Free The Untouchable by Gina Rossi Page A

to the reception desk and told Paola she’d made a mistake.
    The man in red and black leathers on the colossal motorbike, the icon who held millions of fans in his thrall, had vanished. Where was the big, blue-eyed Italian whose mere presence had her — face it — catching her breath? Flat on his back, that’s where, with both arms in plaster from armpit to fingertips, bent at the elbow, hanging from some overhead contraption. His fine, Roman nose — broken — was held in place by a metal splint stuck to his forehead and cheeks with broad strips of sticking plaster. His eyes, bloodshot and red-rimmed, had swollen to slits, his lip stretched, glued where it had been badly cut. Worse, he’d suffered heavy concussion. Confused and fragile, he’d barely been able to communicate.
    But she got the message.
    After a while, steadying herself, Rosy got up and returned to the waiting area where she found Paola, about to go off duty, flirting with Zavi. He turned away from the desk to look at Rosy.
    “How was he?” he asked.
    “Hostile. However, you claim to be best friends, so there must be some good in the man.”
    A shadow shuttered Zavi’s eyes. “He’s my friend, and protector. I owe him everything.”
    An awkward silence followed. “Anyway,” she said, after a moment, “I did what I came to do. Now, I must go home.”
    “Home?”
    “To Frederick’s house to sort out some things, then back to London for Christmas. And you?”
    “I’m off to London first thing tomorrow, on a shopping trip with my sisters.” He glanced at his watch.
    “I can’t think of anything worse, shopping in London so close to Christmas.”
    “It’s an annual excursion. I install myself in the champagne bar at Harrods while they pillage the store, floor by floor. Then we go and stay at the Ritz. Everyone’s happy.” Zavi said goodbye to Paola who’d been joined by a colleague, and moved to the door. “Are you coming?”
    “I need the loo,” Rosy confessed. “So, have a good time, and happy Christmas.”
    “And you.” He smiled.
    “I hope I see you again, sometime.”
    “Me too. Have fun.” He rolled out into the foyer, half-turning as he went through the door. “Take care.”
    “And you.” Rosy went off to the ladies. Nice, that’s what Zavi was, even though she’d made a catty remark about his friend. Why couldn’t Marco take a page out of Zavi’s book?
    When she came back, Paola and her assistant were leaning over a computer monitor, completing the handover procedure before Paola went home.
    “Mr. Dallariva had seven visitors today. Dr. LeClerc says no more. The patient is distressed. Of course, as his wife, Mrs. Dallariva has priority at all times.”
    Wife? The shockwave hit Rosy in the guts.
    “I bet she looked fabulous—” The younger woman glanced up and caught Rosy’s eye. “May I help you?”
    “I was just leaving.”
    Paola straightened up, smiling. “Will we be seeing you tomorrow?”
    “No,” Rosy opened the door and fled.
    Wife. And pregnant too! Why had she assumed Marco wasn’t married? Because he was always alone? Because he had never mentioned being married all the times she had seen him? Which were exactly four — she added up on her fingers as the lift descended to the parking garage, and those times had hardly been of the relaxed, social variety. Anyway, did it really matter?
    For some ridiculous reason it did. And it hurt.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Thirteen
     
    By evening, Rosy had finally managed to connect her laptop to the internet in order to Skype Fiona. She’d taken her on a tour of the house, before settling by the fire in the study with a glass of wine, to relate the drama of Marco’s ordeal.
    “That’s awful, Rosy. Thank God he’s all right.”
    “I might stay here for Christmas, Fi.”
    “Because of him?”
    “No,” Rosy said,