The Untouchable (25 page)

Chapter Forty-Six

When last had she undressed in front of a man? Kicking off her shoes, Rosy glanced at Marco. Laptop open, he sat barefoot on the bed, cross-legged—wearing only shorts—and studied graphs, drinking his wine.

“I won’t be long,” he said.

She sat next to him, leaning on the cushions. When had she and Luke last had sex? The weekend before his accident when they spent a weekend in Devon with his cousin? Or later that week, in their apartment? She couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t remember.

Rosy delved for the memory, but it had gone into the darkness. Luke had turned his back. She jumped off the bed and pulled her shirt over her head.

“Wow.” Marco glanced up, then back at the screen.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Tyre pressures.”

“Wow.”

Marco grinned, shut the laptop and tossed it to the bottom of the bed. “Okay. I get the message. Tyre pressures are not wow, but you are wow.” He got up, came to where she stood, and
looked down at her breasts.

“Ah,” he said. “I have imagined these.” He placed a hand on each. “But I see I imagined wrong. I did not imagine beautiful enough.” He dropped his hands to her waist, his eyes smoking on hers. One hand moved to the button at the waist of her jeans. He twisted it open, released the zip, and slid his hands inside her panties pushing them down her thighs, onto the floor. Hands back on her breasts, he kissed her, his mouth open a little, his tongue running inside her lips and between her teeth.

“Are you just going to stand there?” he murmured.

“No,” she breathed, undoing his shorts. They dropped to the floor.

“And?” His eyes, burning now, deepened her flush.

She took off his boxers, guiding them down his thighs. They, too, fell to the floor and she kicked them away.

Hands on her shoulders, he rubbed her collarbones with his thumbs.

“Hurry,” he said, and a glance downward explained the need to rush. Marco Dallariva had shot into top gear in less than a minute, primed for a top-of-the-podium finish.

On the bed, Rosy sank onto the delicious mattress with a small murmur of pleasure, the cool, smooth, million-thread count sheet heaven on her skin.

“
Rosamaria, cara
. I am going to be quick because...because...” He swallowed, his breath, sudden, urgent, fighting the words. He straddled her, lifting her up against the pillows. “Do you want a condom?” He bent forward, running his tongue from nipple to her earlobe on the left, then the right.

“I’m on contraceptives. I thought...” She breathed deep, smelling the heat of his skin.

“What,
cara
mia
, did you think?” He kissed her shoulders, the sides of her neck.

“Something. I can’t remember.”

His soft laugh warmed her ear. He pushed up onto his hands and hung over her, his eyes dark. “I love you,” he said, and went home, hard, and hot.

“
Oh
.” Her hold on reality vanished along with any imagined control. She fell over the cliff. It had been too long. In one spectacular, drawn-out, glorious moment, she came. Levelling out after the exquisite freefall, shaky, lightheaded, her breath gushing from her body, she opened her eyes.

“Sorry. Sorry,” she whispered, holding his head, kissing his cheekbones. “I blame you for being too sexy.”

“Jeez, Rosemary.” She heard the smile in his voice. “You don’t mess around—” He stopped talking, eyes closed, forehead drawn into a small frown of intense concentration. She kissed his mouth, he lowered his head, spoke into her neck. “Ah. If I move, if I move even once, I may detonate.”

She turned her head, her lips against his ear, the tremor in his body running the length of hers. “Move,” she said.

He did.

A minute later, he lay heavy on her, depleted, arms and legs widespread on the mattress, his face in her shoulder.

“I hope nobody heard that,” she said, after a while.

“Soundproof.”

“Good.”

“I am possibly dead,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“In a good way?”

“Yes.” He turned his face into the pillow, his voice muffled. Rosy lay still. Something tickled her collarbone. She lifted a hand and touched it with a fingertip.

Wet.

Pressed into the soft mattress by Marco’s heavy body, she could do little else but put her hands on his back and stroke him.

“Nice,” he murmured.

She dozed, listening to his deep breathing, weighed by his warmth, content, her mind a void of soft darkness.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Rosy woke, alone. She sat up in bed and listened. “Marco?”

“You are awake,
bella
?” He stuck his head around the door.

She smiled. “What’s the time?”

He came into the room and sat beside her on the bed, stroking her hair. “It’s only six. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re dressed.”

“Saturday always means an early start to a big day. We have a free practice this morning, and then this afternoon we qualify for our positions on the grid.” He kissed her. “Tomorrow afternoon, after warm-up, we race.”

“I won’t see you for the whole weekend.”

“Yes, you will. Here.” He patted the bed, grinning. “And you’ll watch me. Valerie will come and get you later. She’ll take you to the VIP area.”

Rosy hesitated. “Can I make you breakfast?”

“No. I have no time to waste, because I missed a practice yesterday. How do you think I managed to meet you in Rome? The doctor wouldn’t pronounce me fit to ride. Told me to rest.” He held his ribs.

“But you didn’t rest, you, we—”

“I must go.”

Rosy knelt to get closer, and put her arms around his neck. “Be careful, promise me.”

He disentangled himself and stood up. “I’ll see you later.”

He left. She flopped back onto the bed, a hot shiver shooting through her as she remembered waking up
‒
sometime in the pre-dawn darkness
—
when Marco had rolled off her, onto his back. He’d rolled back on the second she stretched her limbs, to carry on where he’d left off, this time with delicious, tender slowness, taking his time over every square inch of her body, encouraging her to follow.

“I love you!” she called. Too late. He’d gone.

***

What to wear? Rosy, fresh out of the shower, wet hair in a towel, otherwise naked, searched the wardrobe. Jeans and lace-sleeved t-shirt? Jeans and organza Chloé shirt? Boden flowered skirt and t-shirt? Or the one dress she had brought along? Short, belted, big skirted and polka dotted, it could be too much, too early in the morning. Was it too warm for boots? Too chilly for sandals? Drying her hair, she remembered how she’d felt in the elegant interiors of the Hotel Imperiale and mentally opted for clean, designer jeans, the Chloé shirt and studded leather ankle boots.

Valerie arrived at nine, dressed in red capris, high red wedges, black t-shirt with a red
73
, and team cap. She stood in the living room and surveyed Rosy top to toe. “You look like my auntie,” she said. “Haven’t you got a skirt? You got legs, so show ’em.”

Obedient, Rosy went to change.

“Miles better.” Valerie nodded her approval when Rosy reappeared in the Boden skirt, sleeveless ruffle shirt and sandals.

To start, Valerie took her through the paddock, past a loose group of mildly interested fans, to the private VIP area. Situated directly over the pit garages and covered grandstands, it constituted a long gallery housing an upmarket canteen. One side opened by way of sliding doors to a wide terrace with a view of the whole track, twisting like a flat snake beneath the morning haze.

“This area is exclusive, reserved for riders, their families, race-team executives and so on. Come here whenever you like.” She handed Rosy an access card and pointed to the buffet running the length of the back wall. “Go ahead, eat something.”

Rosy helped herself to fruit salad, toast and a cup of tea and returned to the table where Valerie nursed a cup of black coffee. She leaned forward as Rosy sat down.

“You see him?” She tilted her head to the right.

Rosy glanced. A young man sat several tables away in the empty room, reading an English newspaper while he ate a bowl of cereal.

“Roman West,” said Valerie, in an undertone. “British. Marco’s nemesis.”

“How?”

“Marco’s biggest rival. West isn’t as fast, but he’s tidy, and patient. Less of a risk-taker. They don’t talk much.”

Rosy glanced again, caught out this time as she met West’s full-on stare over the top of the newspaper. She lowered her eyes. It was so obvious.

“Who else should I know about?” she asked.

“Carlos Miguel, one of the Spanish riders, and Bobby Savage, the American. It’s those two, West and Marco, who tend to end up battling at the front.”

“Why would West be staring at me?”

“He’s strategizing. West is the reigning world champion. He beat Marco by one point last season. So little, yet so much. Marco put in equal effort, achieved equal success, bar that one little point, a burning thorn in his side.”

“I see.” Rosy had swotted up on the points’ system. A rider got twenty-five for a win, twenty for second, and sixteen points for coming third. If he came fourth he got thirteen points, if he came fifth he got eleven. Sixth place meant ten points. For every place below that, the rider got a point less, so anything after fifteenth place, where he got one point, meant a zero score. Whoever had the most points at the end of a season won the championship, it was that simple.

“West is familiar with the torrid details of Marco’s last year. He’ll know about Marco’s winter injury. He’ll be aware there might be lingering after-effects. Marco’s regained full strength in his arms but they haven’t been put to the test. West knows that and he knows about you. There’s a theory that riders with girlfriends, or wives and kids, have a slower lap time, just by a few hundredths of a second. A belief that having someone wonderful in your life draws you off the edge, lets in the fear. Who knows?” Valerie drained her cup and stood up. “I’ve got stuff to do. I’ll see you later. Make yourself at home. And don’t talk to West. It’ll make Marco crazy, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Remember what I said. Tough, calm, strong.” She left. Rosy watched her go and, like the new girl at school nobody wanted to talk to, wondered for the thousandth time if she should have stayed in London.

“Would you like my newspaper?”

Rosy started, looked up at the owner of the well-modulated voice. Grey-green eyes and a toothpaste ad grin, teacup in one hand and today’s Times in the other. Roman West.

“Um—”

“Roman West.” He put the cup on the table and held out a hand Rosy had to shake. “May I?” he indicated the chair Valerie had vacated.

“I was just leaving.”

He sat down. “You haven’t finished your tea.”

“I, er, no.”

“So, you’re with Marco, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“He’s a good rider, if aggressive. It doesn’t come naturally. He has to fight his physique to succeed.”

“Is that so?”

West ignored her defensive tone and settled in the chair, arms folded. “Tell me about the baby. I hear rumours in the paddock that Marco has a child, possibly yours? Are congratulations in order?”

Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know, don’t talk about Marco, never, never talk about Leo...

Rosy picked up her bag, forcing a smile. “I have to go.”

“Mmm,” he said, looking across the room, over her shoulder. “It looks like you do. Here comes Dallariva to cast a shadow across our teacups.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Rosy turned as Marco arrived at the table.

“Let’s go.” He pulled her to her feet. “Now.”

She opened her mouth to explain, but the pressure of Marco’s hand on her back changed her mind. His hand
—
resting where her right buttock curved outward
—
stated, like he’d shouted the fact,
you’re mine
.

There was no opportunity to defend herself. Marco dashed down the stairs with her in tow, out into the sunshine and along the walkway behind the garages like he was chasing a train with seconds to spare.

“Where are we going?” Rosy panted, struggling to keep up.

“To my garage.”

“Valerie told me to keep out of your garage. No women allowed.”

“Pff!”

“Pff? What do you mean?”

“I have exactly who I want in my garage. In any case, one of the engineers is a woman.”

“Won’t Terry mind?”

“Terry does what I want. That’s all.”

“I thought he was your manager, not the other way around.” She shook off his hand as they reached the back of the DRT pits. Marco nodded curtly at the door guard and they were admitted to the partitioned space alongside the workshop, all red and black panels, utilitarian and clinical, like a laboratory. Marco pushed her inside and the door clicked shut, sealing them off from the bustle and colour of the sunny paddock.

“Stay here.”

“Here? All by myself in the back of your garage?”

“You shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t be necessary for me to have to—”

“Good! Because I don’t want to
be
here. You
dragged
me here.”

“I don’t want West anywhere near you!”

“I’m thirty-four, Marco. I can handle West.”

Marco sat heavily in a red plastic chair beside the water cooler and put his head in his hands. “I don’t need you to be like this.”

She opened her mouth to retort, closed it, speechless. Backing down, she put a hand on his shoulder. “Look at me Marco.”

He did, his eyes holding a warning.

“I’m not being
like
anything. All I’m doing is trying to adjust to an unfamiliar life. It’s different, and difficult, but I love you so I’m committed to making a success of it. Bear with me. Help me by understanding.”

He smiled, but not completely. “I have no time for that. To love you, yes, I have time, but to work out the journey of the relationship
—
how can I?” He spread his hands and shrugged. “That’s up to you.”

“That’s a bit one-sided.”

“Work out how you want to live your life with me, and do that.”

“Maybe I should—” She stopped. Should she go back to London? Giving up so soon seemed utterly naff. A long-distance relationship with Marco would be doomed to fail. He was preoccupied, obsessed with his sport. Would he even notice she had gone? For sure, he wouldn’t come after her for months, if ever. He was too busy.

“Maybe you should what,
cara
?” He stood up.

“Um.” She swallowed. “Maybe I should…”

Tough, calm, strong.

She started over, but the door, through which they had just entered, opened, and the moment passed.

Terry came in, and greeted her with enthusiastic kisses to both cheeks. Touched by his warmth
—
he appeared delighted to see her
—
she took courage. Sending Marco off, after a brief exchanged of words she didn’t fully hear, he guided her into the main garage and introduced her to everyone. She smiled, shook hands, tried to remember names. Terry didn’t introduce her as Marco’s friend, or girlfriend, and no one asked. Clearly, they’d been briefed.

“And here,” Terry said, when the introductions had been made, “is Marco’s mistress, the Z 100.” He gestured to one of two identical motorbikes crouching side by side on the spotless garage floor, like black and red leopards ready to pounce.

“It seems he has two,” she answered, looking from one to the other. “Both look lethal.”

Polite laughter all around.

“That’s the spare.” Terry pointed at one of the bikes.

“Spare?”

“In case he trashes this one.”

“How?”

Terry shrugged. “In case, if, when, he crashes.”

The ear-splitting shriek of a revved engine in a neighbouring garage stopped the conversation.

“God, please not,” Rosy said, into a cacophony of revving bikes. The first one had set them off like howling wolves. She shivered.

Everyone got back to work. Outside, on the pit lane, she glimpsed Hans, already in his leathers, mostly red as opposed to Marco’s, which were mostly black. He caught her eye, grinned and waved. “Did you bring cake?” he called, in a short-lived lull.

“Next time,” she called back, relaxing a little. No sign of Marco. What was she supposed to do? Terry, sensing her discomfort, took her arm and drew her aside.

“I feel like I’m intruding.” She glanced at the cluster of people around the bikes, determined to shake the feeling she’d had a chilly reception.

“They’re working,” Terry replied. “This is not a club event. It’s the world championship. Professionalism is everything.”

The comment was aimed at her. Uncomfortable under Terry’s scrutiny, she considered the two umbrella girls, as they were known. They adorned the pit entrance to the garage, showing miles of leg and fathoms of cleavage in their black and red wisps. One had a tattooed number
73
on her ankle. “I should probably go.”

“No. Marco wants you here.”

No point arguing. Terry’s tone confirmed that.

“I feel I’m on hallowed ground,” she said.

“You are.”

“What must I do?”

“Keep out of the way. Keep quiet. Behave yourself.”

Rosy bristled as he guided her to a row of chairs in the back.

“Sit here, and watch the action on that.” He pointed to a TV monitor attached to a temporary wall partition.

Rebuffed, she did as she was told and found, although she was well back, she could see through a wide doorway into the main garage. The two bikes, on stands, waited. One had the back tire off. Engineers poked about with spanners, put the tire back, took it off again. Now and again she caught a few words of the discussion—gear ratio, slicks, suspension under pressure, and torque. Much was said about swingarms, compounds and front ends. A foreign language she didn’t understand. Terry walked in and out of the frame, issuing instructions, all instantly obeyed.

“Ah, here you are.”

Rosy turned to the door. “Zavi! I am
so
glad to see you.”

Zavi parked next to her and leaned forward for a hug and kiss. “Are you bored stiff?”

“Not yet. I’m trying to understand everything. It’s very difficult, at least for me.”

“You must be special, to be in here. I’ve never seen a girlfriend of Marco’s in the garage.”

“I’m in trouble. Marco obviously heard from someone that I was talking to Roman West in the canteen. He raced over to drag me back here and I’m doing time on the naughty step.”

They both turned when Marco came in. He walked straight past, the DRT icon, in full team leathers, gloves, boots and helmet. He looked enormous.

“And see,” Rosy said. “I’m being ignored.”

“No,” Zavi said. “He’s gone into the zone. He’s given himself to the bike. For now, he is number seventy-three. His focus is pure. Everything else is swept aside.”

“I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“By doing the same. Save your fights for off-season. The slightest distraction on a day like today could be disastrous.”

“I know.” Rosy, looking at the monitor, watched Marco next to his bike, slowly bend from the waist to touch his toes. After a few moments, he grasped the back of his knees with his gloved hands and stayed there. Reverent, the pit crew beheld him, like witnesses to a sacred ritual. She closed her eyes. Please let him be safe, she prayed.

She waited. There was no reassurance.

And why should there be reassurance? Rosy had prayed for Luke to be safe and it hadn’t worked. But she’d thrown away her happiness on the last morning she’d seen him alive. Is that how life panned out? Put a foot wrong and life smote you with its cruellest blow? She opened her eyes, saw Marco on the screen coasting down the pit lane, leaning forward over the handlebars, sitting back on the bike, stretching one leg, then the other.

“You okay?” Zavi leaned close, so she had to look at him.

“Nervous. And excited,” she lied. “But please don’t think you have to stay with me in the back. I’m fine here, really.”

He looked away. “I’m better in the back. I’m not the best advert for the sport.”

Rosy didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

“Why don’t we,” he said, “go upstairs to the bar, have a cup of coffee and watch the track
from the VIP area?”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m allowed. Marco might notice I’m missing.”

“He won’t notice anything until the qualifying session
is over, and not even then. I’ll take full responsibility. Won’t let you out of my sight.” He grinned. “We’ll have lunch there, if you like.”

“Isn’t there something else you’d rather be doing?”

“No.”

“Is Eleni here?”

“No.”

Unsure, she glanced into the garage where a knot of engineers scrutinized data squiggling on the screens of a bank of computers.

“We’ll watch practice upstairs,” he said, “have lunch, and come back here for the qualifiers. How does that sound?”

Rosy smiled, stood and followed Zavi out of the garage.

***

Being with Zavi opened doors, and more importantly, made Rosy feel normal. Zavi, a member of the VIP enclave on his own merit, and an ex-rider everyone clearly revered, explained her simply as, “A friend, and a guest of the DRT.”

“This is Hans’s mother, Margit.” He introduced her to an elfin blonde, surely too young to be out by herself.

“Are you nervous?” Rosy asked, when they had exchanged pleasantries.

“No,” she answered. “Hans has been racing for seven years, since he was fourteen. I’m used to it. He knows what he’s doing.
His younger brother has just started in the Moto 3 class.”

This could be fun, Rosy thought, sitting down to lunch with Zavi, Margit, Valerie and others. The day that had started well, but had degenerated a little with the West incident, would improve.

But it didn’t. The day that had started well, ended badly.