The Untouchable (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Being this close to Marco fuelled Rosy’s heartbeat, but there wasn’t anywhere else to sit, thanks to the giant cat draped over the entire sofa. She sipped her wine, unable to think of a single thing to say, until Marco broke the silence. “It can’t be easy for you to watch this.” He glanced at the television
where the hapless Miguel Costa remained suspended, upside down in mid-air.

Rosy pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Riding a motorbike on a public road can be really dangerous, Rosemary.”

“Don’t remind me. Look what I did to you.”

“And look what I did to myself later that same day.” He paused. “Racing on a track is different. It’s a controlled environment. Static, if you like. There’s no pothole, rock fall, stray dog—”

“Or dumb bitch woman driver.”

“Ah, you’re not. I’m sorry I ever inferred that. I was very wrong.”

She smiled. “Go on, about the racing.”

“Everything’s strictly regulated as far as safety’s concerned. We wear special protective suits, helmets, gloves, boots, all designed to slide us to safety at high speeds and, yes, we fall off, we crash, and sometimes we hurt ourselves. But it’s still safer than riding a bike on a motorway on a daily basis.”

Like Luke, thought Rosy, misery swamping her.

“Rosemary?”

She focussed.

“This glass has a hole in the bottom,” he said. “Please top it up, and we’ll finish watching the race. You have the remote, so pause if it scares you too much and I’ll try to explain. Okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

The man was about to lead her into the jaws of hell and she, besotted, would go with him. Nevertheless, minutes later, wine refill organized, she leaned against the chair, unable not to lean against Marco’s thigh, and released the pause button. Miguel Costa plummeted to the gravel, his bike ramming the air-fence, breaking into pieces. He rolled over and over and, ending up on his feet, jammed his hands onto his hips, rushed at the twisted wreckage of his bike to kick the hell out of it before turning his back and storming off the track.

“It’s the corners,” said Marco, “that make racing fun. If you’re fast in the corners, you’re fast everywhere, but you have to know exactly when to brake, and how hard, and precisely when, and how, to accelerate out of a corner.”

“How do you know?”

He shrugged. “Instinct, intuition, gut-feel, impulse, sixth sense if you like.”

Rosy squeezed her eyes shut as the cameraman homed in on Marco, pulling the huge bike down into a tight right-hander, his rear hanging over the side of the bike and his right knee sliding on the track, his
elbow
almost on the track.

“Hey, I’m still here. You can look,” he said, a smile in his voice, but Rosy couldn’t trust herself to look at the image on the screen, of Marco and machine in fluid harmony, shifting his trim, leather-clad backside right and left, on and over, the seat.

She waited for the commentator to finish his elated monologue. “Look at him,
just look at him
. Take it from me if you want an experience of a lifetime, come and see Marco Dallariva while he is still racing. The man is phenomenal! Superb!
What
a sight. And now look at him in slow motion, in
super
slow motion. It’s ballet. See the front tyre compress and, uh-oh, here is Miguel Costa, limping back to the pits looking
pretty fed up
.”

Rosy peeked at the screen and pressed the pause button. “Is he hurt? He’s all hunched over. And very bandy-legged.”

Marco laughed. “His airbags have gone off. That accentuates the look.”

“But there’s a hump between his shoulders—”

“It’s part of the suit. It’s aerodynamic. When he’s crouched over the bike, the air flows off the back of his helmet and over his back without resistance. And the hump is where we keep our isotonic drinks. We drink through a straw under the chin bar of the helmet.”

“You could use that right now.”

“Sure could. The bandy look is caused by the knee-sliders positioned slightly to the outside of the knees.”

“None of it looks comfortable.”

“It’s designed to be comfortable when you’re straddling a motorbike. Think of the position. Fast forward a bit.” He nodded at the screen. Rosy ran the recording forward, stopping when he told her to. “There, see. This is Roman West, my arch-rival.”

Rosy looked at the overhead camera shot of a Union Jack helmet, blue leathers, and a red and white bike.

“He looks like a frog!” she exclaimed, engrossed. “In squatting position like that, with his arms stretched out to the handlebars and his legs tucked under.”

“He does.” Marco smiled. “A safe frog. One that won’t get squashed, perfectly dressed for riding a high performance machine. Those suits protect and save lives, even though they’re not attractive.”

Rosy watched the American rider take the chequered flag, followed by West, and then Marco in third as Liam Dyer commentated.

“And here we see the missile of the Moto GP world, the
incredible
Marco Dallariva, taking a very close third place here in Sepang. He set a
phenomenal
pace today,
storming
up behind British champion, Roman West, to join him on the podium once again.”

Marco, unrecognizable but for his red and black leathers and helmet, crossed the finish line and slowed into the cool-down lap, leaning over to lock gloves with Bobby Savage, patting him on the arm, giving him a thumbs-up, and raising his right hand above his head while the applause from the enormous crowds surged and thundered through the grandstands.

This is no ordinary man. This is a rare man. A living legend. Untouchable.

Marco cruised into the garage and dismounted. Pretty damn attractive, safe frog suit or no—striking in the racing leathers Rosy was coming to recognize. He took off his gloves and helmet, drank deeply from a water bottle and wiped the streaming sweat from his face and neck with a small towel. During the brief interview, she watched how, seconds after giving his all, he held back—and how the irregular smile pushed up the side of his mouth but never reached his eyes. Breathless, he glanced from camera to crowd and back, for a moment wary, unsure and—she was certain—afraid.

On the podium, he accepted the trophy for third
place, shaking hands with West and Savage and spraying champagne into the baying crowd. Over the noise and through the sparkling cascade, the camera zoomed in on his face—on a dark, enigmatic man, lonely in his victory, and Rosy, knowing him slightly, knew that she glimpsed his most private persona in this most public moment. The screen went black. She switched off the set, reflected for a moment before looking him in the eye.

“Why do you do it?”

“I love it,” he said without hesitation. “I love winning, and...” His eyes became thoughtful and serious, then wicked. “I love the feel of something big and red vibrating between my legs.” He held her eyes, grinning, and she burst out laughing. He raised his eyebrows, deadpan, and she laughed more.

She got herself under control, though the smile wouldn’t fade. “Enough. You must get back to bed.” She stood aside while he got up, transfixed by the blueness of his eyes, made vibrant by his blue t-shirt.

He waited while she carried the empty glasses to the kitchen and turned off some of the lights. Walking back through the hall, she saw him in the shadows and stopped.

“I-I thought you’d gone upstairs.

“No.” He came to her, standing close, too close, his chest, pure blue one hundred percent cotton, three inches from the tip of her nose. Her heart flipped over in a Miguel-style cartwheel.

“Imagine,” he said, after a moment, “that I have my arms around you.”

She looked up into his face, half-bathed in Christmas tree glow, half in shadow, and stepped back.

“You can’t do that,” he growled, his deep voice zapping tiny shockwaves along her spine. “My arms are around you, remember.” He came forward again, closing the space between them.

She put a hand on his wrist.

“I can’t feel that,” he said. “Put it someplace I can.” He opened his arms as best he could and she slid between them, running her hands around his waist, opening her fingers wide across his back. He lowered his head and kissed her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then the corner of her mouth, then the other corner of her mouth. He breathed out, the only sound in the dark. She rested her head on his chest, the perfect place to be, however unwieldy Marco’s embrace. She listened to his heart, their hearts, beating fast and loud together.

He kissed her hair. She moved. He caught her bottom lip between his teeth, a small, husky sound in the back of his throat. She closed her eyes and let him in to her mouth, her blood buzzing at his body’s instant response, low against her stomach, his urgent breath mixed with hers.

“Upstairs,” he whispered, against her lips. “Now. I want you. I want you.” Rosy dropped her head back, exposing her bare neck to Marco’s kisses.

“Come,” he urged.

She pulled away, only to stand rigid in the sudden, dazzling beams of
light that swept the darkened hallway.

“Oh, Ricky’s here,” she gasped, manoeuvring herself out of Marco’s arms, smoothing her jumper.

Marco looked down at his shorts and laughed softly. I’d better get out of here,” he said, hoarse, leaning forward and kissing her below the left ear, sending a fizz of ecstasy down her neck, across her shoulder and along her arm.

By the time Ricky pushed his key into the lock, Marco was in his room, and Rosy had fled to the kitchen.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Rosy slipped out the back door early in the morning, leaving a note on the kitchen table.
Gone for a long walk. I’ve got my phone if you need me, Rosy
.

In boots, coat, hat, and gloves she walked past the frosted
vegetable garden, through a gate in the low wall, and onto a rough path—hard with frozen mud—that wound a gentle slope to the river. She went along the bank a little way, then up the hill to a small circle of trees. Someone had placed a bench there, with a view of the valley and the icy silver river, gleaming between arching, bare branches of old willows.

Now. I want you. I want you.

What would have happened last night if Ricky hadn’t returned when he had? Would she have slept with Marco? Would he trust her enough not to run blabbing to the media? Had she imagined the rare, distinctive emotion of new love? That tiny stab of joy when your heart and brain warmed with the slow release of information that,
yes
, this is it, this is love? Had something sparked between them, or had Marco’s advance been a passing urge?

I warn you. I get what I want.

Did he want her in any kind of special, long-term way? The idea unsteadied her, quickened her heartbeat. Or, did he just want her—want anyone?

She stared down at the house, at Lydia’s little car parked alongside the Peugeot considering how she existed, suddenly preoccupied with Marco and his recuperation, in a state of unreality, not making any of the decisions she was supposed to be making. Come the New Year, she would have to get back to London and talk business with Fiona. She could afford to put Red Velvet on a whole new track. They could expand, take on apprentices, and open another branch. She’d seen vacant premises with a Victorian shop front in Chelsea that she coveted, but the rent had been too high. Now, however, it wasn’t. She could put in an offer to buy. Perhaps Fiona could go and have another look. That reminded Rosy she’d had a message from her this morning. She took her phone out of her pocket and read it.
I am presuming total silence is good news and you are so busy shagging Dallariva that you haven’t even got time to extend your hand to the bedside table to reach your phone and send me a message! Send word, promise. LOL xxx.

Rosy laughed, her breath a white cloud in the bitter air.
Promise to send word when there is word to send. Sorry. Been busy. No action with MD. Will call, promise, XXX
, she replied. Looking up from her phone, she was briefly distracted by a large black car, Henri Albert’s surely, on the driveway. It paused at the gate while the driver rang the bell, glided between the gateposts, and disappeared beneath the trees.

What should she do with this house? Her gaze rested on the wavy red roof tiles. Wisps of smoke from the chimney pinpointed the position
Il Capitano
would have chosen—using up half the floor of the study, while everyone stepped over him. She smiled. She could be like him. She could give up work, sell Red Velvet, over which she and Fiona had sweated blood and wept tears, and sit around, idle, like he did. What sort of life would that be, even if she could afford it ten thousand times over?

She wrapped her arms around herself, thinking about Marco, pressing her knees hard together, the cold wooden bench freezing the back of her thighs. No way could they have had it off last night, or any other time, for that matter. For starters she would have had to undress him: first, carefully take his arms out of his t-shirt, then lift it up and over his shoulders and chest and head, pulling his dark hair into rakish spikes. And then, she’d slip her hand along the slim trail of dark hair that ran from his belly button, over his concave stomach, into the loose waistband of his shorts—

Okay, okay, so she’d have to undress him—all well and good—and then undress herself which was hardly a turn on, was it? Well, unless she thought of those burning blue eyes, watching her while she stumbled out of her clothes. Moving on, there could have been no foreplay, just a bit of awkward kissing and some very uncomfortable hugging, possibly even painful in Marco’s case. No, it was a no-go area, and could only end in frustration and humiliation. She shouldn’t dwell on
it. It had been a one-off, spur of the moment desire, probably not to be repeated. She relaxed and let her head drop back, her audible sigh startling some pigeons in the branches above her head. They flew the short distance down the valley to the house, taking fright again at some movement there and flying on until they were lost from view in the distance.

Rosy heard the faint sound of a car door slamming. The same black car emerged from under the trees and drove away. She looked at her watch. Time to go back. Her phone, lying on the bench next to her, beeped to remind her that there were real-worldly things demanding attention. She picked it up.

“Rosy? Where are you?” Ricky’s voice, sharp with anxiety.

“Walking.”

“Are you far away? Can you get back?”

“Is something wrong?”

“I have to take Lydia somewhere.”

“Is she okay?” Rosy, on her feet, hurried down the path, driven by the stress in Ricky’s voice.

“Perfectly. She needs to do some urgent shopping. We can’t leave Marco alone especially with...we can’t leave him alone.”

“What’s going on?”

“Come. Hurry. Marco will explain.” He rang off, and Rosy ran back to the house as fast as she could. Finding the back door locked, she went around the front. She stepped into the hall, pulling off her gloves and hat.

“Rosemary?”

She jumped. “God, Marco, you gave me a fright! What on earth are you doing here? Are you all right?”

Marco sat on a chair in the hall. He leaned forward, knees apart, arms resting on his thighs, staring at the floor between his bare feet.

“What’s happened?” Rosy unbuttoned her coat.

His head came up. She gasped at his white face, the deep shock in his glassy eyes. “Marco!” She moved swiftly across the hall and bent over him “Are you ill? What’s wrong?”

After a moment, he slowly turned his head to the kitchen door. “Take a look in there.”

Rosy went into the kitchen. There was a basket on the table with two handles and a corner of soft yellow blanket hanging over the side. For one ridiculous moment she thought that someone had brought Marco a puppy. A puppy for company during his recuperation, something to come home to in between travels. Who would look after it while he was away? It was hardly a practical gesture. Confused, she approached the table, and peered over the side of the basket.

Love at first sight.