The Untouchable Read Online Free

and undressed with shaking hands. She’d touched the scarlet dress, letting the silk run through her fingers. Fragile as a soap bubble in a gale force wind, she’d rested her forehead on the cool mirror, eyes closed, willing the feeling to pass.

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
    “I-I hadn’t realized he had so much money.” Rosy swallowed, took a big breath and let it out slowly. On the Monday morning following Frederick’s funeral, she sat opposite the lawyer, Henri Albert, at Frederick’s desk, staring unfocussed across the expanse of antique mahogany. Albert, his laptop, gold fountain pen, spectacles, and a slim pile of A4 files blurred to invisibility.
    Frederick had left her the house — this house — and contents, plus a considerable sum of money. A huge sum of money. Massive. And the rights to, and royalties from, his books. Apart from a generous settlement for Lydia, setting her up for life, and something for Ricky as a thank-you for his care, Rosy had inherited everything that had been Frederick’s — even a scrubby ten-acre piece of land in the hills of Skiathos and a vintage Jaguar, in storage. A cat that had to be cared for until its dying day had also been mentioned but, in her daze of amazement, she hadn’t paid much attention to that.
    “Why would he leave me anything?” she asked. “We didn’t speak to each other for most of my life.”
    “He regretted that.”
    Rosy looked away, through the window, at the restful twinkle of the river, and felt her heart resist.
    Albert broke the silence. “That’s everything. Are there questions?”
    In shock, she sat up straight on the edge of the chair. “Er, what about the funeral? It was a big event. Has everything been paid for?”
    “There is nothing outstanding.” Albert picked up his spectacles and put them on. Pen poised, he asked Rosy for her debit card. She found it in the sad assortment of afflicted credit cards in her purse and handed it over, watching, mesmerised as Albert made a short call on his phone. Frederick had wanted her to have an amount of cash up-front, apparently, and here it was, pouring into her account via a few clipped words from the lawyer’s mouth.
    “I’d like to know,” she said, when he had finished, “who organized the funeral.”
    There’d been Bollinger, and a feast of fabulous food. It must have cost someone quite a few thousand pounds.
    Albert pursed his lips, weighing his words. “Actually, Mr. Dallariva. Your neighbour.”
    Rosy sat back, frowning. The service had been simple and beautiful, and the function afterwards an informal but generous celebration, unlike anything she would have associated with Frederick. There’d even been cakes: small apple and nut sour cream coffee cakes, and a giant buttermilk plum cake, an absolute masterpiece. She couldn’t have done better herself.
    “But Dallariva didn’t attend,” she said.
    “No.”
    “Did Frederick grant him power of attorney to carry out his wishes?”
    “No, but he and your father were friends.” Monsieur Albert closed his laptop and pocketed his pen, indicating the meeting was over.
    “Why?”
    “They were similar. Both gifted and intelligent.”
    “How is motorcycle racing intelligent?”
    Albert stood up. “Mr. Dallariva has exceptional talent. He works on the edge, on the very limit of endurance, fearless and passionate. This is no ordinary man. This is a rare man, Miss Hamilton. A living legend. Untouchable.”
    “And evidently charitable, but I object to an absent stranger planning and paying for my father’s funeral.”
    “Bear in mind you have been the absent stranger.”
    Rosy glared. She couldn’t argue. He was right. Way out of line, but right.
    “I take exception to what Dallariva did. He had no mandate.” She stood, walking with Albert to the front door. “I’ll make contact and reimburse him.”
    “He doesn’t take calls or receive visitors.” Albert bestowed a thin smile. “Lydia works for him too. One of the trusted