The Untouchable Read Online Free Page B

knocker: a metal ring on a rusted hinge in the shape of a lion’s head. Two thuds produced nothing. She tried a second time. No answer, so she pulled the keys from her pocket.
    No, she absolutely couldn’t. Even if no one was home it would be an unforgivable intrusion. What was she thinking? She knocked again and waited, then walked the length of the terrace in the eerie quiet, looking for another door, down steps ankle-deep in fallen leaves, around the side of the house to the back, where a door hung open against the stone wall.
    “Hello?” she called, but again no answer, just the sound of the hinge squeaking as the door swung to and fro in the cold breeze. She looked inside, into a disused scullery where more dead leaves from lofty plane trees scratched across the worn flagstones and piled themselves in a ragged heap against an old mangle. How could Dallariva live in this desolate ruin? Surely, as a high-profile sportsman he had money to fix up the place? What held him here? What made him stay?
    Goosebumps tickled under layers of warm clothing. Overwhelmed by a moment of utter madness, she’d taken a ridiculous risk by intruding. She would slide the cheque under the front door and leave, quickly. About to go, a bright movement beyond the trees in the lower part of the garden caught her eye — the glassy blue rectangle of a huge swimming pool lay in the long grass, sparkling in the cold sunshine.
    Pausing, a voyeur behind the branches, she watched the water move. Someone was cleaning the pool. Perhaps they could tell her if Dallariva was home. She walked down the cracked, mossy steps into the grass and, clear of the trees, stopped. A man was swimming, not cleaning. Oblivious to the biting cold, he sliced through the water like a machine. Rosy had never seen anyone swim like that. Muscles worked in rhythm across his wide brown back and down the length of his powerful arms and legs as he executed stroke after perfect over-arm stroke. At the end of the pool he stopped, stood and lifted himself out in one strong, supple movement. He strode toward her, wiping his face with his hands, water streaming from his body.
    Rosy’s recent memory hadn’t served her well. The photograph in Frederick’s study had done nothing to prepare her for the physical impact of Marco Dallariva, undressed. Her eyes shot to his astonishing chest, bounced up to the magnificent eyes that transformed his face from striking to beautiful. The well-shaped — if crooked — mouth offset the symmetry of his other features. It drew her eye away from the fine, straight nose that made his face so handsome, like its creator had stopped short of absolute perfection by allowing the mouth to disobey the rules. She looked down, at the droplets of icy water clinging to the fine, dark hairs on his chest, barely heaving after prolonged exertion. She heard him breathe, smelt the saline on his chilled skin, saw the strong pulse beating in his neck, in the light stubble below the angle of his jaw. Pressing her lips together to stop her mouth dropping open, she tried a smile.
    He didn’t smile back. “What the hell do you want?” he growled, his harsh voice cutting the silence. Rosy had expected a frosty reception, but not an attack.
    “I’m Rosy Hamilton, remember? We, um, met on the road the other day. I want to speak to you about something.”
    “That does not give you the right to trespass.” He spoke over-perfect English, with the fascinating trace of an Italian accent she’d noticed before. It would have been charming had it not been so hostile.
    Finding the dazzle of his eyes too much, she focussed on the settling shimmer of the water behind him. “No, I’m sorry, it doesn’t, and I apologize. I believe you paid for Frederick’s funeral and the function afterwards. Thank you, but there was no need to do that. I’d like to reimburse you.”
    “No.”
    “There’s no need for you to use your money to pay for things that I—”
    “I’ll do what