The Untouchable (20 page)

“Where did he take you?”

“Zavi?”

“Where did he take you?”

Rosy sat on the edge of the bed, her heart racing. Marco’s eyes, half shadowed, held a dangerous glitter. “Is something wrong?”

“Where?”

“We, um, went to a one-starred Michelin restaurant in the old walls of the town. It’s called
Les Vieux Murs
and it’s lovely, just perfect. Do you know it? Have you—”

“He picked you up at eight. It’s past midnight. What took you so long?”

“We had dinner. The time flew. There was so much to talk about—”

“What did you talk about?”

She frowned. “Everything.” She switched on the bedside lamp.

“Do you like him?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Do you love him?”

“Marco? What’s got into you?”

“Do you?”

She hesitated. “It wouldn’t matter if I did, because he’s got someone.”

“He
has
?”

“Eleni, his ex, is no longer his ex. They’re giving it another go.”

“They are? Why the hell doesn’t he tell me this stuff?”

“It only just happened. Anyway, the food was amazing. I had langoustine consommé and Zavi had a little tower of roasted winter veg, then we both had turbot and shared a pudding. Apple Charlotte with pears and chestnuts and caramel sauce. All yummy.”

“And you talked about everything? What else did I miss?”

“Well, that’s not quite true. We talked mainly about you.”

“Me?”

“You. I got the feeling Zavi wanted to be quite sure I was worthy of your friendship.”

Marco’s eyes, soft, rested on hers. “You are. Come to bed with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like your mood.”

“And if I changed my mood?”

“There’s something else.”

“What?” He stood up, and so did Rosy, moving back a step when he came close.

“I like you, Marco, I do, but...”

“But what?”

“I-I would find it difficult to go to bed, to have sex, with someone I didn’t love, someone who didn’t love me.”

He stood still in front of her, saying nothing, his eyes cautious. “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” she cleared the catch in her voice. “I am—I was—used to that. I like it that way. I like you Marco, I do, but once your arms are better, once you’ve recovered, you’ll go on with your real life and we...we probably won’t see each other much. We might never see each other again.”

His eyes stayed on her for a long moment, lost in shadow, and then he turned and left the room.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Rosy lay awake, determined not to cry herself to sleep. An evening in the relaxed, steady, reassuring company of Zavi had brought her back to herself. Marco’s penetrating eyes and demanding mood had de-stabilized her all over again. What did he want from her? Sex—was that it? Were the other tender exchanges lodged only in her imagination? Were they some form of complex approach to foreplay? Or, had she read too much into nothing?

Leo woke at two, hungry. “I can’t seem to get him to sleep,” she whispered to on-duty Ricky, who emerged from his room yawning. “I might as well give him his bottle.”

She fed Leo, changed him and held him, ages after he’d gone to sleep, fascinated always by his perfection. He was the most beautiful creature on earth. When she finally got to bed, she fell into a deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep, her heart filled with love.

“I’m sorry about last night,” she said to Marco, the next morning at breakfast. “I thought we were, you know, friends. Just friends.”

He stared at her across the table for a full five minutes while she drank coffee and looked everywhere except at him.

“Can I ask a favour?” he said, eventually.

“What?”

“Will you babysit this week for Leo?”

“Babysit? Why?”

“I have business in Bologna.”

“But how—”

“Zavi will drive me. Ricky will come along to look after me.”

Rosy put down her cup, centred it on the saucer. “Yes, of course. When will you be back?”

“After New Year. Zavi will take me to Milan for New Year. Ricky will come back here.”

“Who will look after you if Ricky’s not there?”

“Zavi.”

“A man who can’t use his legs looking after a man who can’t use his arms? That sounds like a laugh a minute.” Rosy forced a deliberate, light tone, but a note of resentment crept in. To her surprise, Marco laughed.

“I bet it is! Zavi’s four beautiful younger sisters will be on standby to assist.” He studied Rosy again, his eyes calculating, and then lost focus, smiling at some fond memory, no doubt. “Then, once the party’s over, I’ll be seeing my doctor in Milan for scans and
pray to God
sort out these effing things.” He held up his arms. “I’m sick of them.”

Beautiful. Younger. And there were four of them. Hmm. “I can imagine.” Zavi had told her about his gorgeous sisters. Would Rosy have been part of that festive, fashionable whirl if she’d had sex with Marco last night? Would he have taken her to Bologna, then Milan, then to his doctor’s appointment, needing her love and support?

She laughed.

“What?” Marco asked.

She shrugged. “My life. I can’t decide what to do with it. I don’t know what I want.”

“Don’t make it so complicated. Listen to your heart.”

“Is that what you do?”

His face changed. “So, will you do me the favour?”

“I’d love to.” What could be more fun? Lydia was away until after New Year, so she’d have darling Leo all to herself.

Zavi arrived before lunch to pick up Marco and Ricky.

“Who’s that?” Rosy stood on the step to say goodbye with Leo, a snug bundle in her arms, looking across the driveway at two men, dressed in heavy, outdoor clothing. They waited at the gate next to a black van with tinted windows.

“Your security guards,” Marco answered, behind her.

“I don’t need sec—”

“I prefer it.” He pushed past her and strode to Zavi’s car.

“Who works between Christmas and New Year?” she asked Ricky, who followed Marco outside.

“Rich people.” Ricky grinned. “And the people who work for them.”

Rosy watched them go. Didn’t Marco trust her? Did he fear for Leo’s safety? She closed the door, feeling guilty that the security men were outside in the cold. Later, when Leo was due for a nap, she tried to take him out for a walk in his pram, but the men stopped her, wagging their heads and their forefingers, inscrutable behind their aviators. Furious, she called Marco’s private phone. It went to voicemail and she spluttered her anger before the stupid woman had finished telling her how to re-record her message.

“I will not be a prisoner in my own house, Marco. I will not be subject to the...the
commands
of these two gorillas. I don’t even know what language they speak!”

He didn’t call back.

Having no other option, she spent the rest of the day inside. To be fair, the weather was bad. After a twenty-four hour thaw the temperature had dropped, leaving the day bitter, grey, and frozen solid. Probably not the best weather in which to take out a tiny baby. She passed the time feeding and changing Leo, gazing at him for a full hour after his two p.m. feed, while he gazed back thoughtfully, stretching his fingers. She towed him around the house in his pram while she sterilized bottles and did baby laundry. He certainly got through a heap of clothes in one day. After the six p.m. feed and his bath she tucked him into bed and went downstairs to watch television.

***

Early the next morning, before eight, while Rosy was still in her pyjamas the doorbell rang. Probably guard one reporting that guard two had frozen in the night. How could it be anyone else? No one could get in. She couldn’t even get out!

She opened the front door. “Yes?”

A man of average height, sixty-ish, with silver hair, stood on the doorstep. “I am Luciano Dallariva. I am here to see my grandson.”

Rosy pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Are you Marco’s father? Because he didn’t mention you were coming, and—”

“I apologise for that. And I apologise for the early call, but I have a plane to catch to Paris in a few hours.”

Rosy, uncertain, glanced past him to where the guards stood, talking to a third man, possibly the driver of the gunmetal Bentley on the drive.

“I can’t let you in. I don’t know you.”

Dallariva turned to the men on the drive. “Your guards work for me. My driver is the brother of the man on the right, the tall one. There is no need to worry.”

Rosy hesitated. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait. Please give me a minute.”

She shut the door and raced for her phone. Marco, as usual, was on voicemail. “Why have a phone?” she muttered, searching Zavi’s number.

“Let him in,” Zavi said, when Rosy had explained, and he’d stopped laughing. “It’s Marco’s dad all right, and he’ll be mad at having the door slammed in his face.”

Rosy dragged on a towelling robe while she re-opened the front door. “I’m sorry. I had to be sure.”

Dallariva, cold and terse, stepped inside with a curt nod. “Where is the child, please?”

Rosy took him into the kitchen where Leo lay in his pram, blue eyes wide open.

“Ah.” Dallariva removed his coat, placed a chair close to the pram, accepted Rosy’s offer of coffee and settled down to study his grandson. “You may go and get dressed now,
Signorina
.”

“No thank you,” she replied. No way would she leave Leo with this man. Yes, she trusted Zavi’s word, but Leo was hers for the moment and she wasn’t taking any risks.

Dallariva levelled an appraising look and turned his attention back to Leo. “He is a good-looking baby.”

“Like his father.”

“But not me. Marco’s height, his beauty, his brains, his blue eyes, all came from my wife, Diana. My contribution was purely biological.”

“I’ve seen a painting of her. She was beautiful.”

“Marco showed you that?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been working for him?”

“I don’t
work
for him. I recently inherited this house from my late father and that’s how I met Marco. He recovered here after his accident. We’re, um, friends.”

“So, Frederick Hamilton was your father?”

Rosy nodded. “Yes.”

“My wife and he were friends. She came to his dinner parties. I did not. Marco got on with him though.” He smiled. “Frederick was something of a Moto GP fan. Are you a fan, Miss Hamilton?”

“No. No, I think it’s crazy.”

“It shouldn’t work, you know, with Marco. He’s too big, too tall, too heavy for the sport, but he has done a lot better than I ever did.”

“You raced?” Rosy raised her eyebrows. It didn’t quite come together: this elegant, reserved gentleman and the brutal, fast and furious world of motorbike racing.

“Don’t sound so surprised. I, too, was a world champion in my day. Just the once, but world champion nevertheless.”

“I-I’m impressed.”

He waved away her compliment, concentrating on the baby. “I lived my life early, married late, had my children late, lost my wife early. This is how life goes, and it goes very fast.”

Unsure how to respond, Rosy said, “Well, Marco certainly got his talent from you.” Although, not his looks, this was certainly true. Marco looked nothing like the man who bent over Leo’s pram, claiming to be his grandfather.

“Marco is far more talented than I ever was. More focussed, more dedicated, absolutely committed to the exclusion of everything else. I worry he will miss the important things in life.” Dallariva stroked Leo’s cheek. “Perhaps this will change him. I wonder.”

Rosy thought of Marco, on a boys’ road trip to Bologna, imagined him celebrating New Year with Zavi’s lovely sisters in Milan, and wondered herself.

At nine, Dallariva stood to leave.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked, putting on his coat in the hallway.

“Yes, please. Two things actually. I’d like to be able to take Leo out.”

“Where?”

“For a walk, whenever I choose, or, for example, tomorrow, when it’s market day in Saint Michel. I’d like to take him there if the sun appears.

“Very well. What else?”

“I’d like a secure telephone line. I’m afraid to use my mobile. I’m worried people are listening.” She opened the front door. To illustrate her point, a white truck with a small satellite dish on the roof cruised past the gate.

Dallariva shook his head. “News is slow between Christmas and New Year. I wonder if they will follow me to Paris.” They shook hands. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this for Marco.”

“It’s a pleasure,” she replied, truthfully, because she would be hard-pressed to think of anything else she’d rather be doing.