my phone doesn’t work out here either—few of the phone networks do. You’ll have to get to a village before you can call a garage, but I doubt anyone will send a truck to tow your car out until tomorrow.’ She hesitated, instinctively wary of offering a complete stranger a lift, but her conscience nagged that she could not leave him stranded. ‘I’ve got one more visit to make and then I’ll be going back to Little Copton, if you want to come with me?’

He had no choice but to accept the woman’s offer, Rocco realised as he walked around his car and saw that the back wheels were submerged in three feet of water. Even if he could clear the mound of snow that had collapsed on top of the roof, it would be impossible to drive up the side of the ditch; the wheels would simply spin on the ice. There was nothing for it but to find a hotel for the night and arrange for his car to be rescued in the morning, he concluded, reaching over to the back seat to retrieve his overnight bag.

He glanced at the bulky figure of the woman in the four-by-four and guessed that she was from one of the farms. Maybe she had been out to check on livestock: he couldn’t imagine why else she would be driving across the moors in the snow.

She was certainly well built, he thought, as he climbed up into the car and squashed himself into the small space on the seat beside her. But her woollen hat was pulled low over her brow, and a thick scarf covered most of the lower half of her face, so it was impossible for him to guess her age.

‘Thank you,’ he murmured, closing the door and feeling a welcome blast of warm air from the car’s heater. It was only now sinking in that he was lucky not to have been injured in the crash, and that he could have faced a long, cold walk to find civilisation. ‘I was fortunate you were driving this way.’

Emma released the handbrake and carefully pulled away, her hands tightening on the steering wheel when she felt the car slide. She rammed the stiff gear lever into second gear, and tensed when her hand brushed against the man’s thigh. In the confines of the vehicle she was even more aware of his size. His head almost brushed the roof, she noted, darting him a lightning glance. The collar of his coat was pulled up around his face, hiding his features, so that all she could really see of him was the dark hair which fell across his brow.

In the warm car the spicy scent of his cologne teased her senses. It was an evocatively masculine smell and stirred an unbidden memory of Jack. Her mouth tightened as the image of her husband’s handsome face, his shock of blond hair and his lazy grin, flooded her mind. Jack had been a natural-born charmer who had loved the finer things in life, she remembered bleakly. She had bought him his favourite, ruinously expensive aftershave the last Christmas they had spent together, naively unaware that he probably wore it when he slept with other women.

She slammed a brake on her thoughts and became aware that the stranger was staring at her.

‘What did you mean when you said you have to make one last visit? It’s not a good night to be out socialising,’ he said, glancing through the windscreen at the snowy lane illuminated by the car’s headlights.

The area was familiar to Rocco. He knew there was only one more house ahead before the road dwindled to a track that wound across the moors. It was a stroke of good luck that his rescuer was heading in the direction of his destination, but he was puzzled as to where she was going.

Once again Emma felt a little quiver run down her spine at the man’s husky, innately sexy accent. Definitely not French, she decided, but possibly he was Spanish or Italian. She was curious to know why he had been driving along a remote Northumbrian country lane in a snowstorm. Where had he come from and where was he heading? But politeness and her natural diffidence prevented her from asking him.

‘I’m a district nurse,’ she explained. ‘One of my patients lives out here on the moor.’

Beside her, she felt the stranger stiffen. He snapped his head towards her and seemed about to say something, but at that moment a stone gateway loomed out of the darkness.

‘Here’s Nunstead Hall,’ Emma said, relieved to have arrived in one piece. ‘Enormous, isn’t it? The grounds are beautiful, and there’s even a private lake.’

She turned onto the driveway and stared up at the imposing old house that was in darkness apart from one window, where a light was shining, and then glanced at the forbidding stranger, wondering why he made her feel uneasy. His brows were drawn into a deep frown, and she was puzzled by his tangible tension.

‘Does your patient live here?’ he demanded tersely.

It was too dark to see the expression in his eyes, but something about his hard stare unnerved her.

‘Yes. You can probably phone the garage from the house,’ she told him, assuming that he was frowning because he was anxious about his car. ‘I have a door key so that I can let myself in. I think it would be better if you stay here while I ask Mrs Symmonds if you can use the phone.’

She reached over to the back seat for her medical bag and seconds later felt a blast of cold air rush into the car. ‘Hey!’ Irritation swept through her when she saw that the stranger had ignored her instructions and climbed out of the four-by-four. He was already striding up to the front door of the Hall, and she hastily jumped out and ran after him, stumbling in the thick snow that covered the ground. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I asked you to stay in the car. My patient is elderly and might be frightened at the sight of a stranger on the doorstep.’

‘Hopefully I’m not that terrifying a sight,’ he drawled, sounding arrogantly amused. He brushed off the snow-flakes that were settling thick and fast on his coat. ‘Although if you don’t hurry up and open the door I’m going to look like the Yeti that’s reputed to stalk the Himalayas.’

‘It’s not funny,’ Emma snapped. She did not care for the hard glitter in his eyes, and wished that instead of rescuing him from the roadside she had phoned Jim at Yaxley Farm, which was the closest neighbour to Nunstead Hall, and asked him to bring a tractor to tow the stranger’s car out of the ditch. She gave a startled gasp when the man took the key from her fingers and slotted it into the lock. Her anger turned to unease. For all she knew he could be a criminal on the run, or a lunatic! ‘I must insist that you return to the car,’ she said firmly. ‘You can’t just stroll in as if you own the place.’

‘But I do own it,’ he informed her coolly as he pushed open the door.

For a few seconds Emma gaped at him, stunned, but when he stepped across the threshold into the house she regained the use of her tongue. ‘What do you mean? Who are you?’

She broke off when a door leading off the hallway opened and tiny, silver-haired Cordelia Symmonds appeared. Desperately concerned that the old lady would be scared to find a stranger in her home, Emma spoke quickly.

‘Cordelia, I’m so sorry—this gentleman was stranded in the snow and …’

But Cordelia did not appear to be listening. Her eyes were focused on the stranger and a beaming smile spread across her lined face.

‘Rocco, my darling. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

‘I wanted to surprise you.’ The man’s accented voice was suddenly as soft as crushed velvet. ‘Unfortunately my car skidded on ice, but luckily the nurse here—’ he flicked a sardonic glance at Emma ‘—offered me a lift.’

Cordelia did not seem to notice Emma’s confusion. ‘Emma, dear—what a wonderful girl you are for rescuing my grandson.’

Grandson! Emma’s eyes flew to the stranger. In the brightly lit hall she could see his face clearly, and she recognised him now. Pictures of him frequently appeared in celebrity gossip magazines, alongside frenzied discussion about his tangled love life. Rocco D’Angelo was the CEO of a famous Italian sports car company—Eleganza—and a multi-millionaire playboy who was reputed to be one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. And Cordelia’s grandson.

Why hadn’t it clicked? Emma asked herself impatiently. The clues had been there—the flash car, his foreign accent and his indefinable air of savoir-faire that only the very rich possessed. She hadn’t been expecting to meet him, of course. But why hadn’t he explained who he was? she thought irritably.

‘Come along in, both of you,’ Cordelia invited, turning back to the sitting room.

Emma went to follow, but found her way barred as the stranger—she was still struggling with the shock news that he was Cordelia’s grandson—stepped in front of her.

‘Just a moment—I’d like a word with you. Why exactly are you here?’ Rocco asked in an undertone, pulling the sitting room door half closed so that his grandmother could not hear their conversation. ‘Cordelia looks perfectly well. Why does she need a nurse to visit her?’

It was there again—that faintly haughty tone in his voice that made Emma’s hackles rise. Images flashed in her head of poor Mr Jeffries, who had died alone, and Cordelia’s joyous smile at her grandson’s unexpected visit. The elderly lady clearly thought her grandson was Mr Wonderful, and from his arrogant air Rocco D’Angelo seemed to share that opinion.

‘If you took any interest in your grandmother you would know why I am here,’ she said sharply, feeling a small spurt of satisfaction when his eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that Cordelia fell and broke her hip a few months ago. She’s still recuperating from hip replacement surgery.’

‘Of course I know about that.’ Rocco disliked the nurse’s belligerent attitude, and the implicit criticism of him that was apparent in her tone. His voice iced over. ‘But I understood that she was recovering well.’

‘She’s over eighty, and she should not be living here in this remote house all alone. Her recent accident when she burned her hand is proof of that. It’s a great pity that you are too busy with your own life to pay Cordelia any attention.’ Emma gave him a scathing look. ‘From what I understand, you are her only living relative. You should be doing more to help your grandmother.’ She pushed past him. ‘Now, please excuse me. I need to see my patient.’

The sitting room was like an oven. At least Cordelia did not stint on heating the house, Emma thought, watching Rocco—who had followed her into the room—immediately shrug off his coat. Her eyes seemed to have a magnetic attraction to him, and she felt a peculiar sensation in the pit of her stomach as her brain registered that he was utterly gorgeous. His black jeans and matching fine wool sweater moulded his lean, hard body. Raven-dark hair was swept back from his brow, emphasising the perfect symmetry of his chiselled features, his sharp cheekbones and square chin giving him a harsh, autocratic beauty that took her breath away.

With his incredible looks he could be a film star, or a male model from one of those glossy magazines that were occasionally donated to the surgery’s waiting room and featured articles about the rich and famous aboard their yachts in Monaco, she brooded.

He looked over at her, and she felt embarrassed that he had caught her staring at him. Her face grew hotter when he trailed his unusual amber-coloured eyes over her in brief assessment, before dismissing her with a sweep of his thick black lashes. Clearly he did not consider her worthy of a second glance. But why would he? she asked herself irritably. She was not a skinny, glamorous clothes horse like the stunning French model Juliette Pascal, who was reputed to be his current mistress. Emma had long ago accepted that even if she dieted permanently she would never be a fashionable and totally unachievable size zero, and she was painfully conscious that in her padded jacket she looked like a sumo wrestler.

Rocco was seething. The gratitude he had felt towards the nurse for rescuing him from the roadside had rapidly disappeared when she had voiced her opinion that he did not care properly for his grandmother. She knew nothing about his relationship with Cordelia and had no right to pass judgement on him, he thought furiously.

He adored his nonna, and the nurse’s assertion that he was too wrapped up in his own life to pay her any attention was ridiculous. However busy he was, he always phoned her once a week. It was true he hadn’t managed to come to England for quite a while—not since his brief visit at Christmas. He felt a pang of guilt when he realised that it was nearly three months since he had last been at Nunstead.

But Cordelia did not live alone. The nurse—Emma, he recalled his grandmother had called her—was wrong about that. Before he had returned to Italy he had employed a housekeeper to take care of the house and Cordelia.

Thoroughly riled, he glared at Emma, whose face was still half hidden beneath her scarf. Never in his life had he seen a woman wear such an unflattering hat, he mused, his eyes drawn with horrible fascination to the red woollen monstrosity on her head, which had slipped so low that it now covered her eyebrows. But she was no longer looking at him, and was staring down at Cordelia’s feet.

‘Cordelia, why is there snow on your slippers?’ Emma frowned when she saw the elderly lady shiver. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been outside in the garden? It’s freezing, and you could have slipped on the ice.’

‘Oh, I only went a little way down the path.’ A worried look crossed Cordelia’s face. ‘Thomas has disappeared. I can’t find him anywhere.’

‘I’ll look for him, and then I’ll make some tea. You sit by the fire and warm up,’ Emma instructed firmly, concern for her patient providing a welcome distraction from Cordelia’s disturbingly handsome grandson.

In the kitchen she filled the kettle and then opened the back door. The garden was a white wilderness illuminated by the moonlight. She compressed her lips at the sight of footsteps across the snow-covered lawn. Thank heavens Cordelia hadn’t fallen; hypothermia would have set in very quickly in the sub-zero temperature.

Gleaming green eyes caught her attention. ‘Thomas, come here you little pest.’ A ball of ginger fur shot past, but she managed to catch it, wishing she was still wearing her gloves when the cat dug his needle-sharp claws into her hand. ‘It would have been your fault if Cordelia had slipped over,’ she told the animal with mock sternness.

Her expression became serious. This situation could not be allowed to continue. For her own safety Cordelia would have to be persuaded to move closer to the village—or her arrogant grandson who had turned up out of the blue would have to be persuaded to take responsibility for his frail grandmother, and at the very least arrange for fulltime staff to care for her at Nunstead Hall.

Rocco D’Angelo was in the kitchen when she went back inside. Although the room was a fair size it suddenly seemed claustrophobically small as he prowled around like a sleek, dark panther. Even his name was sexy, Emma thought ruefully, irritated with herself for the way her heart-rate quickened when he strode around the table and halted in front of her, his glittering golden eyes trapping her gaze.

‘Who is Thomas?’ he demanded curtly. ‘And why are you making tea? Surely the housekeeper should do that?’

‘This is Thomas.’ Emma set the cat on the floor. ‘He turned up on the doorstep a couple of weeks ago and Cordelia adopted him. We think he’d been abandoned and had been living wild, but sought shelter when the weather became colder. He’s half feral and usually only goes to your grandmother,’ she added, glancing at the scratch on the back of her hand and feeling a flare of annoyance when Thomas rubbed his head against Rocco’s leg and purred. ‘And there isn’t a housekeeper, as I’m sure you know,’ she continued sharply. ‘To be honest, I don’t know how you can have allowed Cordelia to remain here when there’s no one to help with shopping and cooking, and generally keeping an eye on her. I’m sure you lead a very busy life, Mr D’—’

‘I hired a housekeeper called Morag Stewart to look after the house and my grandmother the last time I was here at Nunstead.’ Rocco interrupted the nurse mid-flow. It was obvious she had been itching to give him a lecture on his inadequacies, but he was in no mood to listen.

He was well aware of his failings, he thought grimly. As always, coming back to Nunstead Hall evoked memories of Giovanni. It was twenty years since his younger brother had drowned in the lake on the grounds of the house, but time had not erased the memory of his mother’s hysterical screams, nor her accusation that it was his fault Gio was dead.

‘I told you to look after him. You’re as irresponsible as your goddamned father.’

The image of his brother’s limp, lifeless body still haunted him. Gio had only been seven years old, while Rocco had been fifteen—old enough to be left in charge of his brother for a few hours, his mother had sobbed. He should have taken better care of Gio. He should have saved him. But he had failed.

Rocco’s jaw tightened. The guilt he felt about Gio was now mixed with a new guilt that once again his actions had resulted in terrible consequences—although mercifully not in another death. But it had been a close call, he acknowledged grimly. A year ago a young actress, Rosalinda Barinelli, had swallowed an overdose of sleeping pills after he had ended their affair. It had only been by lucky chance that a friend had found her and called an ambulance. Rosalinda had survived, but had admitted that she had tried to take her life because she could not bear to live without him.

‘I always wanted more than an affair, Rocco,’ she had told him when he had visited her in hospital. ‘I pretended to be happy as your mistress, but I always hoped you would fall in love with me.’

To his surprise, Rosalinda’s parents had been sympathetic when he’d explained that he had been unaware of their daughter’s feelings, and that he had never made promises of marriage or commitment to her. They had revealed that Rosalinda had formed a similar strong attachment to a previous boyfriend. She had always been emotionally fragile, and they had not blamed Rocco for her suicide attempt. But, despite the Barinellis’ reassurance, he still blamed himself.

Now, as he stared at Emma, his conscience pricked. Maybe she was right to be concerned about his grandmother. He could not understand why Cordelia was living alone at Nunstead Hall, but he was determined to find out what was going on.




CHAPTER TWO


EMMA switched the kettle onto boil and began to unravel her scarf. Glancing down, she saw that she had walked snow into the kitchen from the garden, and tugged off her boots before unzipping her jacket. Her mind dwelled on Rocco D’Angelo’s assertion that he had arranged for a housekeeper to work at Nunstead.

‘There’s never been a housekeeper here since I’ve known Cordelia. I’ve never met this Morag Stewart, and your grandmother has never mentioned her. When did you say you hired her?’

‘Just before Christmas.’ Rocco’s jaw hardened at the scepticism in Emma’s voice. He was infuriated that she clearly did not believe him. He was not used to having his actions questioned—especially by a woman. In Rocco’s experience women agreed with everything he said.

‘Nonna was still frail after her hip replacement. I wanted to take her to my home in Italy, but she refused to leave Nunstead. You might be aware that I am the chief executive of the sports car company Eleganza?’ he continued coldly. ‘It is a demanding job and I have little spare time.’

The past four months had been manic. The death of his father after a short illness had been a shock, and his workload had been immense as he had continued to run Eleganza at the same time as trying to sort out Enrico’s affairs. What a tangled web his father had left behind, Rocco thought grimly.

He stared at the nurse through the cloud of steam that enveloped her as she poured water from the kettle into a teapot. ‘I knew I would not have time to visit England regularly, so I contacted a staff agency and subsequently appointed Morag Stewart as housekeeper and companion to Cordelia.’

‘Your grandmother didn’t become my patient until the end of January,’ Emma said slowly. The realisation was sinking in that she might have misjudged Cordelia’s grandson. ‘I took over caring for her from one of my colleagues after our rounds were reorganized, and I was immediately concerned that she lived on her own such a long way from the village. At first I only saw her once a week, to check her blood pressure, but since she burned her hand I’ve visited every couple of days.’ She stared at Rocco, accepting that it was unlikely he had made up the story about hiring a housekeeper. ‘Morag Stewart must have left Nunstead for some reason,’ she ventured.

‘I intend to find out why from Cordelia.’

But his intention to quiz his grandmother about her unsatisfactory living arrangements was not as imperative as it had been a few moments ago, Rocco discovered. Ever since he had watched Emma pull off her boots, to reveal a pair of surprisingly shapely legs sheathed in black hose, he had been intrigued to see the rest of the woman who had so far been hidden by outerwear that would not have looked out of place in the Arctic. The removal of her scarf had exposed a face far younger than he had expected, with creamy skin and a lush, full-lipped mouth that drew his gaze.

Now she pulled off her hat and shook her head, so that her hair settled around her face in a chin-length strawberry blonde bob that shone like raw silk beneath the bright kitchen light. Her features were attractive rather than pretty, Rocco mused. There was strength in the firmness of her jaw, and her grey eyes, the colour of rain-clouds, were intelligent and coolly assessing. Finally she shrugged off her padded jacket. Her body was an even more pleasant surprise, he noted, skimming his eyes over her blue nurse’s uniform and focusing on her slim waist, the gentle flare of her hips and the rounded fullness of her breasts.

The thought came into his head that this was how a woman should look. He was jaded by a diet of whippet-thin, glamorous models. Emma’s curvaceous figure was a delightful contrast to his numerous high-maintenance mistresses. As he stared at her he was reminded of a Renaissance painting of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Like Eve, Emma’s soft curves were sensual and tempting. He wondered what she looked like naked, imagined her breasts filling his hands like plump peaches …

The sharp stab of desire in his groin was unexpected and disconcerting. She wasn’t his type, he reminded himself. To his surprise he found her physically attractive, but her brisk, no-nonsense personality reminded him of the strict headmistress of the English prep school he’d been sent to at the age of six, and her readiness to jump to conclusions without checking facts irritated the hell out of him.

Which brought him back to his grandmother and the case of the missing housekeeper, he brooded.

‘I still think you should have found the time to visit between Christmas and now.’

The nurse’s disapproving voice interrupted Rocco’s thoughts.

‘If you had, you would have known the housekeeper wasn’t here and that Cordelia was struggling to cope on her own. I appreciate that you lead a busy life, Mr D’Angelo, but I know for a fact that you aren’t always working. Cordelia saves every newspaper clipping about you, and only last week she showed me a photo of you on the ski slopes at Val d’Isère.’

Emma opened a cupboard and took down three of the bone china cups and saucers that she knew Cordelia preferred to mugs before turning to face Rocco.

‘In my opinion …’

‘I’m not interested in your opinion,’ he stated. ‘Particularly in relation to my private life.’ Rocco’s mouth thinned as he struggled to control his anger. What would the sanctimonious, busybody nurse say, he brooded, if he revealed that the reason for the skiing trip had been an attempt to build a relationship with his father’s illegitimate young son, Marco—a half-brother whose existence he had been unaware of until shortly before Enrico’s death? ‘My personal life is no concern of yours.’

‘True,’ Emma agreed tightly. ‘But your grandmother’s welfare is my concern. I’m worried about her safety, living on her own, and I’m sure she’s not eating properly. I would be failing in my duty if I did not report my concerns to Social Services.’

She could tell from the dangerous gleam in Rocco’s tiger-like golden eyes that she had angered him with her bluntness. In her job she had found that people often became defensive when reminded of their responsibilities towards a vulnerable relative. But it was too bad, she thought, lifting her chin to meet his intimidating glare. She had grown very fond of Cordelia, and dreaded the thought of her falling and lying unaided, because there was no one around to come to her rescue—just as no one had come to the aid of poor Mr Jeffries.

‘Your grandmother needs help,’ she told Rocco fiercely. ‘It is unacceptable for you to abandon her while you gallivant around the world—whether for business or pleasure,’ she added, thinking of the attractive blonde in the photo, who had no doubt been Rocco’s companion both on and off the ski slopes.

Rocco muttered a curse under his breath, his patience finally snapping. ‘I head a billion-dollar global company. I do not gallivant anywhere. And I have certainly not abandoned Cordelia.’ He took a deep breath and sought to control his temper. Emma was a nurse, he reminded himself, and it was her job to ensure that her patient was safe and well cared for. ‘I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary. I am perfectly capable of looking after my grandmother.’

‘Really?’ Emma’s brows arched disbelievingly. ‘I’ve seen little evidence of that. Cordelia has been struggling for weeks—the accident when she burned her hand was very serious. Your turning up out of the blue occasionally is simply not good enough. What she needs is for you to live here at Nunstead with her.’

‘Unfortunately that is impossible. Eleganza is based in Italy and I need to live there.’ Even more so now that he had Marco to consider, Rocco thought heavily. But he was damned if he would explain himself to Miss High-and-Mighty. All Emma needed to understand was that he intended to fulfil his responsibility towards his grandmother and take care of her—although quite how he was going to do that when Cordelia had always insisted that she would never leave Nunstead Hall was something he had not yet figured out.

It was not surprising that Rocco preferred to live at his luxurious villa in Portofino rather than on the windswept Northumberland moors, Emma thought, recalling the photos of his house in the Italian province of Genoa that Cordelia had once shown her. There had been other photographs of Rocco aboard his yacht, with the sea sparkling in the background and a gorgeous brunette in a minuscule bikini pressing her body seductively up against him.

‘My grandson is a handsome playboy, just like his father,’ Cordelia had said, her obvious fondness for Rocco mixed with a faint air of resignation at his pleasure-seeking lifestyle. ‘But he says he has learned from his father’s mistakes and has no intention of marrying and having children.’

Emma dragged her thoughts back to the present. ‘Well, something has got to be done,’ she said crisply, trying to dismiss the memory of the photo and Rocco’s muscular, tanned torso from her mind.

She had finished making the tea and went to pick up the tray at the same time as he stretched his hands towards it. Heat shot up her arm at the brush of his warm skin against hers. Startled by the unexpected contact, and her reaction to it, she jerked her hand away as if she had been burned.

The kitchen door swung open and Cordelia walked in, seeming not to notice Emma’s pink cheeks or the way she quickly stepped away from Rocco.

‘I was wondering what had happened to the tea,’ the elderly lady said cheerfully.

‘I was just about to bring it in.’ Nothing in Rocco’s voice revealed that he was fighting a strong urge to run his fingers through the shiny bell of red-gold hair that framed Emma’s face. He could not identify her perfume, but he liked the delicate lemony fragrance, which was so subtle compared to the cloying designer scents most women he knew chose to drown themselves in.

With an effort he dragged his mind from the sexual allure of his grandmother’s nurse and fixed Cordelia with a stern glance. ‘Nonna, where is the housekeeper I arranged to live at Nunstead with you?’

‘Oh, I sacked Morag ages ago—after I discovered her stealing money from my purse,’ Cordelia told him brightly. ‘Dreadful woman—I’m certain she had been pilfering from almost the minute she arrived. I’ve realised since she left that several pieces of silverware have disappeared.’

Rocco exhaled heavily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I did not want you to live alone after your fall last year.’ His exasperation with his grandmother was mingled with a flare of satisfaction when he noted the guilty expression on Emma’s face. She knew now that he had not abandoned Cordelia. Perhaps that would teach her to be a little less judgemental in future, he thought self-righteously. On the other hand, his conscience pointed out, Emma had been right when she had said that he should have found the time to visit Cordelia during the past three months.

‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ his grandmother explained. ‘You had enough to deal with, running Eleganza. And of course losing your father must have been such a shock.’ She sighed. ‘It’s hard to believe that my one-time son-in-law is dead. Enrico can only have been in his early sixties, and he was still so handsome. He had just finished making another film when his cancer was diagnosed, hadn’t he?’

Rocco nodded. ‘At least he was not ill for very long. He would have hated that.’ His father had not been an easy patient, he remembered heavily. Enrico D’Angelo had been one of Italy’s most famous film stars. Fêted and adored all his adult life, he had expected his son, for whom he’d had little time during Rocco’s childhood, to be at his bedside twenty-four hours a day. But there had been little that Enrico’s doctors could do apart from keeping the dying man comfortable, and Rocco had felt a sense of helplessness that he could not save his father—just as he had not saved his brother, nor prevented his mother’s fatal accident years before.

Dragging his mind from the past, Rocco recognised his grandmother’s attempt to steer the conversation away from herself. ‘But, Nonna, I wish you had told me about the housekeeper. I believed these past few months that you were being looked after.’

‘I don’t need looking after,’ Cordelia argued hotly. ‘You should know by now that I’m a tough old stick. And before you start—’ she fixed her grandson with a sharp stare ‘—I will not move from Nunstead. I was born here, and I intend to die here.’

Emma glanced at Rocco and felt a reluctant tug of sympathy for him. His grandmother was barely five feet tall, and looked as though she weighed little more than a sparrow, but she was as strong-willed as an ox. Rocco would have a battle on his hands if he attempted to persuade Cordelia to move house, she thought ruefully.

He turned his head and their eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding. She knew she owed him an apology. It sounded as though he had done his best to arrange a live-in companion for Cordelia, and far from being too busy to come to England he had remained in Italy to be with his terminally ill father.

‘Why don’t we go back into the sitting room?’ she murmured, addressing Cordelia because she felt embarrassed about how unfairly she had accused Rocco. ‘I want to take a look at your hand.’

It was a relief to move away from the gorgeous Italian. She was shaken by her strong awareness of him. He made her feel flustered and on edge, and caused her heart to thud unevenly. But why did he have such an effect on her? she asked herself impatiently as she followed him along the hall, trying not to allow her eyes to focus on his muscular thighs and the taut buttocks outlined beneath his close-fitting black denim jeans. He was stunningly good-looking, but she knew of his reputation as an inveterate charmer, and she had sworn after Jack that never again would she be seduced by a handsome face and a ton of charisma.

As they neared the door to the sitting room she glanced at the portrait of Cordelia’s daughter hanging in the hallway. Flora Symmonds had been exquisitely beautiful, she mused as she studied the painting of the world-famous actress who had died unfairly young and at the height of her career.

‘She was stunning, wasn’t she?’ Rocco halted next to her and followed her gaze. ‘My dear mamma—beautiful, talented, but unfortunately a lousy mother,’ he said harshly.

Emma gave him a shocked look. ‘You don’t mean that.’ She was glad Cordelia had walked ahead of them into the sitting room and could not hear her grandson.

‘It’s the truth.’ Rocco’s jaw hardened as stared at the portrait of his mother. ‘Both my parents were selfish and self-obsessed. They should never have had children, and they quickly realised that fact and sent us away to school as early as possible.’

‘Us?’ Emma was puzzled. Cordelia had only ever spoken of Rocco, as if he was her only grandchild.

He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to answer her, but then he said quietly, ‘My younger brother and I attended boarding school in England. Cordelia was more of a parent to me than either my mother or father. I spent many school holidays here at Nunstead when my parents were both away making films.’ He turned his head from his mother’s picture and gave Emma an amused smile. ‘I agree that the Northumberland National Park has some great walks. I spent a lot of time exploring the moors when I was a boy.’

Emma felt her face redden at his reference to their conversation in the car, when she had been unaware of his identity. ‘I didn’t realise you were familiar with the area,’ she muttered, adding a touch defensively, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t explain who you were.’

He shrugged. ‘I did not know you were on your way to visit my grandmother and saw no reason to introduce myself. I see now that your concern for Cordelia was justified,’ he added honestly. ‘If I had known she was living alone I would have immediately come to England and made other arrangements regarding her care.’

She believed him. The affection Rocco felt for his grandmother was evident in his voice, and Emma felt ashamed of the way she had been so quick to judge him. ‘I’m sorry about your recent bereavement,’ she mumbled. ‘I hadn’t made the connection, until Cordelia spoke of him, that Enrico D’Angelo was your father. He was a brilliant actor. I was shocked when I read about his death in the newspapers a few months ago.’

Although Rocco did not appear to have been close to his parents, it must be hard to have lost both of them, she thought. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, which meant he would have only been a young man when his mother had driven her car along a clifftop road on the French Riviera and taken a hairpin bend too fast.

The accident had made headlines around the globe. Flora Symmonds and Enrico D’Angelo had been world-famous film stars whose tempestuous marriage, numerous affairs and bitter divorce had been played out in the media spotlight. It was little wonder that Rocco had preferred to spend his school holidays with his grandmother, in the peaceful surroundings of Nunstead Hall.

Her eyes strayed against her will to his sculpted face. He met her gaze, his golden eyes gleaming, and her heart gave a little flip when his mouth curved. She might have known that his smile would be devastatingly sensual. He was the archetypal alpha-male—good-looking, confident and oozing sex appeal. Just like Jack, and exactly the type of man she had vowed to avoid like the plague.

The timely reminder of her husband served as a cold shower, dousing her awareness of Rocco. He was a charmer, but she was determined not to be charmed, and her smile was distinctly cool as she murmured, ‘I think you had better carry the tea in before it stews.’

Five minutes later Rocco grimaced as he watched Emma remove the dressing on Cordelia’s hand to reveal a large patch of raw scarlet skin. ‘That looks painful,’ he said grimly. ‘How did you burn yourself, Nonna?’

‘Oh, the silliest thing.’ Cordelia shook her head impatiently. ‘I had heated up some soup for my lunch and somehow managed to spill it onto my hand while I was pouring it into a bowl. Those copper-based saucepans are terribly heavy. I shall buy some different ones the next time I go to Morpeth.’

‘How have you been getting to the town, or even Little Copton, since Morag left?’ Rocco frowned as he thought of how isolated his grandmother was here at Nunstead Hall. One of the reasons he had appointed Morag Stewart had been because she had assured him she would be happy to drive Cordelia around the local area.

‘I haven’t been able to go anywhere since Dr Hanley said that my eyesight is too poor for me to be able to drive. I’m sure he’s wrong,’ Cordelia said indignantly. ‘I was perfectly safe. I used to drive ambulances in London during the Blitz, you know.’

‘I know you did, Nonna. You were—and are—amazing,’ Rocco said softly.

Cordelia’s spirit was as indomitable as ever, but her reference to the part she had played in the Second World War was a reminder of her advancing years, he thought heavily. Once again he felt guilty that he had not checked to see that all was well at Nunstead Hall, but he had been so focused on his father in the weeks before he died, and also on searching for Enrico’s mistress, who was the mother of his young son.

‘I’m very lucky to have such a wonderful nurse,’ his grandmother continued. ‘Emma has been bringing me my shopping. I don’t need much—just milk and bread mainly—but I must have cat food for Thomas. He does like his three meals a day.’

‘He’s the best fed cat in the whole of Northumberland,’ Emma said dryly. ‘I only wish you would eat three meals a day, Cordelia.’

There was genuine affection in her voice, and the smile she gave his grandmother was notably warmer than the frosty glances she occasionally directed his way, Rocco noted. Although he hated to admit it, his curiosity was piqued by Emma’s coolness. It was fair to say that it was not the sort of response he usually received from women, he thought self-derisively.

He acknowledged his luck in having been blessed with an athletic build and facial features that had drawn attention from the opposite sex since he was a youth. A degree of cynicism, developed over the years, warned him that his status as heir to his grandfather’s billion-pound company added greatly to his appeal. Mistresses came in and out of his life with mundane regularity, and it was rare for any woman to hold his interest for more than a few months.

It was always too easy, he reflected. He had never met a woman yet who had presented a challenge.

His eyes were drawn again to Emma’s neat red-gold bob that curved around her face. There was nothing frivolous about her appearance. Her practical hairstyle was the ideal choice for a busy professional, yet there was something very sexy about her sleek, shiny hair that made him want to run his fingers through it.

Eliciting a smile from her could be an interesting challenge, he mused. His gaze lingered on her mouth, and the unbidden image came into his head of tasting her, of slanting his lips over hers and exploring their moist softness. She was sitting on the sofa, attending to Cordelia’s hand, but she looked up at that moment and Rocco was startled to feel heat surge into his face.

Dio, the last time he’d felt embarrassed was when he had been fourteen and the housemaster at his boarding school had caught him looking at pictures of half-naked women in a magazine. Muttering an oath beneath his breath, he strode over to the window to close the curtains, grateful for the excuse to turn his back on his grandmother’s nurse while he fought to bring his libido under control.

Emma finished re-bandaging Cordelia’s hand. ‘The burn is healing slowly, but there’s still a risk of infection so you need to keep it covered for another few days. I’ll visit again on Monday to change the dressing,’ she said as she stood up.

Her body tensed involuntarily when Rocco strolled across the room and halted beside her. Although she carefully did not look at him, she was supremely conscious of him towering over her, and to her disgust her hand shook slightly as she closed the zip of her medical bag.

‘It’s started snowing again,’ he announced. ‘The roads were treacherous on the way here, and they can only be worse now. I think it would be a good idea for you to spend the night here, Emma.’

His sexy accent lingered on each syllable of her name and sent a little quiver of reaction down Emma’s spine. For heaven’s sake! How could she be seduced by his voice? she berated herself silently.

Taking a deep breath, she flashed him a polite half smile. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I must get back.’

Rocco frowned. In his mind he had pictured sitting by the fire with Emma after his grandmother had retired to bed, enjoying the particularly fine malt whisky Cordelia always kept for him and exerting his acknowledged easy charm to break through her barriers. Her crisp refusal shattered the cosy picture and aroused his curiosity.

‘Is someone expecting you?’ This blunt question was just about the most unsubtle way of discovering if she had a partner, he acknowledged sardonically.

‘My three-year-old daughter.’ Cool grey eyes briefly met his gaze before flicking to the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I was due to collect Holly half an hour ago. Fortunately her childminder was fine about it when I phoned to explain that I would be late. But now I really must go.’

‘Can’t your daughter’s father collect her?’

Rocco did not know who was more surprised by his unguarded query—him or Emma. He couldn’t understand what had got into him—or why, when he glanced at her left hand, the sight of the gold wedding band on her finger intensified his feeling of irritation.

‘No.’ Emma did not offer any further explanation. The mention of Holly had made her impatient to get home. She was aware of Rocco’s frown, but she had no intention of appeasing his idle curiosity by discussing Holly’s father. ‘I’ll just go and get my boots and jacket, and then I’ll be off. Stay in the warm, Cordelia,’ she added, when the elderly lady began to get to her feet. ‘I’ll see you after the weekend.’

‘Don’t forget your hat,’ Cordelia called after her. ‘It’s lucky I knitted it for you. You need it in this weather.’

Emma stifled a sigh at the mention of the dreaded woollen hat that so resembled a tea cosy. But Cordelia had been so proud when she had presented it to her a few weeks ago that she’d felt she must wear it. As she passed Rocco she caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes and flushed.

He was waiting by the front door when she walked back down the hall from the kitchen a few minutes later. She was desperately conscious of his appraisal and, although she knew she was being ridiculous, she wished she was wearing her elegant grey wool coat rather than the unflattering ski jacket.

‘I’ll see you out,’ he said, opening the door so that a gust of icy air rushed into the hall. The snow falling from the inky black sky was light, but steady, and not for the first time that winter Emma was grateful to her father for giving her the four-by-four.

‘There’s no need for you to come out,’ she told Rocco when he followed her down the front steps.

He ignored her and walked with her to where she was parked. ‘I haven’t thanked you for coming to my rescue.’ His face was shadowed in the darkness, but his eyes glowed amber, reminding her once again of tiger’s eyes.

‘You’re welcome.’ Emma hesitated. ‘To be honest, I’m relieved you’re here. I worry about Cordelia living alone in such a remote place. How long do you plan to stay?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’ His original intention to visit his grandmother for a few days was no longer viable, Rocco acknowledged. But he could not remain in England indefinitely when he had a business empire in Italy to run.

Perhaps Emma recognised his quandary, because after she had climbed into the four-by-four she gave him a sharp look. ‘While you’re here I’ll need to arrange a meeting with Social Services so that we can decide on the best way to care for Cordelia.’

Her schoolmistress tone annoyed Rocco. Did she think he would simply disappear and abandon his grandmother? He was about to tell her that he did not need interference from her or anyone else, but then remembered that without Emma’s help over the past weeks Cordelia might have come to serious harm.

He gave a brief nod. ‘You had better get going before the snow gets worse. Will you phone to say you have arrived home safely, to put my grandmother’s mind at rest?’

The journey back to Little Copton on the hazardous roads demanded Emma’s full attention, and she pushed all thoughts of Rocco D’Angelo to the back of her mind.

‘I’m sorry I’m so late,’ she apologised to Holly’s childminder when Karen opened the door of her bungalow and ushered her inside. ‘The roads are like a skating rink.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Holly has been fine playing with the twins,’ Karen reassured her. ‘I gave her dinner with Lily and Sara, but she didn’t eat much, and she looks tired now. That flu virus really knocked her out, didn’t it? What the two of you need is a nice, relaxing holiday—somewhere abroad, where it’s warm and sunny.’

‘Some hope,’ Emma said with a sigh. ‘My finances simply won’t stretch to a foreign holiday, and I can’t plan anything while the owner of Primrose Cottage is considering putting it up for sale. I might have to start looking for somewhere else to live.’ Her heart sank as the worry that had gnawed away at her for the past few weeks filled her mind, but her smile was determinedly bright when she walked into Karen’s sitting room and Holly hurtled into her arms.

‘Mummy, I missed you.’

‘I missed you too, munchkin.’ More than words could convey, Emma thought silently as she lifted her daughter into her arms and hugged her tight.

Leaving Holly every day was a wrench she had never grown used to, but she had no choice. She enjoyed her job as a nurse, but when she had fallen pregnant she had planned to take a career break for a few years to be a fulltime mother. Fate had intervened, and the necessity to pay rent and bills meant that she had returned to work when Holly had been six months old. It also meant that the time she spent with her daughter was doubly precious, and her heart ached with love when Holly pressed a kiss to her cheek.

‘Let’s go home,’ she said softly, trying not to think about the possibility that Primrose Cottage might not be their home for much longer.

Holly was half-asleep by the time Emma had driven through the village and parked outside the cottage. Deciding to forgo giving the little girl a bath, she quickly carried out the routine of pyjamas, teeth cleaning and bedtime story, and then tiptoed from Holly’s bedroom. An omelette was not a substantial meal after a long day at work, but it was all she could be bothered to cook for her dinner. But first she needed to phone Nunstead Hall to let Cordelia know she was home.

It was ridiculous for her pulse-rate to quicken as she made the call, but to her annoyance she could not control it—nor prevent the lurch of her heart when a gravelly, accented voice greeted her.

‘Emma—I assume you have arrived home safely?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Was that breathy, girly voice really hers? And why did the sexy way that Rocco drawled her name make her feel hot and flustered? A glance in the hall mirror revealed that her cheeks were pink, she noted disgustedly. Having successfully put him out of her head for the past hour, she was dismayed when the image of his arrogantly handsome face filled her mind.

Sexual awareness had taken her by surprise from the moment she had followed him into Nunstead Hall and seen him properly for the first time, she acknowledged ruefully. He had dismissed her at first, after a cursory glance. But later, when she had taken off her coat in the kitchen, he had trailed his mesmeric amber eyes over her in a lingering appraisal, the memory of which sent a quiver down her spine.

Oh, hell. She gripped the phone tighter and fought to control her rising panic. She had never expected to be physically attracted to any man ever again. It was just chemistry, she assured herself. A mysterious sexual alchemy that defied logical explanation. It was inconvenient and annoying, but she was a mature woman of twenty-eight, not a hormonal adolescent, and she refused to allow her equilibrium to be disturbed by a notorious playboy.

‘I hope your daughter was not upset that you were late to collect her?’

Once again Rocco’s deep voice made her think of rich, sensuous molten chocolate. She drew a ragged breath and by a miracle managed to sound briskly cheerful. ‘No, Holly was fine. She’s in bed now, and I’m just about to cook my dinner, so I’ll say goodnight, Mr D’Angelo.’

‘Rocco,’ he insisted softly. ‘My grandmother has been talking about you all evening. She is clearly very fond of you, and now that I feel I know everything about you it seems too formal to address you as Mrs Marchant.’

‘Right …’ The word emerged as a strangled croak.

What on earth had Cordelia said about her? Emma wondered, feeling highly uncomfortable with the idea that Rocco knew ‘everything’ about her. Her flush deepened, and she had a strange feeling that he sensed her discomposure and was amused. She pictured his mouth curving into a slow, sexy smile, and was shocked to feel her nipples harden.

It was suddenly imperative that she end the call. ‘Well, goodnight … Rocco.’

‘Buonanotte, Emma. And thank you again for your help tonight.’

Rocco’s expression was thoughtful as he replaced the receiver and strolled back into the sitting room at Nunstead Hall. He could not deny that he was more intrigued by Emma Marchant now he had learned that she was a widow. According to Cordelia, Emma’s husband had been dead for three years—yet she still wore a wedding ring. Three years was a long time to grieve, he mused.

His jaw tightened. Why was he thinking about her? Heaven knew he had enough to deal with—including the problem of how he could take care of his grandmother. He did not have the time or the inclination to pursue an inconvenient attraction to a woman who came with baggage that included a young child.




CHAPTER THREE


USUALLY Emma loved Saturday mornings, with their promise of two whole days that she could spend exclusively with her daughter. But the weekend started badly when she picked up the post from the doormat and opened a letter from her landlord, informing her that he had decided to put Primrose Cottage on the market. The two months’ notice she had been given to move out was more than Mr Clarke was legally bound to offer, and she appreciated his consideration, but she felt sick at the prospect of uprooting Holly from her home and trying to find somewhere else to live.

‘You promised we could make cakes, Mummy,’ Holly reminded her over breakfast.

‘So I did.’ Her appetite non-existent, Emma crumbled her uneaten piece of toast onto her plate, ready to feed the birds, and smiled at Holly’s eager face. There was no point in fretting and spoiling the weekend, she told herself.

But the arrival of the estate agent later in the morning to take measurements and photographs of the cottage emphasised the stark reality of the situation.

‘There are no other properties to rent in Little Copton, but I have a couple of houses on my books that are up for sale,’ the agent told her. ‘They’re both bigger than this place, though,’ he added. ‘Four bedrooms, couple of bathrooms and big gardens—they might be out of your price range.’

‘I don’t have a price range,’ Emma said dismally. ‘I can’t afford the deposit necessary to secure a mortgage. If I could, I’d snap up Primrose Cottage.’

She sighed. Holly was so settled in the village; she attended the local nursery and her name was down for the primary school where all her little friends would go. But now it looked as if they would have to leave Little Copton and move to a town where there were more properties available to rent.

The peal of the doorbell drew a frown. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, and her heart sank at the thought that it might be another estate agent come to take details of the cottage.

‘You look as though you’re having a bad morning.’

Yes, and it had just got a whole lot worse, Emma thought silently, feeling her heart jerk painfully beneath her ribs when she pulled open the door and stared at Rocco D’Angelo’s stunningly handsome face. It should be illegal for a man to smile the way he was smiling, with a lazy, sexy charm and a bold gleam in his golden eyes as he subjected her to a leisurely appraisal. His gaze lingered rather longer than was appropriate on her breasts. Perversely, she wished she was wearing something more flattering than a long-sleeved grey jersey top that had shrunk in the wash.

‘You seem to have something on your shirt.’

Following Rocco’s gaze, Emma glanced down and discovered that her chest was spattered with fine white powder. ‘It’s flour,’ she muttered, blushing as she attempted to brush the flour from her breasts. ‘We’re baking cakes, and Holly whisked the ingredients a little too enthusiastically.’ To her horror she realised that her nipples were jutting provocatively beneath her clingy top. A glance at Rocco’s face told her he had noticed, and she quickly crossed her arms in front of her, feeling thoroughly flustered. ‘Are you here for a reason, Mr D’Angelo? Because I’m rather busy.’

Dark eyebrows winged upwards at her sharp tone. ‘I thought last night that we had agreed on Rocco?’ he drawled. ‘And, yes, there is a reason for my visit. Perhaps you could invite me in so that we can discuss it?’

Rocco glanced over Emma’s shoulder into the narrow hallway of the cottage and tensed when a man emerged from a room at the back of the house. Was she busy entertaining a boyfriend at ten o’clock in the morning—or had the guy spent the night with her? For some reason the idea darkened his mood, and that in itself was irritating. He had convinced himself last night that he wasn’t interested in his grandmother’s nurse. But he had changed his mind when Emma had opened the door, looking delectably gorgeous with her red-gold hair framing her pretty face. Her fitted jeans skimmed the soft curves of her hips, and her too-tight top moulded her full breasts, evoking a hot throb of lust in his groin as he imagined pushing the stretch material aside and cradling the bounteous mounds of flesh beneath.

The last thing Emma wanted to do was invite Rocco into her home, but good manners prevented her from saying so and she reluctantly moved to one side, so that he could step into the hall. He immediately dominated the small space, the top of his head brushing against the wooden ceiling beams that were a feature of the old cottage. He was too big, too dominant and way too overwhelming, she thought, hiding her irritation as the estate agent walked towards them, making the hallway feel even more cramped.

‘I’ve taken all the photos I need.’ The agent cast a curious look towards Rocco before focusing his attention on Emma. ‘I like the way you’ve done the place up. It’s fresh and bright and I believe it will sell pretty quickly.’

‘I’m in no rush for it to be sold,’ Emma said heavily, ‘but I expect the landlord will be pleased.’ She opened the front door again, to allow the agent to leave, and then turned to face Rocco. He was intruding on her precious time with Holly and she was impatient for him to go. ‘What was it you wanted to discuss?’

‘Where are you moving to?’ Rocco parried her question with one of his own.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I only heard this morning that the owner has decided to sell Primrose Cottage. I’d like to stay in the local area, but if I can’t find somewhere affordable to rent I may have to consider moving closer to Newcastle.’

‘Cordelia would miss you if you moved away.’

‘I’d miss her, too.’ Emma bit her lip at the prospect of having to leave the village she loved and the many friends she had made in the past three years, since she had moved into Primrose Cottage with her month-old daughter. She had built a life for herself and Holly here, away from all the painful memories of Jack.

‘Why don’t you buy the cottage yourself?’ Rocco’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

‘I’d love to, but it’s impossible. I’m a single mother, and my nurse’s salary simply won’t stretch to buying a house.’

The scent of Rocco’s cologne teased her senses, and in the small hall she had nowhere to look but at his broad-shouldered figure. He was dressed in pale jeans and a thick oatmeal-coloured sweater, topped by a black leather jacket; the look was casual yet sophisticated—and heart-stoppingly sexy. Emma resented her fierce awareness of him. She wished he would explain the reason for his unexpected visit, but he seemed in no hurry to leave.

‘Cordelia told me your husband died. Did he not leave some sort of provision for you and your daughter such as a life insurance policy?’

Emma almost laughed at the suggestion that Jack might have behaved with any degree of responsibility. In fact she had been awarded compensation from the fire service after his death, but the money had all gone on settling his huge credit card debts that she had been unaware of until she had sorted through his paperwork.

‘Unfortunately not,’ she said crisply, her tone warning Rocco that it was none of his business. She faced him square on, preventing him from walking down the hall. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have a lot to do this morning …’

‘Mummy, I iced the cakes …’

Emma turned her head and stifled a groan when Holly trotted out of the kitchen, her hands coated in sticky white icing. Thank heavens she’d had the foresight to cover her daughter’s clothes with an apron, she thought ruefully. She’d forgotten that she had left Holly stirring the icing while she dealt with the estate agent, and could not blame the little girl for becoming impatient.

‘I can see you have, sweetheart,’ she murmured, wondering if any icing had actually made it onto the cakes.

Holly stared curiously at Rocco. ‘Are you a ‘state agent?’

‘You mean an estate agent,’ Emma corrected, but Holly’s attention was focused on the big man who dominated the narrow hall. Usually a shy child, she seemed unconcerned by the presence of a stranger in the cottage, and Emma understood why when she glanced back at Rocco and realised with a sinking heart that her little daughter had been charmed by his smile.

‘Hello, Holly.’ His deep voice was as soft as crushed velvet. No, I’m not an estate agent. I am your mummy’s friend.’

Since when? Emma wanted to demand. But Holly appeared happy with the explanation.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Rocco.’

To Emma’s surprise Holly gave Rocco a wide smile. ‘Me and Mummy made cupcakes. You can have one if you like.’

The man could charm the birds from the trees—and obviously every female from the age of three to ninety-three, Emma thought irritably, adding the proviso bar this one. ‘I don’t think … Rocco …’ she stumbled slightly over his name ‘ … has time at the moment. He was just leaving,’ she added pointedly, flicking him a sharp glance.

He returned it with a bland smile and an amused gleam in his eyes before turning his attention back to Holly. ‘I would love to try one of your cakes—if Mummy doesn’t mind?’

‘She doesn’t,’ Holly assured him innocently. ‘I’ll get you one.’

‘I think we’d better clean you up first,’ Emma told her daughter. Determined to take charge of the situation, she pushed open the sitting room door and gave Rocco a cool look that did not disguise her annoyance. ‘Perhaps you would like to wait in here?’

‘Thank you.’ As he stepped past her into the room he briefly brushed against her. The contact was fleeting, yet it sent an electrical current shooting through her body, making her skin tingle as if each of her nerve-endings was acutely sensitive. What would it feel like to be held against his broad chest? To have his arms curve around her and pull her close so that her thighs were pressed against his? Colour surged into Emma’s cheeks and she jerked back from him so violently that she hit her head on the door frame.

‘Easy,’ he murmured gently, as if he were calming a nervous colt. His amber eyes rested speculatively on her flushed face. ‘Coffee would be good with a cake—black, no sugar.’

Lord, what she wouldn’t give to wipe that arrogant smile from his lips, Emma thought furiously as she stalked into the kitchen. She didn’t understand why she was so wound up. Normally she was a calm, even-tempered person, but Rocco D’Angelo got under her skin. She would make him one cup of coffee and then insist that he leave—and too bad if he preferred proper coffee beans, because she only had cheap instant granules.

Holly finished washing her hands at the sink and climbed down from the chair she had been standing on to reach the taps. ‘Can I take Rocco a cake now?’ At Emma’s nod she chose one smothered in icing. ‘Rocco’s nice,’ she stated guilelessly.

Startled, Emma hesitated, torn by the need to gently introduce the notion of ‘stranger danger’ and at the same time not wanting to alarm her daughter. ‘I’m sure he is, but you don’t really know him,’ she said carefully.

‘He’s got a nice smile.’

Holly raced out of the kitchen clutching the cake, and for a second Emma felt like rushing after her and snatching the little girl into her arms. Don’t, she wanted to cry. Don’t be taken in by a charming smile or, when you’re older, give your trusting heart to a man who can glibly say the words I love you without meaning it. Smiles were easy and words were cheap—and Jack had had an abundance of both, she thought heavily.

It wasn’t Rocco’s fault that he reminded her so much of her husband. Not in appearance—Rocco’s dark, devilish good-looks were a stark contrast to Jack’s blond hair and disarming grin. But, like Rocco, Jack had been supremely self-confident and aware of his effect on the opposite sex. ‘A babe-magnet’—that was how her brother had once scathingly described Jack, Emma recalled wryly. From all she knew about Rocco, he was no different. But how could she tell her three-year-old daughter that her mistrust of all men stemmed from the fact that Holly’s father had been a deceitful cheat who had broken her heart?





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