The Untouchable (14 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rosy wanted Christmas to be special. She spent the rest of the day planning meals and shopping. Back home at five, in the dark, with a fresh sprinkling of snow on the roof of the car, she unloaded groceries and got straight to work in the kitchen. While she put the finishing touches to her speciality dessert,
bombe surprise,
Ricky came into the room.

“How’s Marco?” She layered trifle into the ice cream shell.

“Pretty tired. He’s had a big day, one way or
another. It’s only weeks since the accident. Two weeks today.”

“Is it really?” Rosy sealed the base of the dessert with a thick layer of ice cream. “It feels like months ago.” She covered the bowl with foil and put it in the freezer.

This feels like my life, the way it should be.

“That’s the psychology of survival. Putting nasty events into the past quickly so you can move forward.” He reached out and took the mixing bowl she was about to wash, scraping the last bits with a wooden spoon and eating them.

Rosy stacked dirty plates, bowls and mixer parts on the draining board. “What did the doctor say this morning?”

“Marco’s doing well, he’s in excellent spirits, he’ll be out of plaster really soon, he’s positive, and he’ll be strong enough for the speed tests in Malaysia in the New Year and one hundred percent recovered and fit for the start of the racing season.”

“It seems such a short recovery time after such a bad accident.”

“He had on the best protective clothing that day. That minimized his injuries to really simple fractures. Plus, he’s super fit, way more fit than you or me. His body has every advantage for quick repair. He’s a young world-class athlete in his prime, dedicated to peak performance. He’ll be back to normal in a wink. These guys are tough.

“Excellent.”

“Like this stuff.” Ricky handed her the bowl after a last lick. “What are your plans for the evening?”

Rosy blew out her cheeks. “I’m working on Christmas food, so I’ll be right here in the kitchen.”

“So, you’re in this evening?”

“Yes, why?”

“Mel’s got a few hours off. I thought I’d go see her if it’s okay with you. Marco’s asleep and he should stay that way.”

“Of course. Go. Take the car.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at his watch. “I only need to get moving in half an hour, so I’ll give you a quick hand.” He opened the dishwasher and started unloading.

“Gosh, Ricky, you really don’t have to do that.”

“I’m happy to. And I don’t mind saying that this is the most awesome job I’ve ever done. I mean, to work for a guy like Marco Dallariva is fantastic, not that I don’t wish him a quick recovery, you understand.”

Rosy wiped down the kitchen table, shaking the cloth over the rubbish bin. “Don’t get me wrong, but I’ve always thought nursing an unusual career for a man.”

“I didn’t choose it. I’m a trained physiotherapist who can’t find a job.”

“What a shame.”

“Marco’s going to have a word with one or two people. See if he can set me up with one of the racing teams. That would be incredible.”

“That’s kind.”

“Sure thing. He’s unbelievable. Have you ever watched him race?” Ricky reached for a tea towel and started drying the dishes Rosy had washed by hand.

“Um, no. I’m not a fan.”

“You don’t have to be a fan.

“I’m not ever going to watch that.”

Ricky opened a drawer and shot the cutlery inside.
“You must.” He turned to face Rosy, his eyes alive with enthusiasm. “It’s the most exciting thing in the world, honest. And Marco makes it like that. He’s in a class of his own. He’s smart, Rosy, and
jeez
he’s fast. He’s brilliant. Frederick taped a lot of his races. You’ll find the recordings in the TV cabinet.”

“It’s not for me.”

“But—”

“What are your plans for Christmas, Ricky?”

He finished drying and hung the tea towel. “Not much. Mel and I don’t know many people in the area, so we’ve booked at a restaurant in Antibes for Christmas Eve.”

“Cancel it.”

“What?”

“I said, cancel it. There’s no way you and Mel are going to sit in a restaurant by yourselves. You’re coming here. What are you doing on Christmas Day?”

“I thought we’d try a picnic at the beach.” He glanced at the snow pattering on the kitchen window and shrugged. “Probably a bum idea.”

“Definitely a bummer. Come and stay here over Christmas. You’re both welcome.”

“What will Marco say?”

She smiled. “It doesn’t matter because it’s not his house, is it?”

“You’re very kind, Rosy. Thank you.”

“My absolute pleasure. Off you go now, or you’ll be late.”

Rosy finished in the kitchen and took off her apron, hanging it on the hook just inside the pantry. She wasn’t hungry. Preparing food always took away her appetite, and besides, she’d snacked. A glass of wine and some quality television was what she longed for now.

Minutes later, on the way to the study, big glass of red in hand, she paused at the bottom of the stairs to listen. Marco would be asleep, his face tranquil, the tension and stress caused by his injuries, and the struggle to cope with them, smoothed away. That lovely mouth would be soft, those heavy, dark lashes perfectly still on his cheeks. She put a hand over her mouth. Standing in the silent hall, within the soft sparkle of the Christmas tree, realization took hold, and fizzed her blood.

Imagining his eyes, her own lost focus in the glittering blur. Royal blue eyes that had changed over the short time she had known him. They used to look through her, but not anymore. Now, they told her his thoughts.

There was no getting away from it.

I’m falling in love.

She stood up straight. “Be sensible, Rosy,” she whispered, to the Christmas tree. “This is an unreal situation, so try to be real within it, for goodness sake.”

It was one thing to be attracted by alpha male-style beauty—and what could she do in the face of irresistible gorgeousness?—but was Marco beautiful inside? Hour by hour, she knew him better, and the more she knew, the more she liked. She hadn’t seen signs of the bad temper he’d revealed during their first meetings—temper that had been brought on by her invasion of his guarded privacy, and the dreadful moment she had knocked him off his motorbike, although the walls he’d built around himself were still there. Would he lower the drawbridge and trust her to walk through the front door? Would he want to? Maybe as a friend. Her heart dropped at the thought. But he prized good friends; she could see that by his interaction with Zavi, and now Terry, and his attitude to Ricky.

Marco. A heady blend of intelligence, intuition, impulse, passion, and courage. Courage or madness. She shivered, took a sip of her wine and went into the study. What had Henri Albert said about Marco?

This is no ordinary man. This is a rare man. A living legend. Untouchable.

Where to from here?

She had a free evening, alone. Perhaps it was time to discover the essence of Marco Dallariva. Insides quaking, she put her glass on the table next to the wingback chair and went to kneel in front of the television cabinet. She pulled out the big drawer at the base and searched the rows of DVDs stored there. For some reason she hadn’t chucked them out. She tipped her head to one side, running her finger along their spines as she read the titles.

“Qatar Night Race, Season Debut, Victory. Jerez, Spain, Race Two, Podium. Assen, Netherlands, Race Three, Win.”

In the end, for no particular reason, she chose ‘Sepang, Malaysia, Penultimate, Podium’, inserted it in the DVD player, and sat to watch.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Marco lay in bed and listened. Nothing. He sniffed the air and found only a faded trace of Rosemary. He turned his head on the pillow searching for her scent in the linen, but all he got was fresh cotton and a hint of soap. The clock on the bedside table indicated he’d been asleep two hours. Now, he was wide-awake, bored, and his back hurt from so much lying around. Even the cat had abandoned him. He swore out loud, hoping Rosemary, on watch in Ricky’s absence, would hear and come and check on him, but nothing happened.

With a mighty kick of his legs fuelled by pure frustration, he jettisoned the tangled bedding onto the floor. He sat up, stomach muscles screaming. Bad. He needed exercise, urgently. He lowered his feet to the floor and waited, dizzy. After a while he stood, waited again for his head to clear, and walked into the passage. On shaky legs, he surveyed the staircase from the top. The descent of Mount Everest. He’d need to be careful without Ricky to help him, or Rosemary’s guiding hand on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the thought and moved onto the top step, nervous, his gut clenched.

Concentrate positively on those parts of your life you can control.
Frederick’s words came to him as clear as if he were
standing next to him. Come on! He could walk down some stairs without holding on. Weak-kneed, he made it onto the second step. How did Rosemary feel about control? Christ, he would never attempt to control her, and in any case she wouldn’t stand for it. Normally, women liked him. All women. The idea that this one might not, didn’t sit well. He wanted her to like him, and like him a lot, he really did, and he could control that. Frederick had loved her in his way, Lydia was devoted, Terry had been captivated, Ricky was her biggest fan, and Zavi adored her. He stored that last, perturbing thought and pressed on.

Rosemary had brought flowers to his room, great exotic, sexy, red things with tiny silver baubles attached. She stripped his bed every day so he could be comfortable in clean linen, made sure his towels were fresh, and warmed over the heater. She’d fed him sushi, her grey eyes dark as amethysts in the low light of the room, intent on the task, her mouth moving with his. All that had to mean something, didn’t it?

Half way down, legs trembling, he stopped to catch his breath. He heard bikes. The supercharged whine of his own included, he was absolutely convinced. He inclined his head toward the sound. Commentary, on low volume, and bikes, no mistake. He walked down faster, confident, until a shriek from Rosy—not on low volume—almost toppled him off the third last step.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no!”

Marco waited at the bottom of the staircase, riveted, steadying himself, his heart racing, then, intrigued, went across the hall to Frederick’s study. By the sound of things, Liam Dyer, motorsport’s most enthusiastic commentator, was on the edge of his seat and the verge of heart failure.

“He’s moving, he’s okay! Doesn’t look hurt.
And he’s up.
If Dallariva gets a move-on he’ll still make it to the podium in third place, but he has some
hard work to do
. He’ll need to hurry, he’ll need to get back on the bike
pretty pronto and get moving
.”

“Oh, God.” The moan came from the depths of Frederick’s old chair where Rosy sat with her legs pulled up underneath her, her face hidden. Marco saw only knees and a hand clutching the arm of the chair. On a small table nearby, sat a glass of wine and the television remote control.

Moving quietly he sat on a small upright chair just inside the door, spreading his knees and leaning down to rest his arms on his thighs. God, he was exhausted, and might need to faint. He hung his head for a few minutes to banish the shadows pulsing in his eyeballs, and then looked up at the screen. It was Sepang, in Malaysia, and the hottest race of the year with a track temperature in the high fifties. He had started in pole position with Roman West second on the grid, Miguel Costa the Spaniard in third, and American rider Bobby Savage in fourth. The four of them had screamed off the start into a big lead ahead of the pack. Marco had maintained first position, hotly pursued by Miguel, while Roman had dropped back and American rider Bobby Savage blasted ahead to join the fight. A three-man duel had played out in front of a spellbound crowd until he, Marco, pushing too hard to increase his lead in the tenth lap, had fallen. Although he had been flung over the handlebars and tossed on his head into the gravel runoff, he hadn’t been hurt, and, more important, the bike was undamaged. He remounted, managed to keep the engine running and get back on track. A win was out of the question but he could make second or third, make the podium, if he really pulled out every single stop.

The race thundered on. Marco sat silent at the back of the room, reliving every moment accompanied by exclamations and gasps from Rosy, buried in the big old chair with her eyes covered a lot of the time, he suspected. At five laps to go, Marco wondered if he shouldn’t make a discreet exit before Rosemary noticed him, but his attention was  held by the screen and Dyer’s infectious gusto. He watched himself, crouched low on the fuel tank, gunning it on the straight at a hundred and ninety-eight point three miles per hour.

“
Now
Dallariva has
really
got the hammer down,” Dyer crowed, “and
he is going for it.
He’ll never catch Savage, who’s taken the lead from Costa on the straight, but the young Spaniard needs to be very afraid. If he feels the pressure from Dallariva, who
knows
what will happen in this race?”

Marco knew very well what happened in that race. The Spaniard had crashed out, much as he had done, but had damaged his bike beyond repair, allowing Marco to take third place behind West, who’d sailed past him while he was rolling in the gravel. He expelled a deep breath, remembering how drained he’d been, dehydrated and faint, and how he’d needed a drip after the race. He’d felt like he felt now, like he had pushed himself beyond his maximum and had absolutely nothing left. What irony. He suppressed the grunt of laughter that swelled in his throat.

Rosy’s right hand came out of the chair and reached for the glass just as Miguel lost the front of his Honda. The Spaniard shot out of his seat, legs flying up behind him. Rosy shrieked, her hand jerking with fright, knocking the glass flying.

“
Shit.
” She grabbed the remote control and jammed her finger on the pause button the second Miguel hit the gravel. “Hell, no! Holy crap!” Marco heard the shake in her voice and knew she’d cry, any second.

He sat still, knowing he should stand up, creep away and leave her to it, but he didn’t. He waited until he heard sobs, and said, “He was quite all right, Rosemary. Not hurt at all.”

After a moment of deathly silence, she peered around the side of the chair, her eyes wide and wet with tears.

“He was fine,” he repeated. “Miguel was fine.” He pointed his chin at the screen. “You’ve frozen him in mid-cartwheel.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since I fell off.”

“I was talking to myself, wasn’t I?”

“Yes, and shouting and screaming. Throwing wine.”

She studied him for a moment. “Actually, I wasn’t talking to myself. Not entirely.
Il Capitano
’s here, occupying the whole sofa, and I was talking to him. Half.”

Marco smiled. “He’s good company. An expert on the sport.”

She blinked, wiped tears with her fingertips. “Maybe I should overcome my cat aversion and get a cat when I go home. Something living to talk to.” She scrambled out of the chair and walked past him, across the hall, and into the kitchen.

When I go home.
The words numbed him
.
He hadn’t thought about that, about when she went home to London to continue her well-organized life in which he had no part. For the moment, he’d forgotten that this was a temporary set-up, and that he existed with Rosemary in an artificial winter-wonderland limbo-life far removed from his, and her, reality. Although, although, it felt like real life, like real life could be,
should
be. Only, remember, she was here to tie up Frederick’s estate, plain and simple, and then she would leave. Could he do anything to make her stay? A knot of panic tightened inside. He heaved himself off the chair and stood staring after her until she reappeared with a dustbin and brush.

“Watch it, Marco, there’s glass everywhere and you’re barefoot.”

He stood to one side while she swept up the shards. She straightened up and he said, “If you’re getting a refill, I’d like a glass, too.”

“Sure. Are you going upstairs? Shall I bring it to you?”

“Uh, no. I’d rather be here. With you.”

She opened her mouth to say something, glanced into his eyes. “Okay.”

When she’d gone to the kitchen, he looked around. The big chair, and scant place for one on the sofa, given that
Il Capitano
had stretched himself full length and extended his tail.

He nudged the cat with his foot. “Shoo!”
Il Capitano
lay low, not even opening an eye.

In the kitchen, broken glass tinkled into the bin. A cork popped, then Rosemary’s footsteps approached. She carried a wine glass, half full, and a tumbler with far too little in it, and the familiar bendy straw.

“There.” She set the tumbler on the table next to the wing chair. “Sit.” She shoved the footstool closer, and sat on it, leaving room for his feet. “Cheers,” she said. “I’ve been watching Moto GP. I think I’ve seen as much as I can take in a lifetime.”

Not good. Converting Rosemary would be hard, but convert her he would.