Crossfire (16 page)

Marcelle relaxed against the pillows and closed her eyes. She knew instinctively that the day’s race would be a good one. Thanks to Stefan, she had rested well, instead of suffering the restless sleep she had been expecting. She had to admit she felt secure in his presence, and she liked the feel of his arms around her. Her body flushed with heat when she wondered what kind of lover he was, but she guiltily suppressed the thought. How could she even speculate about his sexual prowess, here in the bed she had shared with Jean-Michel?

Stefan had showed remarkable self-control during the night, keeping his promise. But perhaps a time would come when she wouldn’t want him to be a gentleman. The thought made her body flush with warmth. Why did her thoughts keep returning to sex?

The German was a remarkably handsome, desirable man, no longer pale and thin from his recent illness. She realized she would have to be careful. She was vulnerable to his attentions, and he was clearly experienced in the ways of men and women.

In the kitchen, Stefan busied himself with the coffee percolator, but his thoughts were with Marcelle in the bedroom. He had seen the flicker of pleasure crossing her features when he kissed her. He felt that he had made some progress in winning her trust, and it might not be too long before she was his.

But his heart told him this wasn’t just a conquest, like the others. This went far beyond the physical. This time it was different. He was in love with Marcelle, and he would be patient with her, gently breaking down her resistance, waiting for the day when she realized she loved him, and gave herself to him. He felt himself stir at the thought, and turned his thoughts to other subjects, to cool himself down before taking the coffee to the bedroom.

“Room service for the champion!”

“You sound positive about the race,” she remarked with a smile, taking the mug from him.

“Of course. I can see you’re feeling great. You have a sparkle in your eyes, a smile on your face. There’s no way you can lose.”

“And why can’t I lose?”

“You have a secret weapon. None of the other girls has been lucky enough to spend the night with me. You’re always guaranteed a good night’s sleep!”

Marcelle met his laughing blue eyes and said seriously, “You don’t fit into the stereotype of a mercenary. I’ve seen sides of your personality I would never have guessed existed.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, realizing she meant it as a compliment.

“You can be so gentle, and understanding. When you’re around, I feel at peace. And you keep surprising me.”

He sensed a change in the atmosphere. “I’m surprising myself. You’ve changed me. I never knew I could be like this.” He decided to give her a hint of his feelings for her. “You’re special to me, and I want to be the best man I can be for you.”

She didn’t answer, but smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup. They sat side by side on the bed, drinking their coffee, no longer needing to talk, comfortable in each other’s company.

~ . ~

During breakfast, Marcelle spoke animatedly about the following day’s race. Stefan asked questions about the sport and the strategies riders could employ to secure victory.

But he didn’t like what Marcelle told him about the two Dutch girls who had tried more than once to bring her down in the pack. “Will they be there today?”

“I’m afraid so,” she answered without undue concern. “Don’t worry, I can handle them, and my team knows the situation.” She laughed at his expression. “You aren’t the only one who fights wars. A cycle race can be a battlefield too, when the stakes are high.”

“Well, I hope you’ll be careful. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Her eyes shone with aggression. “They’re the ones who should be careful. I’ve grown tired of their little games.”

“Just don’t shoot anyone,” Stefan said dryly.

She burst out laughing. “I’ll do my best.

After breakfast, Marcelle packed her kitbag and dressed in her team tracksuit. It was already ten o’clock. The race would be starting at two. The venue was an hour’s drive away, so she would have to leave by twelve at the latest. She always liked to be at a race early, which was why she generally didn’t travel with the rest of the team, preferring to rely on her own transport.

Once she had finished packing, she dressed Stefan’s wounds again. The cut on his left temple had healed, leaving thin red scar running into his hairline.

She touched the scar with her fingers. “Doc Louis stitched this beautifully. At least this scar won’t look as bad as the others you have on your body.”

Stefan ran his fingers over the raised scars on his chest. “They used to be much worse. When my men rescued me, the cuts were badly infected and some were already half-healed without any stitches, so the scars were horrific. Kris did his best, and brought in a plastic surgeon to help him, but I guess they’re with me for life.”

“Were you scared when those people had you?” Marcelle realized she had strayed into forbidden territory when she saw the change in his eyes. They turned a bleak blue as his lips thinned into a merciless straight line, and she instinctively drew away from him. “I’m sorry. That was an insensitive question,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Stefan saw the flash of fear in her eyes, and cursed himself for allowing his feelings to show. He fought down the hate and anger that always accompanied the memories of his capture. “That was a rough time for me. Although my men killed all of them, I wish I could have killed the bastards myself. Perhaps then I could have erased the feelings of helplessness and anger I still carry with me.” He put his shirt on again before continuing, “That was the worst, the helplessness. They could do what they wanted, and I was powerless to stop them. All I could control was my reaction to what they did, so that they wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing me scream.” He grimaced, meeting her eyes. “Sure, I was scared. When they blindfolded me and I didn’t know from which direction the next blow would come, I was afraid I would break. But I knew that keeping quiet was my only chance to stay alive. So I tried to hang on, and hoped my men would find me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Sometimes the pain was so bad that I was tempted to talk. But in telling them where the island was, I wouldn’t just cause my own death, but also that of every man, woman and child on La Montagne. I couldn’t do it. When my men found the camp, I had been in the hands of the enemy for twelve days. Physically I was a wreck, and had they come a day later, I would have died of blood-loss and infection.” He shook his head dismissively. “It wasn’t a question of bravery. It was survival. I had to stay alive. I promise all my men that if the enemy captures them or they go missing in action, we won’t stop searching until we find at least a body. So when subjected to torture, they know there’s hope of rescue. That was what kept me going, though I don’t remember the rescue. One day I opened my eyes, and I was back on La Montagne.” He sighed. “But the memories will stay with me till the day I die. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to pry, Stefan. I can’t even begin to imagine how it must have been for you. I’m sorry.” She took his hand, squeezing it softly.

~ . ~

After removing some frozen food from the freezer for supper, Marcelle prepared to leave. “I should be back at around eight. The race will be live on France 2, if you want to watch,” she said, hefting her kitbag.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Good luck,” he said as she stepped into the elevator.

“Thanks. Bye.”

About five minutes later, he saw the black Diablo heading for the gates of the complex. He changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and went up to the gym. For the next hour, he occupied himself with weight training and cardio. Then he went upstairs to the pool, and relaxed on one of the loungers, enjoying the fresh air and the sun on his naked upper body.

Afterwards he took a quick bath, careful not to get his dressings wet, and put on a comfortable tracksuit. It was one thirty, and he was hungry, the victim of his returning appetite.

He made himself a cup of coffee, and loaded a plate with two slices of chocolate cake and a couple of biscuits. Thus armed, he headed for the living room and switched on the television.

Coverage of the event had already started and the sports presenter said they had secured an interview with the favorite, who was also the title defender, Marcelle Deschamps.

A second later, the screen changed to show a busy scene of preparation, with many cars, team buses and bicycles in evidence. The camera drifted about the scene before coming to rest on a presenter. The young man spoke for a minute before the camera drew back to include Marcelle in the picture. She stood astride her bike, leaning her forearms on her handlebars, a picture of relaxation.

The presenter asked various questions about the race, which she answered with the quiet confidence that came with knowing she would win. This was not at all like the woman Stefan had come to know.

He realized this was her public persona, confident and composed. He couldn’t suppress a smile when the presenter asked, “How are you feeling today, and what do you think your chances are, Marcelle?”

She straightened up, and examined her nails before looking up, a little smile on her face. “I feel great, as always, and as usual I would say that my chances are excellent.” There was a touch of arrogance in her answer, and she carried on to dismiss any suggestions that the opposition posed a threat. The interview ended, and the camera followed her to the start. The crowd shouted encouragement to her. She raised a hand in recognition, and smiled at her fans. The starter’s gun sounded, and the race was off, scheduled for a distance of 120 kilometers.

The first ten kilometers progressed without much activity, with a few of the riders trying attacks. The pack brought them back every time. Stefan noticed that the girls who chased down the breakaways wore the colors of Ultima-Fabelta, like Marcelle.

The commentator speculated that Ultima-Fabelta would try to keep the pack together as much as possible, because there was a ten-kilometer mountain pass about twenty kilometers from the finish.

Marcelle was an excellent climber, and this would be where she would launch her bid for victory. If it didn’t succeed there, and the pack stayed together, the current world champion was the favorite to win the sprint anyway, barring accidents.

The commentator mentioned her apparent lack of nerves in a close bunch sprint. He went on to say that riders and officials alike called her reckless, claiming that she showed total disregard for the safety of her fellow competitors.

The pace started to heat up, and the commentator said the first of the hot spot sprints would be coming up soon. He explained that these were certain preselected points in the race, designed to speed up the race. The hot spots acted as mini finishes along the road, and the first rider across the line would receive a cash prize.

The first hot spot was a kilometer away, and two riders managed to escape from the pack. Stefan heard the commentator say they were from a Dutch team. He leaned forward, scrutinizing them, wondering if they were the two women Marcelle had mentioned. The camera switched to a helicopter shot, showing the widening gap between the pack and the two runaways.

A rider detached herself from the pack, and sped away like a torpedo, defying any attempts to give chase. The helicopter zoomed in to show the world champion stripes on the pursuing rider, and the commentator said unnecessarily that it was Marcelle Deschamps.

She effortlessly closed on the two riders, and passed them twenty meters before the line, leaving them to fight it out for the minor places. The screen changed to a ground shot, showing the champion crossing the line, smiling as she glanced at the two behind her. The pack regrouped.

The next forty kilometers progressed in much the same way. Marcelle stayed in the pack, allowing her team to chase down breakaways. She only appeared when a hotspot was approaching, and took the honors every time.

The commentator pointed out that a rider of her caliber didn’t need to go for the hotspots, but due to her early days of racing in Europe, when she, as Michel de Wilde, had to contest every prime to survive, the champion now found primes and hotspots irresistible. She always gave the prize-money to her teammates.

The bunch was a kilometer away from another hot spot when a helicopter shot showed confusion below, and the pack split in two to avoid a fallen rider. The picture changed to a ground shot, showing the world championship jersey of the fallen rider. The commentator identified the rider as Marcelle Deschamps before the members of her backup team crowded around her.

Stefan went cold, wondering if she would be okay. He could see her legs moving restlessly and thought she must be in great pain. The commentator said three minutes had already elapsed, and the pack was on the attack. One of the Dutch teams kept the pace high, despite attempts from Ultima-Fabelta to upset the rhythm of the pack.

Stefan concluded that the two women had been instrumental in causing Marcelle’s crash. That was why their team was on the attack. Even if she tried to continue, she wouldn’t catch up with the pack before the finish. This was unacceptable, he thought angrily.

The camera watched as the champion made it to her feet, her manager and backup team helping her. The rest of the convoy had pulled their cars around the accident scene. They had decided that she wouldn’t be carrying on, and set off in pursuit of the speeding pack.