The Untouchable (5 page)

Chapter Seven

Marco gunned the bike down the main road for a few hundred yards, then indicated and pulled over into a wide lay-by, stopping behind some trees. He killed the ignition and put his head down on the handlebars. His body shook from the soles of his boots to his hair. Never, in all the tens of thousands of miles he had ridden on a motorbike, both road and track, had he ever been knocked over. He had crashed on the racetrack
—
once or twice quite badly
—
and fallen more times than he could remember, but he had never, never been knocked off a bike.

He raised his head and removed his gloves, feeling in his pocket for cigarettes and lighter. He was trying to give up, dammit, so why did he carry the things? In case, that’s why. For the times he got nervous or rattled. And this was one of those times. He pulled off his helmet and pushed the bike onto its stand, going down on his haunches behind it, out of view of the road.

One after the other, he smoked three cigarettes, until his hands stopped trembling. All things considered, he’d behaved like a prick and been unforgivably rude, but, Jesus, she’d scared the hell out of him! He’d made a bad start with Frederick’s daughter, and, today, things got worse. He should apologize. He’d go around on his way back and say sorry for his rudeness and, he cringed, his bad language and personal insults.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He stared at the sandy ground between his boots. Not fair that Rosemary should bear the brunt of his negativity to women. Not her fault he’d finished with the female sex after Lily, gold digger, liar, and whore, cheated on him. He would apologize today and leave it at that. There would be no further need to speak to her, but say sorry he must. Henri Albert could handle all future communications, including the negotiation to purchase her house.

Marco considered that decision. Had it made him feel better? No. He was in bad humour and it wasn’t ever a good idea to ride a high performance machine in bad humour. He concentrated a few minutes on regulating his breathing. Perhaps he should return now, say sorry, and leave the trip to Apricale for another day. She was as mad as all hell with him, again. Twice this week, he’d made her cry. Just two days ago, she’d flounced off his property pink-cheeked and teary.

Strolling after her, he’d watched her rush down the drive.

Rosemary
.
He’d expected her to be older
—
because Frederick had been elderly
—
and, thinking about it, had been unprepared for the beauty. She’d been a revelation with her cut-glass accent, flawless skin and eyes like silver-blue water. Frederick’s eyes. Not with bushy white eyebrows, of course, but silky ones to match the thick, dark hair, swinging straight over her shoulders. He smiled, recalling her soft pullover and clean jeans, slim feet in flat leather boots, and how her coat had swung from her shoulders as she had walked toward him in the garden. And, when the coat had fallen open, he’d glimpsed a narrow waist and excellent breasts, cupped in wisps of lace under cashmere, possibly, revealing just a shadow of nipple, as far as he could see, without being caught staring. He considered himself a connoisseur of breasts and these ones were good: not too big, and perfectly natural, he was absolutely sure of it. His mind drifted on, imagining the smallest thong, maybe a little triangle of white lace—

No. He stopped the fantasy right there, pushing out a deep breath. She had caught him off-guard on his own property, an irritating diversion in his daily routine and he wanted nothing to do with her, nothing from her. Nothing, apart from her house. It was far too close for comfort and privacy. He would force her out by making her an offer she couldn’t refuse, although if Frederick had left her money she might refuse, merely to be difficult.

Yesterday, he’d tried to shake her presence, but it had followed him into the house and hung, warm and decisive, as though it belonged there, on the cold, dusty air. And today...

He swore. “No more women. I’m done with all that for a very long time,” he told an insect scrambling away into the scruffy grass, bearing a stale crumb of dubious origins. He sat for a while longer, irritation seeping away as he thought about her scent, fresh in his cold nostrils, the flecks of violet hidden in her sunlit eyes and her rich, brown hair, streaked dark gold in the winter sun.

Lifting a wrist to his nose, Marco smelled his cuff. There, again. That crisp, green fragrance he’d caught moments ago, while he spoke to her through the car window.

Rosamaria
Hamilton had gate-crashed his head.

His heart had done something funny when he saw her. Not her, exactly, but just her car. Just the car. Strange. His heartbeat had quickened, rather like when you saw someone you liked, but unexpectedly. Then, of course, she’d bloody knocked him off! She’d apologized profusely, been upset, more upset than him, come to think of it. Initial impression? She was different than other women he knew
—
natural, unaware of herself, sincere, and passionate. Although, the passion wasn’t obvious. It would have to be teased out, brought to bloom with care and tenderness.

Stop. No.
To hell with all that
.

Marco reached for his helmet and stood up quickly. He had better move it
or he’d run out of
time. Besides, there was heavy rain coming in spite of what the weather report said. He glanced at the clouds, checked the bike over for damage, replaced his helmet and gloves, and started the engine. Perhaps he should call it a day and go home. On the other hand, the rain would probably move east and miss him. He sat astride the bike for five minutes, engine running, undecided.

No, he’d go. He’d ride up to Apricale, clear his head and be back well before dark.

Chapter Eight

“Your neighbour is
who
? And you did
what
?”

“I know, Fi. I feel terrible. I mean, he was rude, but it was my fault.” Rosy held her mobile to her ear with her shoulder, while she made tea.

“How did it happen?”

“I wasn’t concentrating. The irony is that I was actually thinking about him. How insufferably rude he is, how arrogant and up his own arse he is—”

And how he says my name. Rosa-maria

“And then you ran him over?”

“I knocked him off his bike, hard.”

“Sounds like it served him right.”

“He wasn’t hurt.”

“That’s the main thing, although he’d be a fool to come anywhere near you again.”

“Thank God he wasn’t injured, or...I-I couldn’t have dealt with that.”

“I know. I know. And listen, while we’ve been talking I’ve Googled him. He’s awesomely good looking, six foot three, rich as you like,
and
recently single, although there are a number of conflicting reports here. Looks like an on-off relationship that’s finally gone sour.” She sighed. “Pity he’s a twat because he’s right there and eligible, on your doorstep.”

“Just my luck,” Rosy said, to humour her friend. “I must go. There’s heaps to do. Thanks for the call, Fi.”

She rang off, realizing seconds later, horrified at her carelessness—that she hadn’t even asked Fiona how things were going at Red Velvet. Fiona didn’t yet know about her inheritance, and still carried a weight of anxiety regarding the future.

She called her straight back. “I can’t believe I did that, Fi!”

“Sweetheart, everything’s fine here. We’re winding down nicely for the Christmas break. But, say what you like, you’ve had a bit of a shock. Of course you’re distracted, and you sound exhausted. Tuck up in bed for a couple of hours, read yourself to sleep, take it easy. Go on. I have to get back to work. I’ll call you later.”

“I’ve got some news—”

“It can wait. Go sort yourself out. We’ll talk later.”

They said goodbye and Rosy went upstairs, taking her tea. She took off her shoes, set the alarm for five p.m., and climbed into bed. She drank the tea while she flicked through a magazine, then cuddled down under the quilt and went to sleep.

Awake at four, she got out of bed and looked through the window, unsettled by the darkness and sudden strong wind that ripped and tangled the garden. The angry sky bulged with heavy storm clouds sweeping eastward. Her phone rang as the first heavy raindrops spattered down, and a roll of thunder vibrated the house, lingering in the old windowpanes.

“It’s me, ringing later like I said I would,” Fiona said. “Are you feeling a bit better? Did you sleep? What the hell is that?”

“Thunder. We’re in for a mother of a storm.” Rosy walked through the house while they talked, securing windows, pulling curtains and closing blinds. She switched on the television and lit the fire in the study.

“According to Lucy,” Fiona said, “your neighbour, the motorbike savage, is totally famous.”

“Lucy?”

“My cousin, the dress designer one. I’ve just been on the phone to her. Her boyfriend’s a big fan of Dallariva. He’s a brilliant rider, apparently. Second to none, world class, a legend in his lifetime, unbeatable, invincible, untouchable, all that.”

“So I’ve heard. Good for him.”

“But not this past season. He lost the world championship by one point. That must have hurt, because he’s generally awesome.”

“What a pity there’s no personality. Who else have you told?”

“Told what?”

“That Marco Dallariva is my neighbour.”

Fiona hesitated. “Only Charlie, the sport junkie. He’s my husband after all. Why do you ask?”

“Don’t tell anyone else. Keep it to yourself. Promise.”

“Why on earth?”

“Just because. He’s entitled to privacy.”

“Are you defending him?”

“Promise me, Fi.”

“I promise, but why are you defending him? Are you two getting to know each other?”

The lights flickered. Rosy glanced through the window at the sheeting rain. “I should go dig out some candles and a torch—” A sharp, short crackle ended the call. She looked at the phone. No service. This storm meant business.

She went into the kitchen to switch on the radio and make more tea. The local news station forecast widespread, dangerous weather conditions, flash flooding, and possible power cuts. She abandoned the tea project and reached for a wine glass and the bottle of red she’d started the previous evening. The first
bolt of lightning, followed immediately by a bone-jarring thunderclap had her rummaging in the cupboards for candles and matches and checking the batteries in a torch she found hanging on a hook behind the back door.

By seven, the power had cut out, and with it, the heating and the television. Rosy lit candles and took the torch upstairs to get into her pyjamas and fetch the quilt off her bed. She’d curl up on the sofa in front of the study fire and think about life and the significance of Frederick’s bequests. And while she was at it, while the storm exploded in the valley and surged over and around the old house, hopefully to thrash itself to death against the mountains, she would enjoy being cosy.

***

Rosy sat up on the sofa not fully awake. Was that thunder? The pounding sound like someone trying to smash down a door? She waited. It
was
somebody banging on the front door and shouting something. Somebody in trouble. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed the torch.

“Okay, okay I’m coming!” She ran into the hallway and pulled back the bolts of the big door, letting it swing inwards. There, on the low front step, drenched, sat a good looking young man, about her age, in a wheelchair. Rainwater plastered his dark hair to his forehead and ran down his face, staining the shoulders of his tailored dinner jacket. Behind him, through the black curtain of rain, she could make out a car.

“May I come in for a moment?”

“Um, yes, of course.” She stood back, shining the torch downward so he could negotiate the small step across the threshold, and closed the door behind him.

“I’m sorry about this.” He wiped his face with both hands. “I’m aware it’s not the best time to call, but I’m looking for Marco Dallariva, who lives next door, at the Villa Diana. Have you seen him today?”

“I did see him earlier, yes. Would you like a towel? ”

“Where was he?”

“Riding a motorbike past the house.” She pointed in the vague direction, at the shuttered window next to the front door, where the rain rattled a steady drumbeat.

He pushed himself forward leaving puddles on the stone floor. “What time was that?”

“Around lunchtime. Can I get you some dry clothes? You’re soaked.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“Yes, I did. Do you mind telling me what this is about? It
is
two o’clock in the morning and I have no idea who you are, although there is more than a passing similarity between you and Dallariva. Are you brothers?”

“No. We’re friends, and we were supposed to meet for dinner in Monte Carlo tonight. The date’s set in stone as the first Tuesday of every month unless one of us cancels twelve hours ahead. We meet for dinner at the Hotel de Paris at nine thirty and go across to the Casino afterwards to play the tables for a few hours.”

“So?”

“So, he didn’t pitch, he didn’t call and he’s not answering his phone. I’m worried. Did he say where he was going?”

“We weren’t exactly having a conversation.”

“But you spoke to him?”

“We had words. I knocked him off his bike on the driveway.”

“
What
?”

“I turned my car in front of him. I-I didn’t see him.”

“Is he all right?”

“He wasn’t hurt, but he was furious. Wanted to kill me. Please, let me take your jacket. The power’s off so there’s no heating, but there’s a fire in the study where you could dry out.”

He started to remove his jacket then shrugged it back onto his shoulders, sprinkling water on the rug. “No,” he glanced around the dark hall, distracted, “thank you, but I must keep moving. Do you know where he went?”

Rosy thought back to the horrible events of midday but couldn’t remember what Marco had said. “He did, I’m sure he did, but I was so shocked by what I’d done, I didn’t listen.”

“Try to remember.”

“Are you sure he’s not home? I mean, have you rung the gate bell for a long time, because it’s a big house and—”

“I’ve got my own set of keys.” He loosened his bow tie, pulled it off and opened the top button of his shirt. “I can’t get up the front steps to get inside but I can see it’s all dark. Locked up.”

“Well, the power’s probably off, like it is here. He’s most likely in bed.”

“No.” He shook his head. “There’s an emergency generator that kicks in during an outage. The electronic gates work, the security lights come, but the house is dark. He’s not there. Something’s wrong.”