The Untouchable (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Man, he felt good. This was better than morphine. Warm, at last, and way more comfortable in this bed than the plank he’d been lying on in the clinic. Whatzername had chattered on but he couldn’t concentrate and...had he imagined it, or had she shouted his name? He’d meant to answer, he had, but he’d been busy. Busy falling, floating down to land in the softness of this wonderful place.

She got up. He felt the mattress move. Pity she wasn’t staying. Real pity, and he was too far gone to ask her to remain. Was he dying? Or dead? Cosy, relaxed and pain-free, he felt like he’d come to the end of a journey, longer and more
troublesome than the Dakar Rally on an underpowered scrambler, but, funny, he couldn’t remember that journey, couldn’t remember...

He fell further, her smell all around him. It had developed rich, woody tones in the warmth of the house. He went deeper, drifted and disappeared, wrapped in her arms,
blissed out.

***

Rosy scrabbled in the drawers of the desk in Frederick’s study and came up triumphant with a laminated sheet of emergency numbers. Thank God Frederick had been old-fashioned. Ricky’s number topped the list. Ricky, of course, would know what to do.
He was a nurse. Surely he wouldn’t mind coming over and giving her a hand.

Ricky, at first
awestruck at the news that Rosy had the real, live Marco Dallariva in her house, then professional, reassured her once she had babbled out the events of the day.

“He’ll be okay. He will. Stop worrying.”

“It’s the second time I’ve nearly killed him.”

Ricky laughed. “I repeat, he’ll be fine. It’s not an overdose, and it’s not the sort of thing you should do again, but you can stop agonizing.”

“Could you come back from Cannes,
please
, and give me a hand, just for a day or two, until his house is sorted out and he can go home? We should discuss your contract anyway now that Frederick’s passed on.”

He hesitated. “Um, sure, but the thing is I’m not in Cannes. We’re actually up in the Alps near Briançon. It’s Mel’s birthday and we’re doing some pre-Christmas skiing.”

“Just my luck.” Rosy flopped
into a chair, weary.

“Leave it with me,” he said. “I’ll ring the agency I work for and see if they can fix you up with someone else until I get back, first thing Monday morning.” He rang off and Rosy paced the study while she waited for him to call back. When he did, the news was all bad. The agency could help at such short notice, this close to Christmas. No agency could. Rosy was on her own.

“Hydrate him, check him frequently, and wake him early tomorrow morning. Don’t let him sleep on and on,” Ricky said. “Keep him cheerful and feed him light meals. Easy, and it’s only one day.”

Easy.

Before going to bed that night, Rosy checked on Marco. Standing in the darkened bedroom, lit only by the light from the passage, she listened
to him breathe deep and even, in a heavy sleep. Cheerful, indeed! He wasn’t cheerful to start with, so how could she possibly keep him that way? Tomorrow morning she’d phone someone, Henri Albert, for example, or Zavi, and hand over the problem. Then she could be rid of Marco and get on with what she was supposed to be doing. She thought ahead to Sunday, sure she could manage just one day.

Although, could she? What would happen when he needed the toilet?

***

“I need the toilet,” he said, first thing in the morning when she went to wake him, turning his head from the glass of water she offered.

“How did you sleep?”

“Like death.”

“Mmm. Just so you know, those weren’t pain relief tablets I gave you last night, they were sleeping pills. The yellow and white ones are sleeping pills and these,” she lifted the box
of blue and red capsules and rattled it, “are the ones you should have had.”

“You’re a pretty dangerous woman to be around.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“That’s what you said last time you tried to kill me.”

She ignored him. “You need to take two of these
correct
pills now, because it’s going to hurt when you get up.”

“Can’t wait.” He pushed his legs free of the sheets, grunting with the effort. Feet on the floor, he stood slowly. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Er, this way.” She walked out into the passage and turned left, opening the bathroom door. “In here.”

“I’m going to need some help with my shorts.”

“Um...”

He stopped in the doorway. “What’s the problem?”

“It’s just...I’m a bit embarrassed. We don’t exactly know each other.”

He frowned. “Have you never seen a set of crown jewels?”

“Of course I have!”

A small, cynical
smile tweaked his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“For your information, I lived with a man. We were engaged.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Were? That figures. Did you kill him?”

“No, but he died anyway.”

Marco’s smile vanished. He hung his head. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” He had crossed an unforgivable line, trying to be funny. What an arsehole. “I’m sorry, Rosemary. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Come here.” She stood next to the toilet. He went. She ripped down his boxers. “Call when you’re finished,” she snapped, and left the room. He did, but very politely.

“I apologise, I do.” He braced himself as she yanked up his shorts. It wasn’t a good idea to let a cross woman take charge of the boys, but he was at her mercy. He blew out a big breath of relief when she’d finished and he, and they, had survived.

He tried again, but she wasn’t having any. “Rosemary? I—”

“I found a new toothbrush in the bathroom cupboard.” She broke open the packaging, rinsed the brush, and squeezed toothpaste along the bristles. “Lean over the basin, come on.”

He wished, for a split second, that he were back among the over-cheerful nurses at Saint Theodore’s, especially Miss Japan, whose cool demeanour was red hot compared to the frosty shoulder he was getting right now. Contrite, he did as he was told. She handled him impersonally, eyes down and pretty mouth set. He examined her dark eyelashes, the tip of her nose that hinted at a stubborn desire not to be
retroussé
and vowed to be on his best behaviour for the rest of the day.

She ushered him back to the bedroom, helped him into bed, made him drink a whole lot of water, and walked out closing the door behind her.

***

In the kitchen, Rosy turned on the lights, glanced at the clock above the fridge and then went to the shutterless window that the taxi driver had partially boarded. Seven a.m. and still dark.

She put her nose against the cold glass and peered into the garden, silent under a six-inch quilt of snow, pristine apart from the spoor of an animal that had passed the back door in the night. She would
not
let Marco get to her. One day and two nights. That’s all, and one of those nights was already over.

Snow, however inconvenient, always gave her a small thrill of excitement. She loved the silence, the beauty of concealment, and the way it forced a change of plans thereby making life different. And Dallariva, bloody annoying man, wasn’t spoiling it for her. Later, she would go out for a walk, to breathe the sharp air and trudge miles across the white fields with only Sunday church bells for company.

She opened the fridge. Annoying or not, he would have to eat. She took out eggs, bacon, tomatoes and milk, and put the coffee on. Half an hour later, she carried a tray upstairs bearing a small fruit salad and yoghurt, a two-egg tomato omelette, fresh orange juice and a cup of weak, milky coffee.

“Breakfast.” She put the tray on the chest of drawers under the window. “Are you hungry?”

“Thank you.” He glanced at the tray. “Yes, I am.”

“When did you last eat?”

He thought for a moment. “I ate a
jambon
baguette in Apricale. That was probably the last decent meal I had.”

“Well, we don’t go to hospital for the food.” She sat next to him on the bed and fed him fruit salad, looking down at the plate, or at his mouth, avoiding eye contact. She’d found a straw, so he drank the juice easily. “Finish,” she said, when he said he’d had enough. “Ricky says you need to be well-hydrated.”

He obeyed. “Ricky?”

“Yes, Ricky who used to look after Frederick. He’s coming tomorrow, to take over. I thought it was a good idea, because you need specialized care. He’ll take you home and you can work it out from there.” She cut the omelette into neat squares and fed him those. “I’ll call Lydia a little later and tell her the arrangements, so she knows what’s going on before she goes into your house tomorrow.”

He didn’t respond, so, after the omelette, she gave him a moment before offering
coffee.

“Thanks,” he said, after one mouthful. “I think I’ve had enough.”

“Toast? Some more juice?”

“I’m full, thanks.”

She tidied the tray. “It’s none of my business, but I’m still concerned that nobody knows you’re here. Isn’t there someone out there worrying about you, trying to visit you in the clinic, or contact you by phone?” She looked at him then, and he looked back, eyes guarded. “I mean,” she went on, taking care with her words, “Mrs. Dallariva, however you feel about her at the moment, will be worried about you, won’t she? What if the baby’s born in the next few days—”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

“But Marco, you have to—”

“Go bake a cake.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? That’s what Frederick told me. So, go do it.”

“I do not
bake cakes
. Well, I do, but that’s not all. I design, innovate, create and bring concepts to life using advanced baking and confectionery techniques. I’ll make anything, as ornate or plain as you like, with hand-made ornamentation, for all the major celebrations and events in life.”

“Cakes.”

“What
is
it with you? I’m not horrid about what you do.”

“I ride motorbikes. That’s about as far as it goes.”

“For goodness sake.” She picked up the tray. “Do you want anything else? I’ve got some calls to make and I’d like to go for a walk in the snow.”

“There’s snow?” For a moment, before he turned his head to the window, Rosy saw a spark of enthusiasm in his eyes. It transformed his face, banishing the bleakness for a few, brief seconds.

“Yes, about six inches. Is there anything else?”

He turned his head to look at her, standing in the doorway. “How are your shaving skills?”

Oh. God. “My shaving skills?”

“I’d like to get rid of this infestation on my face seeing as I can’t scratch.”

“You want
me
to shave you?”

“I do.”

“But Ricky will be here tomorrow, so maybe he—”

“It’s driving me crazy, itching like mad.”

“Um, well, I don’t have any shaving stuff.”

“Surely there’s some of Frederick’s still about?”

“But he’s dead.”

“Then he won’t mind me borrowing it, will he?”

“I-I’ll go and see what I can find.”

“Good girl.”

Rosy went downstairs and dumped the tray in the kitchen, then stamped back upstairs and along the passage to Frederick’s room. If damn fool Dallariva was prepared to let her near his exposed throat with a razor, then good luck to him.

She reached the door, opened it and stuck her head into the room. She hadn’t been in here yet, not properly. Lydia had asked her to handle Frederick’s personal stuff, other than his clothes, but she hadn’t been able to do it.

So, what was stopping her? He couldn’t hurt her anymore. Why be silly?

Chapter Eighteen

Frederick’s was the only bedroom in the house with an
en suite
bathroom, so any shaving kit once belonging to him would be there. Rosy hurried through the bedroom aiming for the door in the wall next to the bed, and went into the bathroom. It was positively Victorian, with a
sturdy dragon-feet bath, roomy brass-tapped basin, and toilet with a mahogany seat.

She opened an antique corner cupboard and found a
razor, shaving brush, and shaving soap. Surely Marco wouldn’t want to use someone else’s brush and soap? She dropped them in the bin, washed the razor, inserted a new blade, turned to leave and stopped. The section of the bathroom toward the window was half-concealed behind an ornate Chinese screen. Small blue and gold dragons floated in green and gold fronds of bamboo. She went to the screen and looked around it.

The space resembled a dressing room, with a small antique desk and chair in front of the long window, and a view over the garden. An Edwardian tallboy stood against the wall with framed photographs on top. She hesitated, her eyes wandering over the space. It was more than a dressing room. It was an intensely personal space. She walked around the screen and went to look at the photos. There were at least thirty, in plain wooden frames, all of
her
—
from babyhood to one that had been taken earlier this year, by her mother. They had been sitting at an outside cafe in the Piazza San Marco in Venice, laughing at some stupid joke doing the rounds on Facebook, when her mother had lifted the camera and taken a photo of her.

“What’s that for?” Rosy had asked.

“You look beautiful, darling, and happy,” came the reply. “More coffee, or shall we move on to wine?”

Rosy scanned the other photos, tears burning her eyes. She pushed the razor, handle first, into the back pocket of her jeans, picked up the recent photo, turned it over and loosened the frame. She lifted off the back and read the words written on the back of the picture.

Getting happier, I think, but there’s a long way to go. Isn’t she beautiful? Love E

E for Eve, her mother, who had been sending photos of her to
Frederick all along, without her knowing. Tempted to tear up the photo and smash the rest into the bin, something stopped her. She stood quite still in the snowy morning light that poured through the window onto the black and white tiled floor, breathing the fragrant sandalwood air of the handsome room. There was peace here, a tranquillity that spoke of sanctuary and refuge, even if it was part of a bathroom. She had no right to destroy any part of it.

***

Marco waited obediently while Rosy tucked a towel under his chin, and wet his beard. She squirted foam from an aerosol can into the palm of her hand and rubbed it into his face. He glanced at the label.

“Gillette Satincare Radiant Apricot,” he read aloud.

“Yes, well, it’s all I’ve got.”

“Have you done this before?”

“No.”

Surely she shaved her legs? Or was she the type to go to a salon in London and be waxed? The Radiant Apricot stuff would be for emergencies, in that case. He wondered if she had a Brazilian and decided she hadn’t. She’d have an American wax, if anything. Natural, like her. He hadn’t been this close to natural that often, and he liked it.

“I’ve seen it in movies though.”

“That’s encouraging.”

She skimmed the razor down his left cheek and rinsed it in a bowl of hot water she’d placed on the bedside table. Working carefully, repeating the process, she moved to his
right cheek, his chin, upper lip, then his neck, moving the razor upwards in smooth strokes to his jaw. He kept absolutely still because the fingertip that rested on his jawbone, turning his head to the angle she wanted, trembled slightly and he didn’t want to be sliced open. More anger, more apologies, and another big standoff. Not to mention the distress and regret in her eyes, taking away all their stormy beauty. His own eyes down, he concentrated on her breasts, round, smooth and perfectly sized, under a pullover the colour of raspberries, until she rinsed him, patted him dry, and dabbed away the few drops of water on his shoulders.

“There. Better?”

He nodded. “Much, thanks.”

She squirted something onto her hands. It was part of her smell. His body reacted immediately. He lifted his shoulders against the tingle that spread from her touch on his cheek all the way down to his toes.

“Rose oil.” She smoothed the skin of his face and neck, finishing off by running the backs of her fingers along his collarbones. He shivered and drew up his legs. A glance downward confirmed the quilt and rug with which she’d covered him were thick enough to conceal the strikingly obvious, thank God, but for how much longer?

“Ticklish?” She wiped her hands on the towel.

To his horror he felt warmth in his cheeks.
Get a grip
. He risked looking at her. She stared at his chest.

“You’re cold.”

Mute, while his body betrayed him, he could do nothing but lie on his back while she pulled the bedding up over his arms and shoulders, and tucked him in.

“I notice you’re moving your fingers,” she said, “and they’re a lot less swollen. If you had a hands-free attachment for your phone, you could call people. Do you have one?”

“Uh, somewhere.” She was right. He should at least call Terry. As the Dallariva Racing Team’s crew chief he had a right to know everything that went on. Although, Marco reckoned, he would most likely be the last thing on Terry’s mind. He’d be well into pre-Christmas festivities, skiing with Sally and the kids, enjoying a hard-earned holiday.

“Is it in your house?” she asked.

“Probably in my motorhome. Maybe. I can’t remember.”

“Your what?”

“It’s like a massive campervan that travels with me. I live in it during the racing season.”

“And where is this motorhome campervan thing?”

“Milan.”

“That doesn’t help. What about headphones for your iPhone, or however you listen to music?”

“At home, in my house. Probably in the bedroom.”

“I’ll go and have a look for them when I’m out walking.”

“Don’t.”

“How bad can it be?” She picked his house keys off the bedside table.

“No! I don’t want you going there.”

“What is
wrong
with you? Can’t you understand I’m only trying to help? What are you hiding in that mouldy old house that you don’t want anyone near it?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Well, you don’t, and it makes you one-dimensional.” She bit back words she’d rather not say, probably to the effect that he was a pain in the arse.

“I do,” he objected. “I asked if there was snow.”

“You didn’t. I told you there was snow and you said ‘There’s snow?’ It’s not the same.”

“I asked if you knew how to shave.”

“That’s not a conversational question. That’s housekeeping.” A light flush coloured her cheeks, emphasizing the challenge in her eyes.

“Okay. Here’s a question. This is your bedroom, right?”

“Right.”

“Why is there a
photograph of me in
your bedroom?”

“Why are
you
in my bedroom?”

“That’s a different issue. Not only is my photograph here, right next to the bed,
but there’s a kiss-mark on the glass.”

Her eyes changed, exposing an emotion he guessed was guilt, or embarrassment, but she recovered well.

“This is the guest room. One of Frederick’s guests must have kissed you. At some stage.”

Liar. The flush deepened. She sucked in her bottom lip.

“Are you suggesting one of Frederick’s lady guests kissed that?” He jerked his head toward the photo.

She looked him in the eye. “Or men.”

“Men don’t wear lip gloss.”

“You do,
bello
.”

He opened his mouth to retort but she changed the subject.

“Get some rest,” she said. “I’m going to make a few
calls, and then I’m going out for half an hour. I’ll pop in as soon as I get back. Stay in bed.” She gathered up the bowl and shaving kit and left the room. Her footsteps faded down the passage. He turned to look at the photo. Those weren’t a
man’
s lips. He pressed his own lips together. Trust her to make a joke at his expense.

“Rosemary!” he yelled.

“What?” Her voice, distant, flat and disinterested, floated back into the room.

“Don’t go into that house! It’s not safe.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt!”

“Stop yelling.”

“
Promise me.
”

Silence. He looked at the bedside table. His keys were still there. Not that lack of keys had stopped her the first time she broke in to his property. He relaxed his shoulders where she’d touched him, closed his eyes and listened, but all he heard, a while later, was the thud of the front door as she left.