They were a striking couple, both tall—the man dark-haired and swarthy, the woman slender and elegant, with a mane of long platinum-blonde hair that suggested she was not a native Italian. Something about the man—his natural grace and air of supreme self-confidence—seemed curiously familiar. Frowning, Emma focused on the child—a boy of perhaps seven or eight years old—and her heart suddenly froze. The jet-black hair was not unusual for an Italian, but the perfect symmetry of his features, his eye-catching handsomeness even at a young age, bore an incredible resemblance to Rocco.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself impatiently, angry for allowing the shadow of Shayna Manzzini’s spite to hang over her. She was no longer the woman she had been after Jack’s death, lacking in self-worth and terrified to trust her own judgement. She did not believe for one second that Rocco had a secret love child. But she could not tear her gaze from the boy on the bike. He was close to where she was parked now, and she saw that his eyes were an unusual amber colour—like tiger’s eyes.
Bile rose in her throat, so acrid that she almost gagged. She felt as though she had been turned to stone and she watched, unable to move, as the boy leapt from his bike, stood it carefully against the wall and then hurtled back to the man who was drawing ever nearer. The man swung the boy high in the air, and they both laughed while the beautiful blonde woman looked on and smiled. The bond between the three of them was unmistakable—and now that he was close to the car so was the identity of the boy’s father.
‘Are we going now?’
‘Yes, right now.’ Spurred into action, Emma dragged her seat belt across her. She was terrified that Holly would spot Rocco, or that he would glance into the car. Why didn’t she step out onto the pavement and confront him, as she should have done with Jack all those times when he’d arrived home late? a voice in her head demanded. The stark answer felt like a knife in her heart. It was because now, as during her marriage, she could not face the truth and see her pathetic dreams crumble to dust, she thought despairingly.
She had trusted Rocco. Dear heaven. She gave a bitter laugh. Had her blind faith in Jack taught her nothing? She had fallen in love with a playboy once and been cruelly betrayed. What kind of a fool was she to have made the exact same mistake a second time?
She started the engine and the sound drew the attention of the group on the pavement. Like a petrified rabbit caught in car headlights she stared at Rocco and saw him stiffen, watched the startled expression on his face turn to a frown. He took a step towards her and her instinct to flee kicked in. There was a horrible grinding noise as she clumsily selected a gear and the car shot down the road. She determinedly avoided looking into her rearview mirror for one last glimpse of Rocco, focused only on getting away from him.
Rocco gunned his sports car up the hill towards the Villa Lucia. The powerful V8 engine had eaten up the miles to Portofino, but it had been several hours since he had watched Emma race away down the road in Genoa and he was impatient to talk to her. Why had she shot off like that this afternoon? he brooded. He realised she must have been as surprised to see him as he had been to see her, and he did not understand why she had been in that part of the city. Recalling her tense face, he could not shake off a sense of grim foreboding.
It had turned out to be one hell of a day, he thought wearily. The new bike he had presented to Marco had finally won the little boy over. He had been shocked by the strong emotions that had surged through him when his half-brother had hugged him for the first time. It had brought back painful memories of Gio, and reinforced his determination to act as a father figure to Marco.
Emma’s unexpected appearance and the disturbing, almost devastated expression he had glimpsed on her face had made him want to rush back to Portofino immediately. But Marco had fallen off the bike, and their subsequent trip to the hospital where he had been diagnosed with mild concussion meant that Rocco had been delayed in the city. Inga, Marco’s mother, had been badly shaken by the accident, and even when Rocco had been assured that his brother would be fine he had felt duty-bound to stick around until Marco had been discharged.
At least Silvio had taken the news of his grandson better than expected. Marco had decided that he wanted to meet his grandfather, and Rocco had gone straight from the hospital to Silvio’s house, to explain about the little boy. The old man had been shocked, and clearly dismayed that Enrico had kept his illegitimate son a secret for seven years. But Silvio was eager to meet Marco, and had agreed with Rocco that he should inherit a share of Eleganza.
Now, finally, he was free to tell Emma everything that was in his heart. Tension coiled in Rocco’s gut and he gave a ragged laugh beneath his breath. Nerves were hell, and a new experience for him where a woman was concerned. But he had long ago realised that Emma was unique. He could only pray she shared his hopes for the future.
The discovery of a taxi parked outside the villa was puzzling. He drew up next to it just as Emma ran down the front steps with a suitcase in her hand. She stopped dead at the sight of him, and even from a distance of a few feet away Rocco could sense her tension.
She jerked back to life and threw the case into the boot of the taxi.
‘What are you doing?’ Emerging from his car, Rocco glanced into the taxi and saw Holly strapped into a child seat. The ominous feeling that his life was about to come crashing down intensified.
‘Leaving,’ Emma told him shortly.
Instinct warned him that her emotions were balanced on a knife-edge, and he resisted the temptation to grab her shoulders and demand to know what the hell was going on. ‘I guessed that. But why? Your contract to work as Cordelia’s private nurse is for three months.’
‘Your grandmother no longer needs a nurse.’ By a huge effort of will Emma managed to keep her voice normal, hiding the fact that inside she was falling apart. Fate had a cruel sense of humour, she thought bitterly. If Rocco had arrived home five minutes later she would have already left, and been spared a confrontation with him.
Something was very wrong, Rocco realised. ‘Cara …’ He took a step towards her, a hand outstretched.
‘Don’t,’ she said violently, backing away from him. Her self-control cracked. ‘Don’t come near me.’
‘Madre de Dio! What is going on, Emma?’ Realising that she was about to climb into the taxi, Rocco caught hold of her arm and felt the tremor that ran through her.
‘How can you ask me what’s wrong?’ she demanded, keeping her voice low for fear of upsetting Holly. ‘I saw you today—with your son.’
Shock slowly turned to something cold and hard, like a lead weight in the pit of Rocco’s stomach. When Emma snatched her arm out of his grasp he did not attempt to stop her. ‘My son?’
‘That boy you were with. Don’t try to deny it,’ Emma said wildly. ‘Shayna told me about the rumour that you have a son by one of your mistresses and you visit them regularly.’
Nausea swept through her when she pictured the stunning blonde woman who had been with Rocco and the little boy. She had spent the past few hours thinking about it, and it all made perfect sense. Rocco knew his grandfather would not sign over full control of Eleganza to him unless he married an Italian woman, and so he had kept the fact that he had a son by his Nordic-looking mistress a secret. What other explanation could there be?
The dangerous gleam in Rocco’s eyes sent a shiver through her. ‘Naturally you would believe Shayna—
despite previous proof that she’s a spiteful bitch,’ he said sarcastically.
Stung by his icy disdain, she said fiercely, ‘I didn’t believe her at your grandfather’s party. I trusted you. But you lied to me.’ She held up her hand when he made to speak. ‘You let me think that your afternoon’s appointment was work-related, and that was why you couldn’t meet me in Genoa. But I’ve seen the evidence that you were lying. The little boy you were with is the image of you.’
‘So was Gio,’ Rocco said harshly.
She frowned. ‘What has that got to do with anything?�
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‘Think about it.’
She shook her head and reached once more for the taxi door. ‘I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to go.’ Before the tears that felt like acid burning her eyes fell and he witnessed her utter devastation.
It would take a matter of minutes to explain about Marco—although whether Emma would believe him was open to question, Rocco thought grimly. Anger surged through him. If she had any faith in him he should not have to defend himself. Her readiness to believe Shayna proved that she had never trusted him.
She pulled open the car door and he felt a knife skewer his heart. ‘You would walk away from what we have?’ he asked in a raw tone. This was crazy. Hang his pride. He would explain, and then she would stop looking at him as though she hated his guts.
The huskiness in his voice made Emma hesitate. He sounded as if he cared, sounded as if he did not want her to leave. But maybe her ears were deceiving her, and hearing what she wanted to hear. Rocco had lied to her—just as Jack had lied throughout their marriage.
‘What do we have, apart from good sex?’ She could not bear to think of all the other things they had shared. The fun and laughter, the long conversations and lazy afternoons making love. Clearly those things had meant more to her than to him. He had destroyed her trust, but she refused to let him see that he had broken her heart. ‘There’s nothing to keep me here.’
‘Then go,’ he said savagely, stepping back so that she could climb into the taxi.
He could not force her to have faith in him, and he would not beg. What was the point? he thought bitterly. He knew her heart would belong for ever to her dead husband.
Hurt, pride and a pain more agonising than anything he had ever experienced, made his voice harsh. ‘If you leave, Emma, I won’t come after you. It’s your choice if you decide to end our relationship right now. I will not give you a second chance.’
Spring had finally arrived in Northumberland, and the garden of Primrose Cottage was ablaze with daffodils waving their golden heads in the breeze. It was a perfect day for the nursery school’s trip to a local farm to see the lambs, Emma thought, remembering Holly’s excitement this morning. The little girl had adapted quite happily to their old life in Little Copton, and although she had mentioned Rocco and Cordelia a few times she’d loved seeing her friends again.
At least she did not have to worry about her daughter or, for the time being, finding somewhere to live. The sale of the cottage had fallen through, and the owner had told Emma she was welcome to stay until new buyers were found. Aware that that might be some months away, she had decided to get on with weeding the back garden. She had arranged to return to her nursing post next week, but until then it was imperative she kept busy so that she did not have time to think.
The image of Rocco’s furious face as she had told the taxi driver to take her to Genoa airport seemed to be branded on her subconscious, and his final words, delivered with such deadly finality, haunted her dreams.
I will not give you a second chance.
Why would she want another chance with a deceitful cheat? she thought bleakly. Throughout her journey to the airport and the flight back to England she had assured herself that she had done the right thing. For the past five days settling back into Primrose Cottage and ensuring that Holly was happy had taken up all her time, and she had managed to push Rocco to the back of her mind—at least until she was alone in bed at night.
The long hours of darkness were unbearable, she acknowledged miserably, as she knelt in front of a garden bed and attacked a clump of dandelions with a trowel. She missed him so much that there was a permanent ache in her chest, and doubts, like stubborn weeds, refused to budge from her head. Maybe there was another explanation for the identity of the boy who bore such a striking resemblance to Rocco. The child had reminded her of someone else, and after days of racking her brain she’d realised that he looked very like Giovanni—Rocco’s brother who had died twenty years ago.
But what did that tell her? she wondered wearily. Rocco’s son was bound to share a family resemblance. There was no escaping the fact that Rocco had a secret life he had not told her about. He had deceived her and made her feel a fool. Tears slid down her face and dripped onto her jeans. Even after Jack’s death she had not felt this level of raw agony—as if a serrated blade had slashed through her heart.
She heard the creak of the side gate and hastily scrubbed her cheeks with her sleeve. Gossip spread like wildfire through the village, and the postman would be curious if he saw her crying.
But instead of a cheerful good morning, there was silence—even the blackbird in the apple tree had stopped singing. The hairs on the back of Emma’s neck stood on end and she stood up and turned round, catching her breath as the ground beneath her feet lurched like a ship’s deck in a storm.
Her voice wouldn’t work properly, and eventually emerged as a rusty croak. ‘Why are you here …?’
Her nemesis, the keeper of her soul, gave a grim smile. Rocco had had a speech prepared, but the streaks of tears on Emma’s face and her tangible unhappiness had made him forget his words and forced him to acknowledge a simple, stark truth.
‘Because I’ve discovered that I can’t live without you, cara.’
She closed her eyes, as if willing him to disappear. But Rocco wasn’t going anywhere. He walked towards her, his eyes lingering on the rounded shape of her breasts beneath her soft grey wool jumper. His woman. He had endured five hellish nights before he’d accepted that pride was a lonely bedmate.
He halted in front of her. ‘Marco is my half-brother—my father’s illegitimate son. Enrico’s three sons all inherited his unusual eye colour.’
Emma’s eyes flew open, and she stared at him helplessly as guilt ripped through her. His half-brother! That was why Rocco had pointed out that the boy she had believed was his son looked like his brother Gio. There was no denying it. Once again she had misjudged him. This time so terribly that she knew he would never forgive her.
‘My father abandoned his Swedish mistress when she fell pregnant, and he had no contact with Marco until he was dying and asked me to find the boy,’ Rocco explained quietly. ‘I could not tell my grandfather while he was recovering from heart surgery. He is fiercely proud of the D’Angelo name, and I feared the shock of learning about his son’s reprehensible behaviour could kill him. For months I have worked to build a relationship with Marco and win his trust. I wanted to tell you about him, but I had promised him I would not reveal his identity to anyone until he felt ready for me to do so.’
Emma stared at his handsome hard-boned face and her heart clenched. He looked drawn, his olive skin stretched taut over his sharp cheekbones, and she had a feeling that, like her, he hadn’t slept or eaten properly since their bitter parting.
She bit her lip. ‘I refused to believe Shayna when she told me the rumour that you had a son. I told her you were an honourable man—and I meant it,’ she insisted huskily when he gave her a wry look. ‘I trusted you—and that was hard for me. A huge step that at one time I was sure I would never take. When I saw you in Genoa with a beautiful woman and a young boy I felt devastated.’ The memory brought fresh tears to her eyes, but she owed Rocco the truth and she forced herself to go on. ‘I felt like I did when I found out about Jack.’
Rocco tried to ignore the corrosive burn of jealousy in his gut. ‘I understand how deeply you loved him, and how much you still grieve for him. Learning of his death must have been shattering.’
‘It was,’ she said slowly. ‘But it was made worse because a few hours before the news came that he had died in a fire I found out that he had been unfaithful throughout our marriage.’
Rocco jerked his head back in shock. ‘Did someone tell you that?’
‘His mistress.’ Emma gave a humourless laugh. ‘Kelly was one of a long list of women he’d slept with, but she was also one of my friends—which made it worse. She said she was telling me about Jack’s affairs out of loyalty to our frie
ndship. But she also revealed that Jack was planning to leave me and our unborn baby and move in with her. Apparently he had told her she was “the one”, but he said the same thing to me when he asked me to marry him.’
‘I thought your marriage was made in heaven,’ Rocco said roughly.
She gave another pained laugh. ‘So did I. The revelations about Jack’s infidelity destroyed my fantasy that we were happily married, but I never had an opportunity to ask him why he had betrayed me. I don’t think he can have loved me—the only person Jack was in love with was himself. After his death I realised that I had been in love with the idea of love, rather than actually with him. He was good-looking and charming—the original Jack the Lad. I was flattered that he chose to marry me, and I ignored his many faults.’
She sighed. ‘But nothing can alter the fact that he died a hero. At his funeral, part of me was proud of him and part of me hated him.’
‘Dio!’ Rocco interrupted explosively. ‘All this time I thought you loved him. You allowed me to think your heart belonged to him,’ he said accusingly. Pain tore in his chest. ‘Why, Emma?’ he demanded roughly. ‘Was it to push me away?’
She was startled by the raw emotion in his eyes. She had no idea where this conversation was leading, but after the way she had misjudged him she owed him her honesty.
‘Jack’s parents were utterly heartbroken when he died.
I couldn’t damage their pride in him by revealing that he had been a lying cheat. They show Holly pictures of him and tell her how he was awarded a medal for his bravery. For her sake, as well as Peter and Alison’s, I will always keep up the pretence that Jack was the perfect husband.’
She dropped her gaze from his and stared down at the lawn. ‘And it was safer to allow you to believe I still loved him,’ she admitted in a low tone. ‘You are the ultimate playboy, and I was determined to keep my distance from you.’
‘I noticed,’ Rocco said dryly. ‘I have never met a woman as prickly and distrustful of my motives. And I admit you had good reason. My sole aim was to get you into bed. I was certain I did not want commitment—why would I when I had seen the fall-out of bitterness and acrimony in my parents’ failed marriage and those of several of my friends? Sex was a game, and mistresses are not hard to come by when you are wealthy,’ he drawled sardonically.
A Dangerous Infatuation Page 16