A Dangerous Infatuation. Chantelle Shaw

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