The Untouchable Read Online Free Page A

few. She will tell you the same thing. The media, you see.”
    Rosy didn’t see. She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Albert full-stopped the conversation by putting out a hand she had to shake. “If the media should approach you, Miss Hamilton, on the subject of Mr. Dallariva, I beg you, as a good neighbour, a decent human being, to say nothing.”
    “But—”
    Albert strode to the black Mercedes parked on the driveway, got in and drove off with a brief salute.
    So, Dallariva did not receive calls, or visitors.
    She would see about that.
    ***
    Rosy went upstairs to Frederick’s bedroom where Lydia sorted clothes, something in which Rosy had no wish to be involved.
    “When do you work for Marco Dallariva?” she asked.
    Lydia folded a cardigan and slipped it into a plastic bag. “I go in once a week. It’s an easy job because the place is empty, barely furnished, and he’s hardly there. He never has visitors. I’ll go this evening as soon as I’m finished here, and see what he needs. It’s never much.”
    “Is he there now?”
    “Yes, he’s on winter break, but doesn’t like people to know.”
    “I’d like to go and see him, or at least call him.”
    Lydia shook her head. “No.”
    “Surely you have his number?”
    “I can’t give it to you. Sorry.” She continued folding.
    Rosy went downstairs into the study. Several framed photos stood on the bookcase. All were of strangers. There were more on the mantelpiece. She picked one up.
    Marco Dallariva, in trademark red and black leathers with a helmet under his arm. She ran her fingertips over the glass, reading the scrawl across the bottom right hand corner. Frederick, thank you for everything. I am grateful. Marco Dallariva.
    She took the photograph to the window to inspect in stronger light. Without doubt, Dallariva was a photogenic specimen. Luke, a Moto GP fan, had told her that the champion riders were small, like jockeys, obsessed with their weight and fitness. Pretty boy Dallariva was likely no different, although he certainly wasn’t small. That aside, he looked like a prima donna weighed down by chips on both shoulders. She studied his dark hair and eyebrows, the crooked half-smile, and vivid blue eyes. Surely those were contact lenses? The gemstone blueness had an added sparkle of delight and surprise. And he probably was surprised. Surprised to be alive.
    She looked up, catching sight of the rooftops of the Villa Diana, looming above the trees on the other side of the valley. Lydia would be busy upstairs for hours. Ricky, technically still under contract to Frederick until the end of the month, had taken a few days off to visit his girlfriend, Mel, an au pair in Cannes.
    Rosy made a decision. Dallariva could have his money back, now. Finding her cheque book, she opened it and hesitated. A few thousand pounds would crash-land her account in overdraft if Henri Albert’s slick transfer hadn’t gone through. Nevertheless, she wrote out a cheque to M. Dallariva and slipped it into an envelope. Then, in the kitchen, not thinking too hard about what she planned to do, she found Lydia’s bag and fished out a bunch of keys attached to a red gate control with silver buttons. She put on her coat, pocketed the envelope and keys, and left the house.
    At the top of the drive, in front of the ominous gate to Dallariva’s property, she rang the bell. She waited, running her fingertips over the large, etched script on a rectangular stone set low into the wall: Villa Diana. No answer. She rang again, and after a minute or two, pressed the button on the remote control, holding her breath, hoping there weren’t attack dogs, or burly security guards brandishing guns. The gate rolled open, admitting her into the lonely silence of vast, deserted gardens run wild.
    Rosy followed the drive to the house, climbed the wide steps onto the front terrace, to the tall, double front door, a mess of peeling paint and rampant ivy. There was no bell, only a heavy