The Untouchable (24 page)

Chapter Forty-Four

“We’ll grab an early lunch here.” Valerie Preston, Marco’s PA, entered the brass-trimmed revolving door of the Hotel Imperiale on the Via Veneto
in Rome, acknowledging the doorman with the flap of a hand. She sprang across the marble foyer to the bank of lifts. “There’s a terrace on the top floor where at least I can have a fag. Do you smoke, Rosy?”

“No.” Rosy hurried behind her, desperate to be out of the throng of the elegantly dressed, people-watching from yellow silk sofas in the foyer bar. When Marco had told her on the phone that Valerie would meet her at Fiumicino Airport and take her to the racetrack, she hadn’t expected a major detour for lunch at one of the world’s most luxurious hotels. She made a mental note to be better dressed for the unexpected.

“Good. One less thing for me to worry about.” The lift arrived. Valerie jabbed the topmost button and dug in her bag for cigarettes. “Have you spoken to Marco today?”

“He called early this morning.”

“I might as well tell you he took a helluva fall this morning in practice. Chucked it down the road and crashed through the gravel trap like a rag doll in a washing machine. Wrote off the bike.”

Rosy closed her eyes. “Is he all right?”

“Bruised. Furious. Possibly better not to mention it.”

Rosy opened her eyes, breathing out a slow breath. “I’ll try not to.”

“Good girl.” She stuck a cigarette in her mouth and then took it out again, leaving scarlet lipstick on the filter. “Disgusting habit. Marco smokes now and again. It’s never a good sign. And when they’re too old to race, like my old man, they smoke like chimneys and drink for bloody Africa.”

“Your husband raced?”

“Yup. Poor bastard can’t get out of bed these days without a handful of painkillers an hour before he has to move. He broke fifty-three bones in his body during his career. He’s full of metal plates, got terrible arthritis. I followed him everywhere, living in his trailer, until the kids arrived, then I stayed home and moaned. It’s like having a husband in the army, only worse. Nowadays, he’s the one who stays at home and moans while I travel. I earn more bloody money than he ever did I’ll tell you that much, and that pisses him off more than anything. ”

“Oh dear,” Rosy pulled a face, “that sounds, um, awkward.”

The lift doors opened. Another foyer, and Valerie took off across it. Australian, veteran sun worshipper and chain smoker, she looked fifty and walked, fast, with the spry gait of a tennis player, ash-blonde head forward, ready, bouncing on her five-inch rope-soled wedges, muscular brown arms and legs bare under a black, sleeveless shift-dress, big hoop earrings swinging.

Cigarette between her fingers, lighter clasped, she pointed to a set of double doors. “Toilets, if you want to freshen up. Meet you in the restaurant in ten. Walk through to the terrace.”

In the pale turquoise luxury of the ladies powder room, Rosy dropped her bag on a little velvet footstool and regarded herself in the mirror, puffing out her cheeks. She didn’t need the toilet but it was good to escape. One hour with Valerie had left her frazzled. She washed her hands, brushed her hair and put on lipstick, taking her time, her head reeling with a thousand instructions.

Don’t show affection in public, don’t show your emotions, don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, don’t talk about Marco, never, never talk about Leo, don’t talk about Marco’s teammate or the crew, or the bikes, or the gear, don’t attract attention to yourself, don’t talk to journalists, always wear sunglasses, smile and move on. Don’t mistake curiosity for friendship, don’t give advice, keep your opinion to yourself, be careful who you trust, never confide, stay away from the garage, don’t make plans or appointments for Marco without consulting me first. Don’t, don’t, don’t
—
the list went on and on and on.

“Marco is different people.” Valerie held up three brown fingers. “One, he’s a professional. The job comes first. Two is the man on the track, dark and aggressive. Three is the private Marco. The one who went into emotional shutdown a year ago when his marriage failed. That’s Fort Knox, but I guess you’ve had a peep in or you wouldn’t be here. As I say, three different people. Do yourself a favour. Make a supreme effort to live with them all.”

“I-I hope I can,” Rosy had replied, daunted, wondering where Leo fitted in.

“Aw, you’ll be okay. As long as you’re tough. Be tough, be calm, be strong.”

Rosy felt anything but, rather like she might crumble to nothing any minute. Please God she hadn’t made a mistake coming here, to Rome, to the opening race of the season, to join Marco for a six-week spell, to see if they could hack it as a couple. Fiona had said six weeks was nothing, not even the absolute minimum, to give the relationship a fair chance. In a rare email her own mother, shark-fishing in Zanzibar, suggested twelve. Valerie had said she’d love it or hate it in the first six minutes, never mind weeks.

“And you’ll only see him for about one week of that once you’ve added up the time you spend together,” she added, not inspiring confidence.

Oh well. Too late to turn back. She didn’t have to stick it for six weeks if it was crap, did she? Would it be the end of the world if it didn’t work out?

Would it?

Rosy left the powder room at a few minutes to twelve and walked across cream marble to the dining room. Uncertain, she hovered at the deserted front desk, and then walked on, her shoes soundless on thick carpet. The wide lobby gave way to a dazzling dining room, flooded with golden light that took her breath away. Crystal goblets and silver cutlery gleamed on each thick, white tablecloth. Yellow roses offset the pale yellow china, crested and rimmed with gold. She looked around for Valerie.

Stepping onto the terrace, she paused beneath a cream awning. A man leaned on the balustrade, admiring the view. Beyond him, she glimpsed domes, turrets and towers in the warm, pink haze of early spring. Drawn by the view she walked closer, and gasped as the luminous glory of Rome rolled out beneath her.

“Hello.”

Startled, she glanced across her right shoulder, at first only seeing a man in dark jeans, white shirt and jacket. She blinked against the light.

“Marco?”

He laughed, and came to her, arms open wide. “Surprise!”

He hugged her so hard it hurt, and then he held her face and kissed her.

“Where’s Valerie?” Rosy asked, when they came up for air.

“Gone back to the race track. Did she give you hell?”

“She said you fell this morning. Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing.” He kissed her again, but Rosy, frowning, turned away, glancing over her shoulder.

Don’t show your affection in public
.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here. Valerie said—”

“Don’t listen to what she says! Anyway, there’s no one here.”

He wasn’t entirely right because, on cue, the white-gloved sommelier arrived with two glasses of champagne and a plate of tiny, exquisite sandwiches on a silver tray.

“
Signor
Dallariva.
Signorina
,” he said, with a brief bow. He placed the tray on a nearby server and left.

“Look,” Marco said, when they were alone, putting an arm around her. “Look at the view. Isn’t it beautiful? You know, I am from the north, but today wish I was Roman.” He smiled down at her and at the precise second their eyes met, the noon bells rang out from the glittering domes and spires below. Hundreds and hundreds of bells, maybe a thousand bells rolled their echoing music across the city.

“What a beautiful sound,” Rosy said. “Did you organise these glorious bells for me?”

“Sadly, no, but I did organise something else.” He fed her a sandwich, a heavenly combination of tissue-paper thin prosciutto and a smudge of fig preserve, and picked up the glasses of champagne. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

He led her to the end of the terrace, to the corner of the building, and through an archway in a trellis of early white roses. A private table for two, laid in the same fashion as those indoors, stood beneath a cream parasol, a graceful stone fountain to one side and the dazzling vista of Rome on the other.

The head waiter appeared, whipped back Rosy’s chair, settled her in it, and unveiled a vast table napkin.

“I ordered for you,” Marco said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Did she imagine the shadow in his eyes? And what was it? Exhaustion? Pain? A mixture of disappointment and anger? Her? She looked down, folding her napkin into a triangle and placing it on her lap so all points hung equally, smoothing it with her hands, over and over.

“Rosemary?”

She lifted her head and smiled into his eyes, determined. “Of course I don’t mind. How lovely. Thank you.”

Why would she mind? The moment his hands had touched her body, the second his lips rested on hers, she knew she would trust him with anything. This was where she was meant to be. Surely, with a beginning like this, this stunning effort from Marco, everything would be wonderful.

How could things not be perfect?

Chapter Forty-Five

Marco punched a code into a keypad on the door of an impressive black and red motorhome, emblazoned with the giant number
73
. “Welcome, Rosemary.” He showed her inside, shut the door and locked it. “This is...this is...”

“Beige,” Rosy said, and they both laughed.

Marco stuck a hand in his hair. “Yes, beige. I bought it like this.”

So, the space Marco called home for most of the year. Several roomy sections ran one into the other: a kitchen area with panelled cupboard doors and granite tops, a luxurious sitting area with armchairs and lamps, and soft leather sofas facing each other over a glass-topped coffee table, a dining area with upholstered chairs and a round table, a bathroom that would have done the Hotel Imperiale in Rome proud, and, most private of all, the bedroom containing the biggest bed Rosy had ever seen. All beige. She stopped in the doorway.

How many women—

“You are my first guest,” he said, reading her mind. “This is a new motorhome. All yours. Do whatever you like to the beige.”

She hugged him.

“Ow.” He held her face in both hands, kissing her mouth.

“Ow?”

“My ribs.”

“Your—”

“Shhhh.” He let her go, laying a finger on her lips.

“But…”

“I have a meeting. I will be gone an hour. Make yourself at home. Valerie has unpacked for you, so all you have to do is relax. There’s wine in the fridge.”

“She did what? Why did she do that?”

He hesitated. “It’s for security.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.”

She frowned. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“So why?”

“
Cara
, please just accept. It’s nothing. Everyone is subjected to checks. I love you and I know you, but we are part of a team while we are racing. Everyone must be happy. And now I am late. I must go.
Ciao
.”

He kissed her on the forehead and went, leaving her alone in beige silence, confused.

***

Valerie had done her job well. Rosy, unsettled, opened the bedroom cupboards to find the contents of her suitcase folded away and hung in storage space far too large. She looked in Marco’s cupboards. He didn’t have much either, apart from a few pairs of jeans, shorts and t-shirts, six clean shirts in laundry bags, one tailored dark suit, a few pairs of boots and shoes and a drawer of socks and boxers. The jacket he’d worn today lay on the bed. She hung it up and went into the bathroom.

Marco didn’t go for cologne or hair products. His toiletries were basic, merely the essentials. Hers had been unloaded into the mirrored cupboard over one of the basins, the one Marco didn’t use. One shelf for cleanser, moisturiser and body lotion, one for cosmetics, one for shampoo and conditioner, nail varnish and her single bottle of perfume sharing
—
all looking rather sparse.

Rosy wandered into the sitting room. She hadn’t brought many clothes, but encouraged by Fi and Marco, she’d brought the entire contents of her work desk, including desktop and laptop and two large suitcases filled with all things cake
—
from the fundamental to the indispensable, from plain, strong, bread flour to her favourite
macaron
piping gun. What had Valerie done with those?

In the kitchen area, Rosy found everything: her office stuff in the cupboard that opened out into a desk and work surface, and all her ingredients and equipment stacked in two of the numerous cupboards. The other cupboards were empty apart from one, filled with food supplements. She inspected the oven
—
large, top-of-the-range, never used. Ditto the microwave. The double door fridge contained mostly
mineral water and energy drinks, and the freezer was empty.

Where to start? She spotted an iPod dock. Music would help. She got her phone out of her bag, plugged it in and chose one of the Red Velvet playlists. Blinking, not thinking too hard about what it might be like, right now, in Red Velvet’s kitchen, she took stock of her surroundings. She stood in a compact, brilliantly designed space that she could—would—make her own, and no time like the present. She’d bake a trademark red velvet cake and layer it with black icing ‒ create a Dallariva Racing Team cake, but she’d start with a batch of chocolate mousse brownies, to test the oven. And, she’d revel in the fabulous fact that she was in Italy! Though
that
was hard to imagine shut away in a controlled-environment bubble. Where were the windows anyway? She leaned closer to a large rectangle of tinted glass above the sink and felt around the edges. Ah, here was something: on and off buttons, by the looks. She pressed the green one. It seemed safer than the red, but nothing happened. So, she prodded the red one with care and the window slid up, letting in a gush of mild air, revealing motorhomes, and trailers, parked in neat rows on dusty grass. What a circus, with all these brightly coloured vehicles, housing racing families down the generations. The trucks weren’t the everyday lorries you saw up and down the motorways of Europe. Streamlined and glossy, painted like racing cars with a 3D finish, some were silver-grey, others white, a few bright red. Beyond them, over the track, black clouds gathered in the sunset sky, rumbling a warning, and the tang of burning rubber and high octane fuel hung in the air like a challenge.

This was no circus.

“
Non, Signorina
.
Sicurezza
.”

She leaned out. Below, in the late afternoon sunshine, hands on hips, stood an angry young man, a security guard. He frowned, pointed, glared, waved his arms and scolded. Rosy was pretty sure what
chiudi la finestra
meant, knew exactly what
non
meant, but leaned further out of the window and said, “Thank you, but I don’t speak Italian,” and then withdrew to the far end of the kitchen to start organizing the cupboards and drawers the way she wanted them.

No way was she living life shut in a truck!

***

“Coo-ee! Hello, knock knock.”

Rosy stuck her head out of the window
—
a new one she had found over the granite-slab of the preparation area, a perfect surface for rolling pastry. Although he was an hour late, and it was well past seven, that didn’t sound like Marco. “Yes?”

“I am Hans.”

A young man, not angry this time, his arms full of black and red motorcycle leathers looked up at her.

“Who are you, Hans?”

“Hans Kirkman. DRT. Dallariva Racing Team. I’m new.”

“Well hello, Hans. I’m also new. I’m Rosy.”

“I know. I’m Marco’s teammate. People in the paddock have reported smells of chocolate to our garage. Marco said it was probably you. I came to see if it was true.”

“You’d better come in then.”

She opened the door and Hans bounded up the steps.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “Thirsty?”

He grinned. “Always.”

Rosy smiled back. With his white-blond hair, red cheeks and pale blue eyes he should be wearing clogs and planting tulips, not racing a motorbike. He couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

“Tea, coffee, glass of wine?” she asked.

“Do you have beer?”

He dumped his leathers on a chair and followed her to the kitchen. She checked the fridge, hoping he was of legal drinking age. There was one beer, very small, lonely among the packs of mineral water.

“Are you drinking something?” he asked.

“Sure.” Rosy opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. She held it up, touched it to Hans’s bottle and sipped. Sublime! Definitely expensive. Please God Marco hadn’t been keeping it for a special occasion. She put down the glass and got a knife out of a drawer to cut the brownies.

“You’re all over YouTube,” Hans said.

“I am?” Rosy looked up, brownie poised between cooling rack and plate. “How?”

“Hanging out the window and telling the security guard you don’t speak Italian.”

Rosy lowered the brownie onto the plate and handed it to Hans with a fork. “Someone filmed me doing that? Who?”

“Some guy. Security kicked him off the paddock but didn’t delete the footage.”

“I can’t think of anything more ridiculous. Who would want to see anything like that?”

“Keep the windows closed, or you’ll have camera lenses poking in here all day long. Marco’s fans, especially the females, like to keep close tabs—”

“Kirkman! What are you doing?”

Rosy jumped, spilling her wine. She hadn’t heard Marco come in.

“I came to introduce myself and,” Hans held up his plate, “I got lucky.”

“Cheeky bastard.” Marco looked at him under his brows, half smiling.

“Would you like a drink, Marco?” Rosy opened a cupboard to look for another glass. “Hans has the last beer, but there’s wine.”

“I have more beer in my van,” Hans said. “Shall I get some?”

“I’m not drinking tonight,” Marco said, “and you, Hans, need to get an early night.” He stood to the side, holding out his hand, showing Hans the exit.

Hans drained the bottle, chucked it in the bin and went to collect his leathers. “Thanks, Rosy,” he called, over his shoulder. “See you soon.”

“Go on.” Marco opened the door. “Shove it.”

“Okay, boss. See you tomorrow.” Hans saluted and ran down the steps, disappearing between the trucks.

“That’s rude, Marco.”

He shut the door and locked it. “Tomorrow is a big day. He has a lot to learn. So do you.” He went back to the fridge, found the open wine bottle and poured a glass. “But first…”

“I thought you weren’t drinking tonight.”

Marco, wine glass in one hand, closed the windows and dimmed the lights with the other. He turned to her when he had finished and put a hand on her waist.

“Every high performance event.” He laughed, walking her backwards to the bedroom, kissing her neck, “needs a quality lubricant.”