A Dangerous Infatuation (12 page)

Her cool smile disguised her intense awareness of him. ‘Very, thank you.’ He could not know that she had spent another restless night during which she had been unable to dismiss him from her mind.

‘If you’ve finished eating, I’d like a word with you.’

Without waiting for her to reply he turned and strode out of the door, leaving her with little option but to follow him out to the hall and across to his study.

‘Why are you wearing your nurse’s uniform?’ he demanded, the moment she entered the room.

Emma’s brows lifted fractionally at the abruptness of his tone. ‘Because I am your grandmother’s nurse.’

‘Your role here is to act as Cordelia’s companion. I hardly think that necessitates wearing a uniform. I would prefer you to wear normal clothes.’

She compressed her lips. ‘But
I
would prefer to wear the uniform which denotes that I am your employee.’ It was vital to her peace of mind that she distance herself from him. Her uniform signified that she was staying at his home in a professional capacity, and in some strange way she felt safe and in control when she was dressed in her work clothes. ‘I think it is important to establish boundaries. I have accepted a contract to work for you, and I believe I should dress appropriately.’

Rocco trailed his eyes over Emma’s plain blue dress, adorned only with an elasticated belt which showed off her slim waist and emphasised the delightful curves of her bust and hips, before lowering his gaze to her shapely legs, covered in sheer black hose and her sensible black shoes. No one could accuse her of dressing like a
femme fatale
, yet he was consumed with an extremely inappropriate urge to wrench open the front of her dress and feast his eyes on her bountiful breasts.

He shifted in his seat in an effort to ease the lustful throb in his groin. ‘It doesn’t seem to have occurred to you that Cordelia might not want people to know she has a nurse. My grandmother is fiercely proud. She has accepted the idea of having a companion, but she would hate people to think she is unable to care for herself.’

Emma bit her lip as Rocco’s words struck a chord. It was true she had been so busy thinking about herself that she had not considered her patient’s feelings. ‘I appreciate
what you’re saying,’ she mumbled. ‘But Cordelia doesn’t actually know anyone in Portofino, so who are all these people whose opinion she might worry about?’

‘That’s the other reason I asked to speak to you. I’m thinking of hosting a cocktail party and inviting friends and neighbours, perhaps a few colleagues from Eleganza, to welcome Nonna to Italy. Do you think it would be too much for her?’ He exhaled heavily. ‘She looks so frail, and I don’t want to overtire her.’

‘I think Cordelia would love a party in her honour,’ Emma assured him. ‘She often talks about the parties she and her husband used to give at Nunstead Hall years ago. She would enjoy the chance to dress up, and I can help her to get ready.’

‘You will, of course, accompany her to the party.’

The prospect of socialising with Rocco’s glamorous friends made Emma’s heart sink. It had struck her yesterday, when she had stepped onto his luxurious private jet, that their lives were light years apart, and she did not belong in his rarefied world of the super-rich. ‘Surely that won’t be necessary? I’ll be on hand, of course, but—as you said yourself—Cordelia doesn’t need a nurse in constant attendance.’

‘
Dio
, Emma, why is everything a battle with you?’ Rocco’s patience snapped. ‘You are a guest in my home and naturally you are included in my invitation to the party. Why are you so determined to reject any overtures of friendship from me?’ His eyes narrowed on her startled face. ‘You seem to be afraid to trust. But why? Who caused you to be so wary?’

‘No one.’ Her tone was defensive, and she flushed when he gave her a sardonic look. Emma took a deep breath. ‘I’m sure we can establish a cordial friendship for the duration of my stay at the Villa Lucia.’

What was she thinking behind her cool grey gaze? Rocco wondered frustratedly. He was tempted to spread her across his desk, shove her starched nurse’s dress up to her waist and prove emphatically that she no more wanted a
cordial friendship
than he did.

‘Were you happy with Jack?’ he asked abruptly, his sharp gaze noting how she tensed at the mention of her husband.

‘Yes, of course.’

It was a partial truth, Emma acknowledged silently. Blissfully unaware that Jack had been unfaithful from the first weeks of their marriage, she had believed they were happy. There had been a few issues that had caused her concern—mainly his irresponsibility with money. She had quickly learned to put her wages away to pay the rent and bills, because Jack could blow his month’s salary in a single shopping trip. He could not help his impulsive nature, she had told herself. Blinded by her love for him, she had made excuses for his selfishness—even in the bedroom, when he had often taken his own pleasure without any consideration for hers. He was tired after working a long shift, she had told herself, not knowing that he had been with his mistress, rather than on duty at the fire station.

Looking back, she despised herself for having been such a naive fool. It was not only other people that she now found hard to trust, but her faith in her own judgement had been shattered. She stared at Rocco’s impossibly handsome face and felt her stomach dip. He had awoken her libido and made her long for the warmth and closeness of making love. But that closeness had been an illusion with Jack, and it could not exist with Rocco, who was the ultimate playboy.

‘Getting back to the party,’ she said quickly, desperate to steer the conversation away from her marriage. ‘I don’t
have anything suitable to wear. I don’t get invited to many cocktail parties in Little Copton,’ she added dryly.

Rocco shrugged. ‘That’s not a problem. Portofino is renowned for its designer boutiques. We’ll go shopping this afternoon, and I’ll look after Holly while you try on dresses. Don’t argue, Emma,’ he warned, seeing the glint of battle in her eyes. ‘Holly will enjoy a trip to the harbour. I’ve already asked Cordelia if she would like to come, but she says she’s weary today and so she’ll stay here with Beatrice.’

‘You seem to have arranged everything—as usual.’ Struggling to control her temper, Emma turned on her heels to march out of his study, but in her haste she banged her hip against the desk and knocked a framed photograph to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered as she stooped to retrieve it, thankful to see that the glass had not broken.

She studied the picture of two dark-haired boys. The older was clearly Rocco—even as a teenager he had been stunningly good-looking, she noted. The younger boy bore a strong resemblance to Rocco, and Emma suddenly remembered that he had mentioned he had a sibling.

‘Will your brother be at the party?’

‘No.’

Startled by his curt response, she looked at him and glimpsed a sudden bleakness in his eyes.

‘Giovanni died a week after that picture was taken.’

Shocked, she stared back at the photo. ‘I’m sorry. He was just a child.’

‘Seven years old,’ Rocco revealed emotionlessly.

Emma wanted to ask more, but Rocco’s closed expression warned her he did not want to discuss his brother’s death. He jerked to his feet and strode across the room to open the door. ‘I need to work for a couple of hours, so I’ll have to ask you to go back to my grandmother.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Summarily dismissed, she had no option but to stifle her curiosity and walk out of the study.

Rocco closed the study door and leaned against it, his eyes focused on the photograph Emma had handed to him. Even after twenty years he still felt an ache in his heart when he thought of Gio, and the guilt that he was partly responsible for his brother’s death would always be with him. But fate worked in mysterious ways, he brooded. He had lost Gio, but now he had a brother again.

Marco was the image of Gio. And Marco needed him—just as Gio had. Although at the moment his little half-brother—his father’s illegitimate son—was full of anger and confusion, and defiantly resistant to Rocco’s attempts to build a relationship with him. But slowly, with patience, he would do his best to win the little boy round. Marco needed a father figure, and Rocco had vowed to give his brother the guidance and love that he would have given Gio.

For the time being, though, he had decided to keep Marco’s identity hidden. There would be huge interest once it became known that Enrico D’Angelo had had a secret son, and Rocco was determined to protect his brother from the media sharks who would circle once the story broke.

‘This is pointless,’ Emma muttered that afternoon, as she trailed after Rocco along Portofino’s main street and halted next to him outside another boutique. She glanced at the window display and her eyebrows shot up when she saw the price tag attached to the exquisite gown draped on the mannequin. ‘I can’t afford designer clothes.’

The Via Roma was lined with exclusive boutiques and jewellers, interspersed with local shops selling beautiful handmade goods, and art galleries stacked with paintings depicting the stunning scenery of the bay of Tigullio.

Portofino was known as the Italian Riviera—a mecca for the rich and beautiful—and Emma, wearing old jeans and a sweatshirt, which were the only clothes she possessed other than her nurse’s uniform, felt decidedly out of place.

‘I’m not going to find a dress here,’ she told Rocco, who looked every inch a multi-millionaire business tycoon in his expertly tailored clothes and designer shades. ‘You and I come from different worlds, and I am very much a discount store girl. I’m going to take Holly to see the boats in the harbour. Come on, munchkin,’ she said, resisting the urge to prise her daughter’s fingers out of Rocco’s grasp. She had felt a sharp pang when Holly had happily held Rocco’s hand and skipped along beside him. She was worried her little girl would get too attached, and it would break her heart when the time came to leave.

‘I think Mummy should try on that pink dress,’ Rocco said to Holly. ‘Princesses wear pink dresses, don’t they?’

She nodded, big grey eyes sparkling with excitement. ‘You can be a princess, Mummy—like Cinderella.’

‘Doesn’t it bother your conscience to know you are manipulating a small child?’ Emma hissed, giving him a glare that would have floored a lesser man.

‘I don’t have a conscience,
cara
.’ Rocco grinned unrepentantly as he pushed open the shop door and ushered her inside. He spoke in Italian to the elegant assistant, while Emma hovered, feeling horribly conscious that her faded jeans were hardly couture. She had no idea what he said, but within minutes the assistant had brought out a selection of dresses for her to try on.

‘I’ll take Holly to buy an ice cream,’ he murmured. ‘Here’s my credit card. Choose a couple of dresses and charge them to my account.’

‘You must be joking. You’re not going to pay for my clothes.’

‘Think of it as a requirement for your job,’ he advised smoothly. ‘I want you at Cordelia’s party, so don’t leave here without something to wear.’

‘
Signorina
does not like it?’ the assistant queried ten minutes later, as Emma handed back the dress that she had seen displayed in the window.

‘It’s absolutely beautiful,’ she assured the woman. ‘But I can’t afford it.’ Made of pale pink chiffon, with narrow diamanté shoulder straps, the dress was a masterpiece of understated elegance. Emma had fallen in love with it the moment she had slipped it over her head, but it cost a fortune, and whatever Rocco said she was not going to allow him to buy it for her. Instead, she hurried out of the designer boutique and walked back to a shop which stocked clothes closer to her price range. The navy blue dress in the window was smart and practical. She would probably get years of wear out of it, she consoled herself as she handed the assistant her own credit card.

To Emma’s relief, Rocco went to work for the rest of the week, driving to Eleganza’s head office in the city of Genoa, some fifteen miles from Portofino. He left the Villa Lucia early each morning, and returned to dine with his grandmother in the evening. He insisted that Emma ate with them, dismissing her argument that Cordelia might want to spend time alone with her grandson.

‘Anyone would think you are reluctant to be in my company,’ he had taunted softly on that first evening, when he’d demanded her presence in the dining room. ‘What are you afraid of, Emma? How can we become friends if you constantly avoid me?’

‘I’m not afraid of you,’ she denied sharply, the sultry gleam in his golden eyes making her feel hot and flustered.

She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Is that what you want—for us to be friends?’

His sensual smile stole her breath. ‘I would be lying if I said that was
all
I wanted,
cara
. But it’s a start.’

In truth, Rocco did not know what he wanted. The simple answer was Emma—in his bed. His desire for her was like a ravenous beast, eating away at him, distracting his mind during the day and keeping him awake at night as he fantasised about the many and varied ways he would enjoy possessing her delectable body.

If she had been any other woman he would have wasted no time seducing her. But Emma was unlike any woman he had ever met. For one thing she was a widow who still mourned the husband she had loved—which made the vulnerable expression in her eyes whenever Jack Marchant’s name was mentioned puzzling, Rocco brooded.

Now, at 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? Why did he feel jaded by a diet of sophisticated lovers and meaningless physical encounters?

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.