Crossfire (18 page)

“Marcelle, come home,” he said, slipping a comforting arm around her shoulders. “We need to look after your injuries. Doc Louis came with me.”

She didn’t answer, staring fixedly ahead, a picture of despair.

“Marcelle...” What could he say to her?

“I don’t want to go home,” she whispered. “I want to be with Jean-Michel.”

“You can’t be with Jean-Michel. You owe it to him to carry on with your life.”

“Just leave me alone,” she said, her body stiffening under his touch.

He tried again. “What happened to upset you so much? Please talk to me.”

She lowered her forehead to her knees again. “I need Jean here. He’ll know what to do. They said horrible things, and now I’m in a lot of trouble.”

“Marcelle, we’ll fix this. It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll help you, I promise. Please come home.”

She hugged her knees even tighter and repeated, “I need Jean-Michel. I can’t go on alone anymore. I want to be with him.”

He realized he wasn’t getting through to the distraught young widow. She was clearly in a state of shock.

Sighing, he got to his feet, and picked her up with an effort, his wounds protesting at the exertion. Marcelle exploded into motion, trying to get out of his grip, but he crushed her against his chest to subdue her struggles. She finally gave up and lay limp in his arms.

The way back to the car seemed much further than he remembered.

Doc Louis saw them coming, and ran to meet them. “What’s wrong?” he asked breathlessly as he reached them.

Stefan shook his head. “I think we should get her home.”

Marcelle had lapsed into a sullen silence, and didn’t respond when Louis spoke her name. Stefan settled her in the passenger seat of the doctor’s car, and put on her safety belt.

Doc Louis sighed when he saw her bruised right hand. “I’ll have to take her to hospital for X-rays. Her hand could be broken.”

Stefan checked her pockets for her car keys. “I’ll follow to ensure you get there, and then go back to the complex.”

The drive to the hospital proved uneventful. There wasn’t much traffic so late on a Sunday night. He stopped in the parking lot and watched as Doc Louis helped Marcelle out of the car and led her into the hospital.

He desperately wanted to be with her, but he knew it would be too dangerous, not just for him but also for Marcelle and Louis. He put the Diablo back into gear, switched on his headlights and drove home to wait for them.

He had no difficulty reentering the complex thanks to the I.D. card and password Marcelle had given him earlier that week. The guards were courteous and if they were curious, they didn’t show it.

Back in the apartment, he made himself a cup of strong coffee, and settled down to wait, too worried to think about eating. He realized Marcelle was vulnerable now, in need of support and reassurance, and he intended to provide that. She was such a complex person, he thought, but to be in possession of her love must be a wonderful experience.

His thoughts turned to the contrasts that made up her personality. He had now seen the public Marcelle, confident and likeable, and arrogant in a playful way. That Marcelle didn’t know the meaning of defeat. She would get up from a fall and continue the race, prepared to fight to the last man, or woman for that matter. She would react in anger to an insult, and even resort to violence, before she would show how deep her wounds went.

With Richard, he had seen the side of her she kept for her cycling friends, Marcelle the comedian. She could be just as crude and vulgar as they could, trade insults, and be one of the boys, as she had been so many years ago. Stefan didn’t like that side of her personality. It wasn’t her natural disposition, but rather a role she slipped into if the occasion warranted.

There was the real Marcelle that he suspected few people saw, the woman he had known from the start. Caring, sensitive, vulnerable, were words he would use to describe her. Conflicted, lonely, sad, fearful, were other words he wished he didn’t have to use. He longed to help her, but realized her problems were too complex for him. She would have to come to terms with the fact that Jean-Michel was gone for good. The fact that her husband’s clothes hung in the wardrobe, and all his possessions were as he had left them, proved that she was in a state of denial. She needed professional help, but he had seen her reaction when he had suggested it, so that option was unavailable.

Disconsolate, he walked to the study, where the many photos of the young couple graced the walls. He stared at the photos, his gaze pausing on a framed photo showing a sparkling Marcelle and an ecstatic Jean-Michel on their wedding day.

He wished he could restore her to the animated woman in the photos, and he wished she would look at him the way she looked at Jean-Michel. He sank into the high-backed leather chair behind the desk, deep in thought, wanting above all to be with her.

~ . ~

In the hospital, Marcelle fought her way to the surface, trying to break through the woolly fuzziness enclosing her mind. She opened her eyes in the dimly lit room, and tried to focus on her surroundings. Everything remained a blur. Her body felt sore and tender, and she had a throbbing headache. What had happened to her?

She remembered the race, and the fall, and the terrible things the two Dutch women had said to her. She winced inwardly as she recalled how she had hit them, destroying her season in a few seconds. If only Jean-Michel were here, he would know what to do. If only...

At times like these, she realized how much she had relied on her husband. It was a role he had naturally assumed, that of friend, lover and protector, jealous guardian of her well-being. Jean-Michel would have known what to do. He had the right influences, knew the right people.

The powers who held control over her career might try to make an example of her, now that she didn’t have Jean-Michel’s influence to protect her. Her sprinting style had already turned her into a controversial figure, and commentators sometimes called her a reckless bandit, an uncomplimentary name for a sprinter. Now she had given them the perfect opportunity to nail her. And they wouldn’t be content to slap a heavy fine on her. A fine wouldn’t punish a person of her means. No, they would be leaning towards a suspension or a ban.

She didn’t think they could take her win away from her. She had contested the race fairly and engaged in no foul play. The incident had occurred after the prize giving, when the meeting had been technically over, so they couldn’t strip her of her victory unless they wanted to face legal action. And she would be prepared to resort to that, because she had ridden too hard for that win to give it up without a fight.

Marcelle turned onto her side and drew her knees up, shuddering at the thought. She desperately needed someone to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right. She missed Stefan, missed the security of his masculine presence, and his arms around her. If only she could be home, in her own bed, with him holding her tight.

~ . ~

The sound of the elevator roused Stefan. He rushed down the passage, and found a weary Louis Gautier in the living room.

“Where’s Marcelle?” Stefan asked, skidding to a halt.

“We’ve decided to keep her in the hospital for observation, just to be safe. She’s under sedation, so she’s sleeping now.”

“What are her injuries?”

“Concussion, some bruises, and three cracked bones in her right hand. She needed five stitches for the cut on her head.” Doc Louis looked searchingly at his former patient before continuing, “I’ll bring her home tomorrow afternoon. I think it’ll be good for her to be around you, Stefan. She needs you, even if she doesn’t realize it.”

Doc Louis enjoyed a quick cup of coffee with him, before he was on his way again.

Stefan went to bed, cheered by what the doctor had told him. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Marcelle’s face in front of him. He longed to have her sleeping next to him, secure in his arms.

* * * *

Chapter Sixteen

Doc Louis brought a subdued Marcelle home on Monday afternoon. An adhesive dressing above her right eye covered the cut she had sustained, and a white bandage bound her right hand. Her normally graceful movements were stiff and visibly painful, and she looked exhausted, her face pale and drawn. She brightened at the sight of him, and walked into his embrace, wordlessly clinging to him, as if he were the only anchor in the storm that had erupted in her life.

Stefan held her to him for long moments. “You’re safe now,” he whispered into her hair, wishing he never had to let go of her again.

Marcelle rewarded him with a wan smile before extricating herself and heading for her room. She ran a deep bath and relaxed in the hot, fragrant water, eager to wash the smell of the hospital off her skin. Afterwards she dressed in pajamas and went straight to bed. Doc Louis had given her some pain tablets for her headache, and she was asleep within minutes.

The doctor accepted Stefan’s offer of coffee, and each took a seat at the kitchen table.

“I take it she’s in a lot of trouble,” Stefan stated, handing Louis a mug of the steaming brew.

“Well, it’ll take a few days before we know what’s going to happen. She’s under the jurisdiction of the French Professional Cycling Federation, and the incident happened on their territory, so it’ll be up to them to take action against her. However, the UCI, which is the world body, could get involved if the Dutch Federation decides to lay a charge against her. It could snowball if her sponsors decide to end her contract. They hate bad publicity. Then everybody will get on the bandwagon. It’ll be a massacre.”

Louis took a sip of coffee before continuing, “And of course the two victims could try to bring a separate lawsuit against her. Marcelle is a wealthy woman, so it’ll be a tempting possibility for easy money. Our little champion is in a lot of trouble, whatever the reason she decided to hit those two. I know they’ve bothered her in races before, but never has she reacted like this. Did she tell you what they said to her?”

“No. She told me that they said horrible things, but she wasn’t specific.”

“Jean-Michel would have found a way out of this. He always knew what to do. Without him to bail her out, I think she has destroyed her season, and done irreparable damage to her career. We’ll know within a few days what they plan to do. She’ll most likely get a phone call and a letter telling her she has been suspended pending further action.”

“What would Jean-Michel have done?”

“Well, he knew a lot of people in high places, and his status as national hero had some perks, I’m sure you understand. Let’s just say he would’ve stopped at nothing to save her. With his help, she might have received only a rap on the knuckles.” The doctor shrugged and continued, “Without Jean-Michel influence to protect her, things will go badly for Marcelle. She’ll never apologize for her actions, especially if she feels she was right. And if she shows no remorse in front of the disciplinary committee, they’ll throw the book at her.”

After Louis had left, Stefan sat deep in thought, thinking of the many favors he could call in to help Marcelle. Every major figure in the world was indebted to Omega in varying degrees, so he had a wide range from which to choose. It would take some time to set up, however. He picked up his cell phone and punched in the number to reach Karl on the island. It was pay-up time.

~ . ~

Much later, he went to Marcelle’s room, to find her staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“How are you feeling?” He sat on the edge of the bed.

She dragged her eyes from the ceiling. “The headache is better, but my hand hurts quite badly.”

“Not as badly as their faces, I can guarantee you,” he responded with a grin.

He sobered when she didn’t smile. “Why did you hit them? Because they made you fall?”

“They did cause the accident but that’s not why I hit them,” she answered in a small voice.”

“Then why?”

She stared at her bandaged right hand before she spoke, pain in her voice, “They said everybody knew I only married Jean-Michel for his money, and that now he was dead, I had a relationship with his team mate, Claude Cloarec. They said everybody knew I only became world champion because Jean-Michel paid the other riders to let me win....”

“Marcelle,” Stefan said firmly, “they are two small-minded people who are jealous of your success and talent. They would love to believe you had an unfair advantage, because then they would feel less inadequate. They used those accusations to hurt you. You shouldn’t let them get to you.”

She looked at him, her peculiar gray eyes immeasurably sad. “I don’t know why they said that. When I married Jean-Michel, it was for love. Yes, he was a multimillionaire, and he helped me a lot in my career, but if I didn’t have the talent, all his efforts would’ve been for nothing. He didn’t buy the world championships for me. I had to put in the effort to win. Jean-Michel was so happy, and so proud of me. That meant more to me than all the crowds, and the media attention.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’ve seen what’s going on, and I don’t believe those accusations. Those two riders got what they deserved.”

“They called me a murderer, and what they said is no doubt in today’s papers. They’re going to dredge up my so-called dark past all over again. I’ve managed to destroy my season in the space of a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid?” She moved restlessly, uncomfortable with the thought. “I’m facing suspension, if not an outright ban for the rest of the season. Why couldn’t I control my temper?” She took a deep breath. “But those two have been at me for a long time. I hope they’re in pain right now. They deserve it.”