The Untouchable (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Rosy woke, confused by the sight of Ricky, helping Marco out of bed.

Ricky?
Why was he in the room? Oh God, of course. She’d begged Ricky to be here first thing this morning—and here he was, in Marco’s room, like he was supposed to be. No!

“Man, I’m sorry, Mr. Dallariva,” Ricky whispered.

“Marco’s fine. Just call me Marco.”

“I didn’t mean to gatecrash.”

The floorboards creaked as Marco stood up next to the bed. “It’s…er…nothing,” he said.

Memories of the previous evening burst into her head. Whichever way you viewed it, she had jumped into bed with a stranger. She lay still, feigning sleep, awash in hot shame. Marco would be laughing, and even though nothing had happened, her actions must have smacked of desperation. A drunken teenager would have practised better judgment!

I’m not having sex with you.

God. Did she really say that?

After several minutes, she heard the two men having a conversation in the bathroom. She took the gap to escape to her room. Marco’s professionally managed ablutions would no doubt take longer than her hit and miss gestures, loaded with awkwardness. She waited to hear the sound of running water, then scrambled out of bed and darted along the passage. She’d strip the bed, shower, dress, and be downstairs before they finished.

A short while later, foraging in the linen cupboard, she paused, hands on a pile of folded towels, listening to the noise of the shower and Marco’s grunts of ecstasy. She smiled. What heaven to have a proper wash after all those days in hospital. Loading up with fresh sheets and pillowcases for Marco’s bed, she went to his room. Passing the bathroom door, standing open locker-room style, she couldn’t stop herself glancing in. Marco stood in the bath, back to Ricky, legs apart,
and his arms
—
neatly taped into plastic bags
—
resting on the tiled wall in front of him.

“Ah,” he groaned, while Ricky sprayed his back with the hand-held shower and got to work with a big, soapy sponge.

“That feel good, mate?”

“Mm.”

“Head back,” Ricky said. “I’m gonna wash your hair.”

Rosy stared at Marco’s dark head, tipped back, streaming water. Eyes closed, drops of water hung on his thick eyelashes like trembling diamonds. She swallowed, lowering her gaze to the lather sliding over his left buttock, where it fixed on a small tattoo of a scorpion, and moved on, down the taut tendons and muscles of his legs. What a sight! But, she had work to do. Steam billowed, blocking the view. She forced herself to walk away, unwilling to be caught peeping by the super-professional Ricky. Relieved he was here, she was nevertheless sorry she wasn’t the one wielding the hand shower over Marco’s stunning shoulders.

“Honestly,” she muttered, going into the bedroom and dumping the linen on the chair. She attacked the bed, stripping the sheets and replacing them with fresh ones that she smoothed and tucked vigorously. Closing her fecund imagination to what was going on in the bathroom, she pulled on the pillowcases, beating the pillows into soft, plump shapes and arranging them in an inviting pile against the headboard.

She stood back, surveying the room. Some flowers wouldn’t go amiss. She’d bring up a Christmas poinsettia and put it on the windowsill to brighten things. Picking up a used
pillowcase she ran it over the furniture—a housekeeping technique of which Lydia would not approve. There, done. She gathered the used linen and turned to the door, bumping into Ricky.

“He’s having a private moment in the bathroom,” Ricky said, in answer to the question in her eyes. “And, wow,” he pointed to the bundle of linen, “thanks for doing that.”

“That’s okay.” She smiled and pushed past him.

“Uh, you did a great job with him.”

“It was nothing.”

“No, no it was. Marco said.”

She shrugged. “What else could I do?”

“He said you were fabulous. And it’s not, you know, easy to do this kind of thing for a person you don’t know. It can be really embarrassing.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Ricky.”

“One more thing.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry about this morning, about walking into the room like that. I had no idea—”

“I should apologize for embarrassing you.”

“You asked me to be here early, so—”

“It’s not what it looked like.”

Ricky grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Given that you were wearing grandad’s pyjamas and my patient has both arms in plaster, I’m prepared to believe you.”

“It was nothing.” It
was
nothing, but she was shaking her head, smiling, and blushing all at once.

“That’s funny. Marco said exactly the same thing.”

“He had a terrible dream and fell out of bed.”

“He told me. I’ll get his doctor to stop by later this morning and check him over. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

Rosy, bright red, hurried down the stairs to the laundry, noticing that Ricky had already opened all the curtains and shutters, and made the coffee.

It was nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing
, she repeated, pushing the linen into the washing machine, and you’d best remember that, Rosemary Hamilton. Anyway, he’s younger than you. And he’s famous public property. He lives a life that could never overlap yours in a million years, and that’s the end of it.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Over the hum of the washing machine, Rosy listened.
Someone leaned on the bell at the front gate, like there was an emergency.

“Hello?” she barked into the intercom. Who the heck would do this so early in the morning?

“Ah, good morning. Am I at the correct house? I’m Terry Craig, part of the Dallariva Racing—”

“Sure.” She cut him off by opening the gate.

Seconds later, he stood on the front doorstep, introducing himself. “I’m sorry to disturb you so early. As soon as I got Zavi’s message I drove through the night from Verbier. It took a while. We’re staying in a pretty remote spot.”

“That’s some trip in the dark, especially with the snow.” She took his jacket, hanging it in the hall closet. “Come, I’ll show you where Marco is.”

She went upstairs, and along the passage, Terry following. Stopping outside the bedroom door, she pointed. “He’s in here. Marco, you have a visitor.”

“Thanks.” Terry entered the room, greeting Marco. They sounded delighted to see each other.

“I’ll bring coffee.” She left, retraced a few steps and stopped.

“Jesus, Marco,” Terry hissed, “What the hell’s going on here?” Delight, clearly, had been short-lived.

She strained to hear Marco’s answer, but he spoke too softly.

“How long have you been seeing her?” Terry again.

Rosy crept back to the door and listened, out of view.

“I’m not seeing her.”

“How did you meet?”

“I knew her father who used to live in this house. He died some weeks ago and she came for the funeral.”

“So, you haven’t known her long.”

“A week or two.”

“And?”

“We’re neighbours, Terry.”

“Is that all?”

Rosy held her breath.

Marco changed the subject, asking a technical question about a redesigned motorbike chassis, but Terry wouldn’t be led. He cut him off, mid-sentence. “I’ve had her checked out by security.”

Rosy clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“You what?”

“She’s clean, as far as we know. Still, you can’t be too careful.”

“I am never anything but.”

“Is that so? What happened with Lily, then? Was that being careful?”

“Those two women couldn’t be more different!”

“I’m worried, Marco. You need to stay focussed. Millions of euros are riding on next year’s championship, and this isn’t a good start.”

“What? The woman or the accident?”

“Don’t piss me off more than I am already. For God’s sake, I won’t stand by and watch you throw—”

“There is nothing going on between us!”

Okay then, served her right for listening. Rosy tiptoed away in the heavy silence following the outburst. She’d heard enough. Besides, there was coffee to organize. Best to concentrate on reality and quit that hovering fantasy of a perfect future, with Marco written large therein.

She delivered coffee to Marco’s room in silence, along with large slices of fresh vanilla sponge. Half an hour later she returned to clean up the mess. To her satisfaction, Terry exhibited zero skills whatsoever in feeding the invalid.

She feigned annoyance. “Good God! Have you two had a food fight?”

Marco smiled. “Terry lacks your attention to detail. Underdeveloped in the TLC department.”

“I’ll have to get the Hoover.”

Terry had the grace to look sheepish. “The cake’s delicious, Miss Hamilton. Possibly, no definitely, the best I’ve ever eaten.”

“That’s how I make a living, Mr. Craig, but then you know that, don’t you? My business partner told me someone was snooping around Red Velvet—”

“We have to protect Marco from—”

“And I overheard your conversation earlier. No, I didn’t overhear. I stood outside and listened.”

Terry hardened his eyes. “Look here, Miss Hamilton—”

“How dare you invade my privacy.”

Marco looked from Rosy to Terry, and back again.

Terry stood, scattering crumbs. “I’ll be going. The wife and kids await in Verbier. Marco, I’ll arrange for you to travel there immediately.”

Rosy stopped herself from shouting
no
and left the room, seething. Who did this Terry Craig person think he was! Halfway down the stairs, she paused. She would hate Marco to leave, but…

There is nothing between us.

She went on down to the front door, ready to see Craig off her territory. He arrived three minutes later to face her, his eyes weary. “I’ve seen this a thousand times, the entire length of my career in racing. These young daredevils, millionaires in their early twenties, all the girls running after them, and their money, leaking sensation to the press.”

“I’m thirty-four, Mr. Craig.”

“The media pick up little rumours, anything, and make up a whole lot of crap. Only yesterday I had a call from a news channel asking me to comment on Marco’s elbow surgery in Canada.” He shook his head. “God knows where they got the idea he was in Canada.”

Rosy dipped her head, pressing her lips together to stop a snort of laughter, aware of Terry’s intense scrutiny. Why couldn’t the man get in his car and leave her in peace?

“Are you sure, Miss Hamilton, there’s nothing between you and Marco?”

“No, or yes, I mean.”

“No or yes? Which is it?”

“Difficult to answer, the way you asked the question. Besides, it’s none of your business.”

“Marco’s life is my business.”

“But mine isn’t.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard two people protest so much.”

Rosy handed Terry his jacket. “I don’t want to hold you up, particularly if Mrs. Craig and the children are waiting.”

“I’ll send a driver for Marco tomorrow—”

“No.”

“No?”

“The journey won’t be good for him. He tires quickly. He’s quite comfortable here, and happy, and he’s getting plenty of—”

“Tender loving care?” 

Rosy opened the front door. “Most people thrive on that. I was going to say plenty of specialized, professional care. Ricky’s very good.”

“I had thought of Ricky accompanying Marco to Verbier.”

“Then his girlfriend will be alone at Christmas.”

“You have an answer for everything.”

“I wish.”

Terry stepped outside, turning to face her. “Upstairs is a lad I haven’t seen for a while.”

“I-I haven’t done anything.”

“Well, he’s different since last time I saw him.”

“Is that a good thing?”

He thought for a moment. “Yes. Well done.”

“Well, I—”

“We’re a team. A successful team works together,
each and every
member
, every millimetre of the way.”

“I know that.”

He drove away, leaving Rosy musing over whether she’d received membership to an exclusive club, or a dire warning of clear and present danger.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Rosy had a million things to do. First, Lydia needed calming. She’d arrived in a state, with a builder, Pietro, not long after the Terry Craig person and Marco’s doctor had departed.

“Pietro is on Christmas break, but he came to inspect the damage. If Diana Dallariva could see that house,” Lydia wailed, “she would turn in her grave! The water has destroyed the staircase, damaged the walls. The roof is ruined, and there’s something dead, rotting in the hallway—” She pressed a tissue to her mouth. “Pietro says it’s a boar, wounded by a bad shot. It must have got through the hole in the wall, seeking shelter.”

“Poor thing.” Rosy guided Lydia to a chair and sat her down, handing over a fresh tissue. She switched on the coffee machine and sliced what Marco and Terry had left of the vanilla sponge. “Can the house be repaired?”

Pietro shook his head. “Not now, this close to Christmas. All I can do is get a team to install tarpaulins over the holes in the roof and walls. Then we’ll take a look in the New Year.”

“That means Marco won’t be able to go home anytime soon.”

“Go home?” Lydia frowned up at Rosy. “Where will he stay when he’s out of hospital?”

Rosy turned her back to Pietro and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s not in hospital, he’s here.”

“He’s
here
? Why doesn’t somebody tell me these things?”

“Shhh.” Rosy poured coffee and offered cake. “He doesn’t want people to know where he is.”

“If Mr. Marco agrees,” Pietro went on, “I’ll see to it today. That way the house won’t be damaged further.”

“Do it,” Rosy said. “The quicker the better.”

“Well, I’m not surprised you make a living out of cake,” Lydia, still cross, nevertheless had the grace to smile after the first bite. “And, by the way, what happened to that window? Storm damage?”

“In a way. I’ll ask Pietro to fix it.”

Coffee finished, Rosy urged Lydia out of the room. “Carry on with the rest of the house. I’ll do the kitchen.”

Lydia went, Rosy shut the door, and started on the aftermath of breakfast and baking. She gathered plates, unpacked clean stuff from the dishwasher, put it away, and was reloading when Lydia came back into the room.

“What’s going on? You argue with the man, break into his property, knock him off his motorbike, and now he is in your bed?”

“Um, it’s not
quite
like that—”

“Looks like it to me. He’s in your bed! Why is he in your bed? Why not Frederick’s room, or one of the others?”

“I don’t really know.” Rosy shrugged. “He arrived, walked up the stairs, made straight for my room and got into bed. That’s where he’s been ever since.”

Lydia fixed her to the spot with an extremely beady eye.

Rosy flushed. “Lydia, no. Look at him for God’s sake. He can’t even do the smallest thing for himself. How on earth do you think he could…I mean, it’s just a temporary arrangement,” she ended, lamely, aware that her face was flaming and that Lydia glared, relentless, across the kitchen table. She took a deep breath. “Marco is staying here because his house is damaged. He’ll be going home as soon as possible.”

“Hmh. Don’t be so sure. He looks pretty well installed to me.” Her face softened and she smiled. “He’s a good man, Rosy, deep down.”

“I believe you.”

“He said things about you.”

Rosy, lowering a mixing bowl into the dishwasher, almost dropped it. “What things?”

“Nice things, like how much he appreciated being spoilt rotten by the beautiful Miss Hamilton.”

“I see.”

“To me, it’s fairly obvious that—” Lydia stopped, distracted by a sound at the back door, like a large dog scratching to get in.

“What’s that?” Rosy listened, head tilted.

“The cat. He loves the fire. He smells it and comes running.”

Rosy cracked open the back door, but there was nothing there, just a fresh set of fat paw prints in the snow.

“Pietro and I saw him on the driveway on the way in. He’s filthy and matted, probably jumping with fleas, and he’s bound to have worms. I won’t have him in the house.” Lydia narrowed her eyes and peered through the kitchen window into the garden.

“I’m responsible for him. I must get hold of him and sort him out.” Rosy shivered on the doorstep and tried the whistle, directing it to the hedge that separated the frozen vegetable garden from the driveway. The leaves shuddered, shaking snow to the ground. A terracotta nose appeared, followed by two enormous pale green eyes—somehow familiar—and a pair of lofty, tufted ears.

Rosy dashed to the fridge, took out a piece of fillet steak and cut off a small slice. She went back outside, crouched on the step and waggled the meat at the hedge.

Lydia crossed herself and folded her arms, her mouth pinched in disapproval. “My forefathers survived terrible deprivation in northern Italy during the war. What they would have to say about this, I cannot imagine. God rest their souls.”

“Just this once,” Rosy said. “We need to get him inside.”

It took less than a minute for the beast to emerge, and then he sat on the wet gravel of the kitchen courtyard, taking his time.

“He’s coming,” Rosy whispered.

“Good. Because we’re freezing to death with the door open.”

Too hungry to be snobbish,
Il Capitano
gave up, but gradually and with style. He rose to his paws, stretched, paused to stare at them, and sailed toward the titbit like a majestic ship in full, furry sail. Rosy dropped the meat on the floor the second he stepped into the kitchen. He sniffed fastidiously and began to eat.

Lydia closed the door as not to startle him and Rosy fetched the cat basket she had seen in the laundry room cupboard. She leaned over him, talking in soothing tones, telling him not to worry, hoping he hadn’t spotted the basket.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” she asked Lydia.

“Yes. I absolutely insist. It’s him or me.”

That made it easy then. As
Il Capitano
nibbled his last morsel, Rosy put her arms around his waist and heaved. Before he had time to complain, he was in the basket, lid down and fastened. He let rip with a desperate, heart-rending yowl.

“Quick, get him out of here before Marco hears.” Lydia re-opened the back door and shooed her out.

Rosy lugged the basket to the car and put it on the back seat. She shut the door, got into the drivers’ seat and drove off, closing her ears to the loud, doomed wails of the mighty
Il Capitano
.

Two hours later, she returned to find Lydia waiting at the door. “How did it go?” she asked. “Was it awful?”

“Chaos. I waited while he was being done.”

“
Done?
” Lydia clutched her heart with both hands.

“Not
done
like that. Apparently he’s already been neutered, so I can’t be blamed.” Rosy reached into the back seat and opened the basket.
Il Capitano
evacuated like a fluffy, fragrant comet, remarkably fast for his bulk, shot through the front door, deftly sidestepped
Lydia, and disappeared into the house, tummy low to the ground.

“Now he’s in the house.” Lydia watched him go, hands on hips.

“Well, yes.” Rosy passed her the basket and locked the car. “I think that’s something we might just have to live with.”

It wasn’t long before they were discovered.

“
Rosamaria!
” Marco roared. Rosy, drinking tea at the kitchen table and trying to make sense of the French newspaper, would have heard him from a village two hilltops away.

“I must go.” Lydia gathered her bag and cardigan. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“If I’m still alive.”

***

“Must you yell, Marco?” Rosy asked, standing in the bedroom doorway.

“What the hell is this?”

She walked into the room.
Il Capitano
reclined in Marco’s right armpit, entirely undisturbed by the tirade, his fur flowing in dark golden ripples across the bed. “It looks like a petulant adult man and an obscenely fat cat, to me. Would you like me to go down on my knees and peel grapes for the both of you?”

“Not funny. What have you done to him?”

“I took him to be groomed—”

“
What.
Did they put him in water? Because he wouldn’t have liked that!”

“They did what was necessary. He was filthy and matted. Before that, I took him to the vet to have shots and be dipped, and de-wormed.”

“That’s undignified.”

“I’ll say. But not as undignified as having fleas and worms in your bed.”

Marco lowered his head to nuzzle the cat’s ear tufts. “It’s all right, kitty,” he murmured. “Everything’s all right now, kitty kitty.”

Rosy swallowed a laugh, not altogether successfully.
Il Capitano
rolled onto his back and hitched his folded paws up to his chest. He gave her a filthy look and dozed off.

“Would you like to join us?” Marco asked, a sparkle in his eye.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Are you avoiding me, Rosemary?”

“No.” She looked away, annoyed at the flush on her cheeks. “I have a lot to do. It’s Christmas in two days. I’m needed in the kitchen.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re also busy. Sleeping, eating, seeing Terry, and your doctor. What a nice man. He—”

“He said you saved my life.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really. I would have died otherwise.”

“Don’t say that!” Rosy squeezed her eyes shut and covered her face with her hands. “Don’t.”

“Look at me, Rosemary.”

She did.

“Thank you for saving me.”

She shook her head.

Marco spoke into the silence. “Relax. What’s the matter?”

She hesitated, and they both spoke at once.

“About last night…” she said.

“If it’s about last night,” he said.

“I apologize,” she went on. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be.” He eased his shoulder to make the cat more comfortable. “I’m the one who’s embarrassed, losing control and terrifying you. I’m a grown man for God’s sake, and I feel foolish about what I did.”

“I meant more…about the way I stayed with you. I don’t know why I did that, and I’m sorry. It was uncalled for and a little, um, desperate. I’m old enough to know better.”

The blue sizzle of his eyes overheated her face and neck. “I was the desperate one, so don’t be sorry.”

“I didn’t think.”

“You acted on instinct.”

She changed the subject. “Can I get you anything?”

“Terry called. He said you wouldn’t let him take me to Verbier.”

“He said that?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Because you’re a twenty-four-seven nuisance, and it would be better for you, and mostly him, if you stayed here.”

“Is that it?”

“Sure.” She turned to go. “Call me if you need anything.” She left the room, pressing cool hands to hot cheeks.