The Untouchable (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Rosy was astounded by the treasure trove hidden in the concrete bunker off the D42, behind heavy-duty security fencing and a barrage of coded doors and locks. There were inlaid wardrobes, huge dismantled
beds, carved cabinets, antique bookcases, chests of drawers and upright crates where splendid curtains hung on rails, entirely un-creased. There was a magnificent dining room table and a collection of unmatched, valuable dining chairs, and dozens of containers, filled with books, fine linen, china, cutlery and glassware, all opened for inspection by a deferential man in a white coat, who withdrew and left them alone to peruse and examine.

“I imagine,” Rosy said, “this is what Aladdin’s cave must look like, only neater.”

Marco smiled. “Let me show you something.”

She followed him across the concrete floor between containers.

“Here.” He stopped in front of a walk-in safe with a bright green door. “The code is D-I-A-N-A.”

Rosy tapped in the letters and the door sprang open, releasing the smell of old oil paint. “Oh, wow,” she whispered.

“Some of the art that used to hang in the house. Have a look at that one.” He tilted his head toward a six-foot panel clothed in blankets.

Rosy unwrapped it under the hum of strip lighting and Marco’s watchful eye. The portrait took her breath away. Rising from the tumbled blankets around her feet, rose a life-sized, beautiful, dark-haired woman in a diaphanous, blue and green evening dress. Her left hand rested on her chest, a large, oval sapphire glittering on her long, elegant ring finger. Similar, brilliant gemstones dangled from her ears. Drawn by her wide, luminous, stunning blue eyes, Rosy couldn’t look away.

“This,” she said, with her back to Marco, “must be your mother, because I would know those incredible eyes anywhere.”

“Yes. This is Diana.”

“How old was she when this was painted?”

“Thirty-six. A month before she was diagnosed with cancer. It was quick and deadly. She lasted only a few months.”

“I’m so sorry.”

In the silence that followed, Rosy marvelled at the serene
woman smiling from the canvas. But, God, how awful. She, herself, would be thirty-six in two years. Imagine your life being over at thirty-six? Cold goosebumps prickled her arms.

“Where did the painting hang in the house?”

“It never did. My father could never bear to put it up. Now...” His words trailed.

Rosy turned to look at him. “Now, what?”

“He prefers women, girls, less than half his age.”

“I see.”

“Really?” Marco laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “Most of them try to get off with
me. It’s sick.”

“Shh. Don’t.”

“It’s true!”

Rosy pointed at the painting. “But don’t say it in front of her. It doesn’t seem right. And it’s not fair she’s locked away here. She should be hanging in the most prominent place in your house. Over the stairs or above the mantel in the salon.”

“I’m not sure—”

“That way, Leo will see her every day. When he comes in from a swim, or comes home from school, she’ll always be there. Take her home, Marco.”

Marco looked at Rosy, evaluating something.

“I told you we should have come in my Range Rover,” he said, after a while, “instead of that matchbox Peugeot you insist on driving.”

“You wanted me to drive you in your Ferrari.”

“Only because you refused the Aston Martin, and the Jaguar.”

“It’s ridiculous that one man has so many cars!”

“And eight motorbikes.”

“Seven. You crashed one, remember?”

“I replaced it.”

“
Honestly?
” She shook her head, incredulous.

“What sort of car do you drive in London, Rosemary? No, let me guess. A Mini. Is that it?”

“Don’t be silly. I can’t afford a Mini—” She stopped talking. She
could
afford a Mini now. She could afford anything. “I don’t have a car in London. It’s totally unnecessary, the way I live and work. Although we do have a little van for deliveries.”

“Does it have little pictures of yummy cakes on the sides?” He grinned.

“Of course.”

His smiling eyes, identical to the ones in the painting, rested on her face. “Thanks for coming with me today,” he said. “It means a lot.”

“Everything’s so beautiful. Promise me you won’t get rid of anything. And promise you’ll fetch this portrait as soon as your house has been repaired.”

“Promise.”

Rosy re-wrapped the painting. They left the building and went out into the car park. She put Marco in the car, got into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. Her phone beeped.

“Message,” she said. “I’d better check in case it’s our babysitters.” She got the phone out of her bag and called up the message. Someone had rung while she’d been ensconced in the storage bunker, out of signal range, and the call had gone to voicemail.

“Hi Rosy, Zavi here. Just to say I’ll pick you up at eight this evening, as discussed. I’m looking forward to seeing you. Call me if there’s a problem. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll see you at eight.” She deleted the message and put the phone on the console.

“Everything okay?” Marco asked.

“Everything okay.”

“Who was it?”

Rosy took a moment to answer. “A friend.”

Aware Marco was looking at her, she kept her eyes ahead, drove out of the car park and onto the main road. Why, why had she said that? Why hadn’t she said it was Zavi, and that he’d invited her to dinner? Now, when Marco found out, he would think she was trying to hide something, which she wasn’t, was she? Even now she could make a casual remark. “Actually, it was Zavi,” she could say. “We’re having dinner tonight.”

She didn’t. Marco started talking about an upcoming trip to Canada, and the moment passed.

Anyway, Marco would be finished after this outing. The physical effort of the day’s activity would exhaust
him, and he’d been emotional too. He’d most likely go to bed early and be asleep before Zavi arrived. She was right. Minutes after they got home, he went upstairs to rest.

But she was also wrong. Coming down the stairs at five minutes to eight, she found Marco prowling the hall.

“I thought you’d gone to bed.” Rosy paused on
the bottom step.

“I got up again.”

“Um, I’m having dinner with Zavi tonight.”

“I know,” he growled. “I’ve just spoken to him on the phone. He’s on his way.”

“That’s nice of you, to come and say hello.” She walked through the hall to pick up her coat, where she’d left it draped over a chair, surely imagining the menacing
shadow in his eyes, tracking her every move.

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “You could say that.”

***

Rosemary, stunning in a short, red silk dress with a plunging back, knocked the breath from his body. His hungry eyes fell on her spectacular legs, those elegant black stilettos, and a small, black evening bag. Small, but big enough for a toothbrush.

“You look nice,” he said. The understatement of the last five millennia.

“Thank you,” she smiled, avoiding his eyes.

“You’re wearing my racing colours. Red and black.”

“So I am. Do you think it’s a bit much?”

Marco kept his voice neutral. “Not for me.”

Her face unreadable, she went back upstairs, returning five minutes later in the black dress she’d worn on Christmas day. Was it something he’d said?

A car pulled up outside. “Should I go?” Rosy asked. “Then he doesn’t have to get out of the car.”

Marco swallowed. “He’s fast.”

The doorbell rang before Rosy could open the door.

“Hey, Marco, how are things?” Zavi came into the hall, flashed him a smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Zavi turned his eyes to Rosy. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

Zavi raised dark eyebrows. “Shall we go?”

Marco, sick, couldn’t take his eyes off Rosemary’s face, radiant again, but not for him. Her lips, red tonight, smiled at Zavi. Her eyes sparkled for him. Marco followed them outside, joined by Ricky who had, a moment earlier, returned from taking Mel to Cannes. He leaped out of the Peugeot and opened the passenger door of Zavi’s car with a flourish. Rosemary slid into the front seat, her dress slipping up her gorgeous thighs. Marco stood in the doorway in the cold, forcing himself to watch, his heart heavy.

She waved, her glossy mouth blowing a kiss through the car window. It was a small crumb of comfort and he felt absurdly pleased. Zavi started the engine and she rolled down the window.

“
Ciao
,” Marco called, forcing himself to add, “Enjoy yourselves.” But not too much, he begged, with his eyes.

“Bye,” Rosemary called back. “See you tomorrow!”

Tomorrow! The word stung like a slap in the face. Did that mean she wasn’t coming home tonight? His throat constricted. Unable to wave, he watched the car move off through the gates, and turned to go inside. Ricky followed, closing the front door.

“Pizzas and beer and Bruce Willis? What d’you say, Marco?”

“I say great, Ricky, thanks.”

Leo woke promptly at ten for his feed. Ricky changed, fed and winded him, and settled him in his crib. Marco pleaded tiredness and asked Ricky to help him to bed. “And no painkillers or sleeping pills tonight,” he said. “I need to stop those.”

“Are you sure? There’s no need to do that.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay.” Ricky shrugged, and they went upstairs.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Well past midnight, Marco lay on his back staring into the dark. What the hell right did Zavi have asking Rosemary out right under his nose? The thought of them together chilled his blood and made his head ache. But, be reasonable
—
Zavi was his best friend, rebuilding his life after a horrendous accident. He’d plucked up courage to ask Rosemary on a date and instead of feeling joy on his behalf, Marco felt aggrieved. He hated himself for being jealous
—
yes, that was it,
jealous
. That aside, one fact was crystal clear. If he, Marco, wanted Rosemary, really wanted her, then he had to up his game. That’s if it wasn’t too late.

After an hour of restlessness, deeply frustrated, he kicked off the bedding and got up. He left the room and
walked along the dark passage to Rosy’s room, pushing open the door with his shoulder, and turning on the light. He paused. He’d never been in here, a handsome, masculine bedroom, simply furnished with solid antiques. A broad armchair, upholstered in a type of stripy rug, stood at the foot of the bed, turned toward the door. He walked over to the  bed and sat down on it, aware of the steady thud of his heart in the silence. The soft freshness of her perfume whispered around him, and, for a moment, he felt better.

She wouldn’t bring Zavi back here
—
he wouldn’t be able to get up the stairs
—
but there was nothing stopping her going back to his place, a romantic penthouse eyrie with a view over the Mediterranean and all the lights of Monte Carlo. Dejection soaked through him. What if she had chosen Zavi over him? She could be sleeping with him right now, and maybe it wasn’t the first time. Who knows how much time they’d spent together while he’d been in hospital? Zavi had confided that he hadn’t had a sexual relationship for years, since his accident, since Eleni had dumped him once he was out of rehab. He claimed he needed to meet an understanding woman who could see past his disability. Well, Rosemary was that type of woman. Marco had seen the way they looked at each other, the way she touched him. He stood up, bitter envy searing a track through his better judgement. Marco had kissed her and, all the while, she’d been screwing Zavi.

Fuck.

He roamed the room, peering at her things, unable to face the fact that she wasn’t coming home. Well, stuff that, he would stay here, right here in her room, until she did. He would stay here all bloody night, and longer, if he had to. An uncharacteristic wave of self-pity knocked him into the armchair.

“Sad, screwed-up bastard,” he muttered. Ridiculously emotional, hating himself, he rested his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes, exhausted.

Something woke him. He sat up with a start and listened. Someone, soft-footed, had come up the stairs and was making their way along the passage to this room.

***

Rosy tossed her shoes onto the rug, threw her bag on the bed and reached around to her lower back to undo her dress, before she saw him. “
God
, Marco! What are you doing in my room? You gave me heart failure!”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“You.”

“I don’t understand. Why—”