‘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.
Their attraction to one another was undeniable, but for the first time in his life Rocco could not simply take what he wanted. Beneath Emma’s crisp, no-nonsense exterior he had glimpsed a woman of deep emotions, gentle, compassionate, and possessing an air of vulnerability that tugged on his insides. And there was her daughter to consider. Holly was an enchanting child, who looked at him with such innocent trust in her eyes that he already felt fiercely protective of her. He would do anything to avoid hurting her, or her mother.
Rocco’s staff had become used to him leaving the office early on Friday afternoons. There was much speculation as to where he went, the general consensus being that he must go to meet a mistress, but the gossipers were careful to keep their thoughts to themselves whenever Eleganza’s CEO was in earshot.
As he drove through the heavy traffic to the other side of Genoa, the last thing on Rocco’s mind was office tittle-tattle about his private life. When he pulled up outside Marco’s school there were only a few kids hanging around, including a small boy with jet-black hair and unusual amber-coloured eyes, who trudged over to the car with obvious reluctance and a dark scowl on his face.
‘I’m sorry I’m late. There was a snarl-up on the Via Serra.’ Rocco stifled a sigh when his brother climbed into the front passenger seat and flicked him a glance of supreme indifference. The way the boy folded his arms across his chest was instinctively defensive, and revealed a vulnerability that made Rocco want to reach out to him.
‘I told you—you don’t have to come. I walk home every other day.’ Marco darted him a quick glance. ‘I thought you weren’t coming—and I wouldn’t have cared.’
Beneath the belligerence Rocco caught a note of uncertainty in the little boy’s voice and his heart clenched. ‘I’ll always come on Fridays. I would never let you down,’ he promised quietly.
Golden eyes glared at him from beneath the untidy mop of hair—eyes that were shadowed with hurt that should not be borne by a seven-year-old. It was hardly surprising, Rocco thought heavily. Up until four months ago Marco had not known that he was the son of Enrico D’Angelo, or that he had an older half-brother. What had induced Enrico to ask to meet his illegitimate son as he lay dying Rocco did not understand. Possibly his father had felt remorseful that he had abandoned his one-time mistress when she had fallen pregnant with his child. But Marco had only seen his father once before Enrico had died. The boy was clearly traumatised, resentful and touchingly protective of his mother who had struggled to bring him up without any financial support from her wealthy ex-lover.
‘Why do you come?’ Marco burst out. ‘Me and Mamma didn’t need Enrico, and we don’t need you.’
‘You are my brother, and I want to visit you,’ Rocco said gently. ‘It was wrong of our father to turn his back on you, and it is my duty to help your mother take care of you while you are growing up. But, more than that, I want us to be friends, Marco.’
He hesitated, thinking of his recent conversation with Inga Salveson, who had been his father’s mistress. ‘Your mother has told me she is thinking about moving back to Sweden, and of course you would go with her. But that will only happen if you decide that you do not want anything to do with me and your grandfather here in Italy. It’s your choice whether or not you want to be a D’Angelo.’
For the first time there was a glimmer of curiosity in the wary golden eyes. ‘Does my grandfather know about me?’
‘No—not yet. Silvio is an old man, who has been ill recently. I don’t want to tell him he has another grandson until you are sure you would like to meet him. It would be upsetting for hi
m if you decided not to.’
Marco’s lower lip wobbled betrayingly. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ Tears clung perilously to his lower lashes. All his defiance suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a small, confused little boy. ‘My papà is dead and I didn’t even know him,’ he choked. ‘Don’t tell my nonno about me yet … but maybe I will want to meet him one day. I will want to meet him.’ A tear overspilled and slid down his cheek.
Rocco swallowed the constriction that had formed in his throat, his anger at Enrico’s irresponsibility turning to compassion for this little boy who had met his father briefly and then lost him for ever. It was not surprising that Marco was so mistrustful.
Throwing aside his usual caution when dealing with his brother, he put his arm around Marco’s shoulders. ‘Whatever you want, Marco,’ he said softly. ‘I promise I won’t tell anyone you are Enrico’s son until you are happy for me to do so. Now …’ he smiled, trying to break the tension ‘ … how about we go and get some ice-cream?’
‘Okay.’ Marco scrubbed his wet face with a grubby hand. And for the first time he returned his brother’s smile.
Preparations were in full swing when Rocco arrived back at the Villa Lucia that evening. He frequently hosted social events, and his staff, under Beatrice’s command, could be trusted to ensure that the cocktail party in his grandmother’s honour ran smoothly. He headed straight for his room to shower and change, before going back downstairs.
Beatrice had excelled herself, he noted. The Villa Lucia looked beautiful and welcoming. Huge vases of roses and lilies decorated the entrance hall and reception rooms, filling the air with their heady fragrance, while dozens of flickering candles emitted a golden glow. In fifteen minutes the guests would begin to arrive. The champagne was on ice, and the kitchen staff would serve a selection of canapés.
It had been a good day—especially as he felt he had made a break-through with Marco. Feeling a pleasant sense of well-being, Rocco was about to join his grandmother in the sitting room when a terse voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Where are my clothes?’
He turned to see Emma marching down the wide staircase, and even across the distance of the hall he noted that her eyes were the colour of storm clouds.
‘Don’t even think about making one of your clever remarks,’ she warned him as he subjected her to a leisurely inspection. ‘This dress does not belong to me, and neither do any of the other designer clothes that have appeared in my wardrobe.’
Emma took a deep breath, trying to control the fury that had swiftly followed her shock when she had gone to change into the navy dress she had bought for the party and discovered that her own clothes had disappeared and been replaced with dozens of beautiful outfits—many of which she had tried on during her shopping trip with Rocco a few days ago. ‘What are you playing at, Rocco?’
‘I bought you the clothes because you can’t spend the next three months wearing jeans and a sweatshirt,’ he explained mildly. ‘For one thing, you don’t need winter clothes here. The temperature is likely to shoot up in the summer.’ He trailed his eyes over her, from her silky strawberry-blonde bob down to her slim shoulders revealed by the narrow straps of the pink cocktail dress. ‘Besides, it’s a crime to hide your gorgeous figure beneath bulky, shapeless garments.’
The bodice of the dress was cleverly cut so that her breasts were lifted high, their creamy upper slopes displayed in all their bounteous glory. Rocco’s mouth went dry as he pictured himself drawing the straps down until those firm mounds of flesh spilled into his hands. He dropped his gaze lower, noting how the delicate chiffon skirt skimmed the curve of her hips and stopped several inches above her knees. Strappy silver shoes with three-inch heels accentuated the slender length of her legs.
‘Sei bella,’ he said roughly, colour flaring along his cheekbones. Desire ripped through him, shocking in its intensity, and he was conscious of the erection straining uncomfortably beneath his trousers. ‘I knew the dress would suit you, but you have surpassed all my expectations, cara.’ So much so that he was gripped with a fierce urge to carry her upstairs to his room and peel the dress from her body before making hard, urgent love to her. But there was his grandmother, the party, his duty as host. However much he wished that he was alone with Emma, he had to control his hunger for her—not least because of the wariness in her eyes.
‘The clothes are a measure of my appreciation for the way you cared for Cordelia in Northumberland, and my thanks that you agreed to accompany her to Italy.’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t accept them. It’s enough that you pay me a salary.’
Emma could not disguise the note of panic in her voice. She did not want to feel indebted to Rocco. Ever since she had met him she had felt that her life was spinning out of control. As a single mother she had never had spare money to spend on herself, and she could only ever have dreamed of owning the exquisite creation she was wearing. But the dress did not belong to her—and she did not belong here in Rocco’s luxurious home.
‘Is it so hard for you to accept a gift?’
The gentle note in his voice undermined her defences and sudden tears stung her eyes. She felt an inexplicable urge to confide in him that Jack had ruined her pleasure in receiving gifts. He had frequently given her presents, and naively she had taken his generosity as a sign of his love for her. But after his death she had realised that the flowers and perfume he’d lavished on her had been a way of assuaging his conscience after he had slept with one of his many mistresses.
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the memory of the pain and hurt Jack had caused her. When she opened them again Rocco was still there, devastatingly handsome in superbly tailored black trousers and a white silk shirt, a lock of dark hair falling across his brow and his golden eyes watching her with the intentness of a tiger stalking its prey.
‘What do you want from me?’ she whispered despairingly.
He lifted his hand and smoothed her hair back from her cheek. His touch was as light as the brush of a butterfly’s wing against her skin, yet she felt as though she had been branded by him.
It was no longer the truth to say that sexual satisfaction and the sating of desire was all he wanted. Perhaps it never had been with this woman, Rocco owned silently.
‘A chance to try and win your trust,’ he said steadily.
‘Why?’ A wealth of fear and confusion was in that one word. Emma blinked back the tears that threatened to overspill, unaware that their shimmer made Rocco’s gut clench. ‘You can have any woman you want.’ She had fallen for a handsome playboy once before. She could not make the same mistake again.
‘I want you.’ His voice was thick with need as he slid his hand to her nape. A warning voice inside Emma’s head told her she should move—now. But Rocco’s golden eyes were mesmerising, and she stared into them helplessly as his head descended.
The kiss was as gentle as thistledown, with an unexpected tenderness that tugged on her soul. Bewitching, beguiling, he moved his lips over hers with sensual deliberation, his hungry passion simmering but held in check—just.
Emma trembled as he drew her against him, silently acknowledging that she was losing the battle with herself. This was where she wanted to be—in his arms, his mouth warm on hers, eliciting a response she was powerless to withhold. Slowly she lifted her arms and linked them around his neck. The sound of his low groan as she parted her lips beneath his sent a shiver of sexual excitement down her spine.
The crunch of tyres on the gravel driveway at the front of the house, followed by car doors closing and the indistinct babble of voices, drove Rocco to break the kiss reluctantly. His timing was appalling, he thought grimly as he stared into Emma’s smoke-soft eyes and watched them widen as panic replaced the sensual languor of a few seconds ago.
‘Will you at least believe that I would never knowingly hurt you?’ he said intently as he released her. He watched her unconsciously catch her lower lip with her teeth, and exhaled heavily. ‘I must
go and greet my guests.’
His words impelled her to action and she spun away from him towards the stairs. ‘I’ll go and check on Holly.’ The little girl had fallen asleep soon after being tucked into bed, but the excuse would give Emma vital minutes to regain her composure.
The mirror on the first floor landing revealed the extent of the damage Rocco had wrought. Her eyes were over-bright, her mouth softly swollen. She took a tube of pale pink gloss from her purse and with a shaking hand reap-plied it to her lips.
Trust! She gave a ragged laugh. Rocco did not know what he asked of her. After Jack, she had believed she would never have faith in any man ever again. But Rocco had sworn that he did not want to hurt her. He had offered her friendship, although the hungry desire in his eyes promised more.
For three years she had hidden away in a remote Northumberland village and focused all her attention on her daughter. It had been a safe existence, although sometimes a lonely one, she admitted. Rocco had forced her to see that she did not want to hide away for ever. But did she have the nerve to step out of her safety zone and risk her emotional stability by becoming involved with him?
CHAPTER SEVEN
TO Emma’s relief, the guests at Cordelia’s party were not all glamorous and sophisticated. Rocco had invited friends and neighbours of a wide age range, including a retired English couple who had moved to Italy some years previously.
‘We know Nunstead Hall. We saw it when we toured Northumbria a few years ago,’ Barbara Harris exclaimed. ‘We’re actually just along the coast at Rapallo. There’s quite a few of us ex-pats living there. Andrew and I hold a bridge evening once a week, and we’d love you to join us, Cordelia.’
‘Thank you.’ Rocco’s grandmother looked delighted. ‘I do enjoy playing card games. I used to belong to a bridge club in the village, but now that I don’t drive I can no longer get there.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘It will be nice to have some company. Nunstead is rather remote.’
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