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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.
