Free The Untouchable by Gina Rossi Page B

“not at all.”
    “Don’t be crazy, you’ll be alone. And, anyway, we’re expecting you.”
    “It seems silly to go all the way to London when I have to turn around and come back to clear up estate matters.”
    “It’s only a two hour flight, and clear up what?”
    “This house. I don’t know what to do with it. Sell it, rent it, sell the furniture, store the furniture. There’s so much stuff that needs sorting.”
    “It’s a beautiful house. For God’s sake don’t rush to dispose of it.”
    “That’s why I’m thinking I should take a little time out over Christmas to get organized and make plans around it. That way I can—”
    “It’s him, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Rosy?”
    “Oh, Fi,” Rosy couldn’t help laughing. “No, it’s not.”
    “It’s Dallariva, isn’t it? You’re going to nurse him back to health.”
    “Stop it.”
    Fiona put down her glass, closed her eyes and spread her hands like a clairvoyant. “I can picture the scene. Dallariva lying in a coma, murmuring your name, and when he opens his eyes, there you are, the only person he ever wanted to see. ‘Never leave me,’ he begs, ‘oh perfect woman’.”
    “Nonsense. Anyway, he’s married.”
    “He is not. You like him.”
    “Do not. I saw his wife this morning at the clinic. And, she’s pregnant.”
    Fiona opened her eyes. “That’s not what I read on the gossip websites. You’re coming home for Christmas, and that’s final. Book your flight now.”
    “Well, I saw her with my own eyes, rushing to his bedside. There. Subject closed.”
    Nevertheless, subject closed or not, the second she terminated the Skype conversation and before she opened the airline website, Rosy Googled Marco Dallariva. There were pages and pages of articles on him — heavy with rumour — around two main themes: his extraordinary talent and his inability to smile, considering his massive earnings and the stunning British supermodel on his arm. And was he, or wasn’t he — married? One newspaper site said yes, one said he was separated, one said divorce was imminent and others showed photos of a second honeymoon in Venice, earlier that year. Social sites showed them at events with entirely different partners. Apart from that, there was nothing about Marco’s personal life, no details, only reports on his superhuman effort to win this year’s world championship. His failure to do so gave Rosy a small rush of pleasure, tinged with only the slightest dab of sympathy. He was human, after all.
    Lily Richards Dallariva on the other hand, had extensive, impressive coverage. Dozens of top quality photos could be found on any fashion or celebrity events’ website. She appeared everywhere, attended everything, from the Oscars to garden parties at Buckingham Palace. In many of the pictures, Marco lurked in the background, standing to one side so she could claim the limelight, or walking a couple of paces behind, like she was royalty.
    And, though he was billed as one of the richest sportsmen in history and, in more than one case, the sexiest man alive, he — breathtakingly handsome, it had to be said — rarely smiled, never laughed. In fact, Rosy realized, the only shots that showed him smiling were the grainy ones where he’d been papped, alone. Didn’t he want to be with his wife? Odd. Nothing, bar stolen private moments, animated the brooding features of Marco Dallariva.
    Rosy closed the laptop, thinking of him, roaring with laughter at her defense of the Indian princess a few days previously. She smiled, and then laughed at herself. It had been funny and she’d recovered from her sulk. As for the crate, it remained in place, blocking access to the garage.
    She got up and placed the fireguard across the hearth. Switching off lights, she walked into the study and picked the photo of Dallariva off the desk.
    “Are you a winner or a loser?” she asked, almost jumping out of her shoes as someone assaulted the front door with what sounded like a