The Untouchable (4 page)

“She will be fired.”

“Don’t. Please. This is my fault, entirely. I wanted to pay for Frederick’s funeral. I resent what you did.” Her voice caught. “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

He glared, eyes like cold flame. Rosy left, not looking back, angry embarrassment boiling inside, cheeks red. She’d asked for it. Albert and Lydia had warned her about Dallariva, and she’d gone ahead and infuriated him
and
put Lydia’s job at risk. She’d invaded his privacy and he’d snapped at her like a wounded animal defending its lair, totally within his rights.

What
on earth
had she been thinking?

Chapter Five

Lydia’s disapproval pervaded the house and lasted until the following morning, in spite of Rosy’s heartfelt confession and apology.

“
Please
forgive me, Lydia. I don’t know what came over me!”

Lydia locked her handbag in the kitchen dresser, the only piece of furniture in the entire house with a key. “I am busy.” She left the room nose in the air, with all the dignity of one rightly affronted.

Rosy decided to make herself scarce, leave Lydia to simmer down. Perhaps they could start afresh tomorrow.

In Frederick’s study, she scanned
the shelves for guidebooks of the area. There were only two, plus a number of maps, the most recent dated 1991. Still, they gave her an idea of the riches that lay in fertile valleys to the north, and the Côte d’Azur to the south, although—she checked the sky—probably not so
azur
today, in the grip of winter. However, it wasn’t raining, and she had a car, and maps, and time to spare, so why not explore?

She spread one of the maps on the desk and made a quick decision. She’d go to Grasse, then Fayence and Bargemon on the small roads, and make a day of it. Excited, she went outside, carrying umbrella, raincoat, and boots, just in case.

The sun came out as she stepped from the vintage-style
parfumerie
in Grasse with a small carrier bag containing lavender soap and rose oil. Pure indulgence but she hadn’t been able to resist. She pressed on to Fayence only to get stuck in a market day traffic jam and to sit, content in the warmth of the car and wait for a parking spot. How pleasant not to
have
to find a space. She had no idea how long she waited. It simply didn’t matter. She lingered over coffee in a market café until the sun went in, and then drove on, higher, along the narrow, tree-lined road to Bargemon.

I could live here, she thought, parking on one of the cobbled streets off the main square—no more than a widening of the through road under giant, bare-branched plane trees. Being winter, the town slept behind closed shutters, apart from one small restaurant, cosy with heat from a wood-fired oven. There, she ate a superb omelette, refusing the glass of wine included in the lunchtime
formule
. In spite of the sunshine, she’d seen patches of ice on the road and didn’t want to end up halfway down the mountain, wheels in the air, with awkward questions to answer.

She gazed through the window at the charming building opposite, the thin shadows of branches dancing on the mellow stones and faded pink shutters. ‘
A vendre’
stated a sign wired to the curves of a rusty balcony. That meant ‘for sale’ didn’t it? What a lovely spot for a small hotel. She could buy it and live the perfect village life, part of the scenery, the very essence of real.

“Sad, isn’t it, that old building?” The
maitre d
’, standing in as both waiter and chef, topped up her coffee cup.

“How long has it been for sale?” she asked.

“More than ten years. It used to be a hotel, but people only came in the mid-summer.”

“What a shame.” So much for that.

She asked for the bill, paid and left. With a last look over her shoulder she gifted a little piece of her heart. She’d come back, soon. She’d bring someone special and they’d spend the day together, well away from the world, way up in the fresh air of Bargemon, exploring the little roads, driving further into the mountains, maybe even locating the property agent responsible for the forlorn building on the main square.

***

Rosy got home to find the driveway blocked. A truck with an enormous crate on the back had stuffed itself between the gateposts, lurching back and forth on hissing airbrakes.

She stopped the car and jumped out. “Wait! Stop! What are you doing?”

The driver, oblivious over the noise of gears, plunged forward, knocking one of the posts so hard that the dear little stone urn on top teetered, toppled and fell to the ground, breaking in half.

“No!” Rosy shrieked as the truck ground forward, shearing one of the gates off its hinges, bending the beautiful wrought iron like soft wire. The driver swirled the truck onto the circle of gravel and backed up to the garage.

“
For fuck’s sake what are you doing
?” she yelled, over the sound of the engine.

“
Livraison
,” he called, whatever that meant. He jumped out of the cab, thrust a plastic sleeve of printouts at her and turned his full attention to operating a crane apparatus that lowered the crate
—
big enough to contain a small car
—
to the ground.

Rosy studied the contents of the sleeve. “No. This is a delivery for Mr. Dallariva, not me. Please take it away. He lives up the road.”

“No English.”

“
Monsieur Dallariva
habite là, au Villa Diana
.” Rosy pointed over the wall, in the direction of his house, hoping the driver understood her mangled schoolgirl French.

“He out. No answer, so I leave with you, okay?”

“Not okay, no. Please reload that thing and take it away.”

The driver shook his head, tapped his wristwatch with a forefinger. “Late. I go. You sign.”

“I won’t sign anything. What about my gate!”

“
Desolé
.” He grinned and shrugged, pointing at the papers she held. “There is phone number for shit.”

Great.
Rosy fumed while he stowed the crane, jumped back in the cab, and sailed out via a now-roomier exit. He had the audacity to grin and wave farewell like they were best mates.

She followed him onto the driveway. “And mind the trees, fool,” she muttered, glaring after the truck as it zoomed off, trailer bouncing.

Bloody Dallariva!

Over the fading noise of the truck engine, there came another sound, behind her—the approaching rich rumble of a well-nourished motorbike engine. She turned her glare on the rider. He cruised between the long shadows of the cypress trees and stopped when she stepped into the middle of the road to wave him down.

He lifted his visor. “What?”

“Get off that thing. You need to see this.”

She waited. Marco parked the bike at the side of the driveway and removed his helmet. She stalked through the ruined gateway, Marco following.

“First, Dallariva, there’s this.” She pointed to the crushed gate, lying on the ground. “There was a delivery for you. The truck driver, who modified
this
gate, first rang the bell at
your
gate, but of course you don’t answer bells, do you?”

Marco walked across the gravel to the forlorn gate, lifted it like tissue paper, and leaned it against the wall.

“Shit,” he said. “Sorry. I was in the shower.”

Pointing to the crate, she handed him the plastic sleeve. “All yours. I want it off my property within the hour.”

Marco, dark eyebrows pulled together in a slight frown, scanned the pages, pushing a hand through his thick hair, over and over, while Rosy waited, and watched. Truly, his eyelashes were like brooms.

After a minute he lowered the papers and grinned. “It’s my Indian. My princess.” He strode over to the crate, laid a hand on it and shook his head in wonder. “Ah, beauty. I cannot believe you are here.”

“Your what?” Rosy followed, sure she had misheard.

“My Indian. I bought her on an auction in Phoenix.”

“You have a whole Indian in there?”

“Not whole. She’s in pieces.”

“
What?
” She looked at Marco, eyes wide.

“I’m going to fix her.”

“Where?”

“At home. Here.” He tilted his head in the direction of his house.

“Are you allowed to do that? Don’t you need a special license or...or something?”

“No.”

“Is she, like...mummified?”

He studied her for a moment, puzzled. “What is mummified?”

“Like an Egyptian mummy, all wrapped up.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Is she preserved?”

“Not well. Her owner left her in a shed to break down completely. Some parts are rotten. I saved her, I hope, just in time.”

“Shouldn’t she be in a museum?” Rosy’s voice rose to a squeak. Is this what Dallariva did as a hobby? Collect human bits and pieces and tinker with them in his gloomy old house? She shuddered, and clasped her hands together to quell the sudden tremble.

“She should be.” He nodded, eyes serious. “She should, but I hope I can bring her back to life, make her beauty shine again.”

Rosy gasped. “Look here, that’s just not right. I mean, you
can’t
...shouldn’t she at least go back to her people?”

Marco let go the crate, stepped closer and stooped, looking at Rosy under his eyebrows. Amusement flickered. “You think I am talking about a person?”

“It’s not right!”

“She’s not a person, she’s a motorbike.”

“What?”

“This Indian is a rare, nineteen forty-eight Indian Chief Roadmaster. I’m going to restore it with a friend. More a prince than a princess, come to think of it.”

“But I thought—”

He flung back his head and roared with laughter.

To her extreme annoyance, tears pricked. “Oh, very funny!” she snapped. “Why don’t you answer your goddamn door for a change and make life a bit easier for people around you?”

He laughed more, until he was breathless.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Die laughing while I deal with your shit because you’re too busy pimping your body in the swimming pool and poncing about in those ridiculous leather onesies unleashing yourself on the world like some sort of play-play gladiator! Laugh until you cry. Bend double and slap your knee guard
—
whatever they are
—
thingummies
, why don’t you!”

He stopped for a moment, caught his breath—and then did exactly that.

***

The following morning, in the car on the way back from the market in Saint Michel, where she’d tried, half-successfully, to recapture the magic of the previous day, Rosy laughed at herself. More the fool her. Although Marco Dallariva had shocked her with his hostile brush-off, rudeness and, quite frankly, aggression, his good looks and overpowering maleness had knocked her off her feet.

Is that why she kept thinking about him? Or was it because he annoyed her so much? If she were honest, she’d admit his burning blue eyes were difficult to forget, ditto good nose, fascinating, skew mouth, magnificent shoulders, those beautiful hands—

The rest, however, left much to be desired.

I warn you. I get what I want.

What the hell did that mean? Was he threatening her? How dare he! And the way he’d laughed at her over his precious Indian ‒ what an utterly stupid name for a motorbike.

She slowed the car on the last steep downward bend and turned onto the shared driveway. Clearly, Dallariva was a complex man with complexes. Aggressive and moody, he was
best avoided, and more than welcome to keep to himself. She was no match for his belligerence. Without a reason to meet him again, she would let the matter of the funeral rest. She’d keep his bloody money if he didn’t want it.

She swung the car between the gateposts, her gateposts now. To Dallariva’s credit, there was a large van parked on the drive, the innards of which revealed a portable welding unit and a man in white overalls ministering to the stricken gate. The giant crate, however, stood on the drive, exactly as it had been for the last twenty-four hours. Concentrating more on her annoyance over that than her driving, she didn’t see the approaching motorbike until it was too late.

Chapter Six

The rider swerved hard around the front of the car when Rosy didn’t stop, but she clipped the back wheel and threw him off balance. She sat frozen, gripping the wheel, foot hard on the brake as he bounced off the side of the car with a sickening thud. The bike crashed over and slid away across the paving.

“Oh God, oh God!” She switched off the engine with shaking hands, opened the door, forced herself out, and walked around the front of the car on wobbly legs. “Are you all right? Please, tell me you’re all right!”

The man got to his feet slowly, remained doubled over with his hands on his knees, his head hanging.

“Marco, is it you? Are you hurt? I’m so sorry.” Rosy crouched next to him and put a hand on his arm. He flung it off with such force that she was thrown backwards.

“
Fuck,
” he yelled. “Don’t touch me!”

He straightened and pulled off his gloves, hurling them one by one at the windscreen. He grappled angrily with the strap of his helmet. Would that, too, be flung at the car? She covered her face with her hands.

“
What the hell was that?
” he shouted.

Rosy peeped and saw that he had placed his helmet on the car bonnet. Faint, she dropped her hands, daring to look into the lethal blue eyes in Marco Dallariva’s furious face.

“I-I’m so sorry...I didn’t see you.”

“Bloody woman driver!” He yanked down the zip of his leather jacket. “Dumb bitch!”

Sick, she pressed the fingertips of one hand to her mouth and looked at the ground.

“What
the fuck
do you mean you didn’t see me? Look at the size of me! Look at the size of that bike!” He gestured angrily with both hands at the huge motorbike lying on its side a little way off.

Tears of shock burned Rosy’s throat. “You’re wearing black, and your bike is black. I didn’t see you in the shadows.” She pointed at the driveway, curving gently uphill between old trees. “I’m sorry.”

Speechless, he tapped the fluorescent strips on the outer seams of his jacket, then leaned against the car and bent and straightened his left leg several times.

“I admit it was my fault. I’ll pay for any damage to your bike. To you.” She studied him up and down, the length of his lean, leather-clad legs. Her heart jerked when her eyes rested, again, on his spectacular shoulders. She looked away, quickly. “Is your leg all right?”

“You need your licence revoked!”

“I made a mistake. How many times do I have to say how sorry I am?”

“I should call the police,” he snapped.

She took a big breath. “Go ahead, then. Report me, smart arse.” She stumbled back to the car, got in, put her hands on the steering wheel and, not feeling well, laid her head against them.

He followed her and stood by the open driver’s door “What did you call me?”

“Smart arse, but let’s upgrade to dumb arse.” She closed her eyes to hold back tears.

He moved away. There was a metallic scrape as he lifted the bike off the ground, followed by
a healthy roar as he started and revved it. He cut the engine and came back to the car.

“Again, I’m sorry,” she said, sitting up, eyes still closed.

“You should be. And a bloody incompetent like you shouldn’t be driving on public roads. This is a private driveway, for God’s sake, and you manage to cause an accident.”

“Will you
stop
insulting me? You are the rudest man I have ever met!”

“
Christ
.
You knock me off my bike and I’m supposed to pay compliments?”

Rosy didn’t reply.

“Well, we’ll leave it at that, then,” he said, after a moment. “I need to get going if I want to be back before dark. Before the weather changes.”

“Mm.”

“Miss Hamilton? Um, Rosemary? Are you in shock?” He stepped closer and bent, his face level with hers. “Look, I have to move on. I want to get up to Apricale, just across the Italian border—”

“Bugger off, Dallariva.” Rosy opened her eyes and reached to close the door, but he held it open. “I couldn’t care less where you’re going.” She battled to control the tears in her voice. “And don’t you
ever
talk to me like that again.”

“You deserve it.”

“I do not!” Furious tears spilled. “Just accept the fact I’m human. I made a mistake. I’ve apologized. I’ve offered to pay. What else do you want? Call the police if that’s what you want to do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m distracted. My life is all over the place, my father’s just died.”

He slammed the car door. “Is that the father you didn’t speak to for twenty-five years?”

“You know nothing about it!”

He snatched his gloves and helmet off the car bonnet. “He was a nice man.”

“No, he
wasn’t
.”

He hesitated. “Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he still loved you.”

The rush of anger shocked Rosy. “
What’s it to do with you
? Piss off!”

“Ah. Well, I was just leaving. Drive carefully.” He stepped back.

“Piss
off
! Go and break your neck somewhere and leave me alone!” She turned the key in the ignition while he stood in the road, shaking his head. Rosy jammed her foot to
the accelerator, tempted to swing the wheel and run over him properly, but she forced herself to drive between the gateposts, ignoring him.

“Up yours, wanker,” she muttered, getting out of the car, maddened by the sound of the motorbike screaming down the long driveway to the road. “Bloody incompetent yourself!” she shouted, hunting for the keys in her handbag. “Loser! Rude, arrogant, egotistical, chauvinist
prick
.”

Rosy glanced at the man repairing the gate. Showering bright sparks on the gravel, he welded the damaged metal, his face hidden by a protective mask, impervious. She went into the house. The door closed, locking her in heavy silence. She stood on the rug in the hallway for a few moments, her bag falling to the floor. Then, nauseous, she sank to her knees and put her head in her shaking hands. How could she, of all people, have done that? That’s how Luke had been killed
—
some incompetent hadn’t seen his approaching motorbike and had turned in front of him. A moment’s negligence had cost him his life.

His life and hers. Bitter tears ran down her face and dripped between her fingers.