A Dangerous Infatuation. Chantelle Shaw

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.