A Dangerous Infatuation Read online

  ‘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 s
erious. 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.