Crossfire (21 page)

“Why do I think this isn’t going to end well?”

“You’re right. At that point, we were both out of control, doing about seventy kilometers an hour. Trying to save himself, Jean-Pierre shoved me away, into the iron guardrails that lined the finish area. Oh man, did I get smashed up.” Marcelle shuddered at the memory. “Jean-Pierre too, but I also had to cope with the guard rails. I don’t remember quite what had happened, because it happened so fast. I can tell you what the result was though. A fractured skull, broken left collarbone, broken left forearm, dislocated jaw, cracked cheekbone, along with plenty of cuts and bruises,” she said with a grimace. “Of course, I was unconscious; and remained so for about five days.”

“So that which you had feared for so long, had finally happened,” Stefan said, putting a sympathetic arm around her shoulders.

Marcelle moved closer to his heat, seeking comfort. “Yes, the problems started in hospital. When I arrived in casualty, the doctors discovered I was female. When they had finished with me, they sent me up to intensive care, and decided that there had been a mistake when admitting me. But later that day, when the race organizers and my father came to the hospital to see how Jean-Pierre and I were doing, the staff told them I was female. From there it was easy for my father to guess I was his illegitimate daughter. I wish I had been awake to see his face. Unfortunately, the race organizers spoke to some reporters, and the story made the newspapers.”

“And that must have been the beginning of the end. The police would follow up a report like that.”

“Yes, they wondered why I would be posing as a male cyclist. They took my fingerprints to establish my identity, and Interpol was informed. When I regained consciousness five days later, my worst fears had come true. Despite my father’s attempts to save me, I was in police custody. The French authorities decided to extradite me as soon as I was well enough to travel. In South Africa, the law would run its course.”

Stefan smiled, hugging her to him. “And yet, here you are.”

“Yes, the police hadn’t reckoned on my friends. Anthony had known for the past year who and what I was, though I hadn’t been aware of it. He had known I was female before he asked me to move in with him, but that’s another story. Even though they couldn’t visit me, Anthony had taken the initiative, and enlisted the help of two of his teammates, Didier Corlay and Sebastien Fontaine, to help free me. Because I was so injured, the police had handcuffed only my right hand to the bed railings, and placed a guard in front of the door. I was on the third floor, so Anthony and his friends used the window-washing pulley system to get to my room, and cut the handcuff chain with a bolt cutter.”

“You have very brave friends. If caught, they would have ended up in jail.”

“I’m sure they knew that, but it didn’t stop them. They smuggled me out through the window, and I asked them to take me to my adopted family in Spain. I knew I would be safe there, because I had never told anyone about my off-season refuge, not even Anthony. My Spanish family knew about my past, and that I was female. They were prepared to shelter me, as I had known they would. I spent the next couple of months there, recovering from my injuries, weighing up my options, but discovering that I didn’t have any. I believed that the single meeting with my father was the most I could have hoped for, and that I would never see him, or Jean-Michel again. I couldn’t have been more wrong, luckily.”

“And this is where Anthony played matchmaker to you and Jean-Michel?”

“Yes. Jean-Michel approached Anthony on a couple of occasions, wanting to know where I was, but Anthony didn’t trust anyone. When I had recovered sufficiently from my injuries, I wrote a long letter to Jean-Michel, which I sent to Anthony. As per my instructions, Anthony posted the letter in Paris, to make it appear as if I was still in France. In the letter, I apologized for my deceit, explaining in detail the events that led up to my stepfather’s death. It was important to me that Jean-Michel understood, though I never expected to see him again, resigning myself to the life of a fugitive.”

“It’s not like you to give up like that, after everything you had been through,” Stefan said sympathetically.

“I guess not, but mentally, I had just collapsed. It had been nearly four years since I killed my stepfather, and I was sick and tired of the deceit and the stress. I just wanted peace and quiet, and live in Spain with my adopted family.”

“But you underestimated Jean-Michel’s response.”

“Yes, he approached the French president, and used my letter as my statement of innocence to prompt further investigation. Two French police detectives travelled to South Africa, and took statements from my mother and past school friends. The statements were enough to convince them that I had acted in self-defense, so the French government refused to extradite me. Jean-Michel used his influence to get French citizenship for me, and freedom from prosecution for life, as long as I never returned to South Africa. My safety assured, Jean-Michel approached Anthony again, this time successfully.”

She smiled, remembering. “When I saw Jean-Michel again...well, I was beside myself with happiness, but no more than he was. I guess it had come as a great relief to him when he found out that I was female. He asked me that same day to marry him, and the move from best friend to wife turned out to be easy. He was the soul mate I had longed for, and I knew my happiness was complete. Though I could never return to South Africa, I didn’t care. Jean-Michel and my father were all I needed. My father’s wife accepted me quite readily, and I got along well with his two children, my half-brother and half-sister, aged ten and twelve.

“It turned out that after my father had turned professional so many years ago, he had been successful, though not Tour de France winner material. At the age of thirty-five, he had retired and opened a chain of bicycle stores. Business had flourished, and at forty-two, he had no financial worries. It was just pure chance that we hadn’t met before, because he often sponsored prestigious cycling races.”

“And did you ever see your mother again?”

“Yes, Jean-Michel arranged for my mother to fly out to see us, and we had a long talk. I told her what had happened that fateful night, and she said she understood, and forgave me. She confessed that she had been afraid for some time that something like that would happen, because she had seen the intensity of my stepfather’s hatred increase over the years.

“Married life agreed with me, and the following season I competed against females at last, and wiped the floor with them. After racing against men for so long, I was way above the females in speed and strength, and aggression. That’s why I still train with the guys, to make sure I don’t lose my edge.”

“And did you compete in the world championships?”

“I did. At the age of twenty, I won the world champs for the first time, and my career took off. Since then I have been world champion twice more. Maybe it could have been four years in a row, but I didn’t compete in the championships the year Jean-Michel crashed, when I was almost twenty-three. After winning world champs, I turned professional, of course. I guess that’s it, the story of my life. Rags to riches. You know the rest.”

Stefan chuckled. “You certainly have a colorful past. And fooling everyone into thinking you’re a boy. Ingenious. So that’s why Richard calls you Michel.”

“He’s not the only one. All of the friends I had then still call me Michel, even Jean-Michel used to forget sometimes. Do you want to see what I looked like then?”

“Sure, do you have a photo?”

“One or two.” Marcelle walked to the oak wall unit, opened one of the cabinets, and extracted a photo album. She brought it to him and sat down. A few flips of the heavy pages followed, and then she offered the album to him. “There’s a photo of all of us together.”

He scrutinized the big color photograph. Five cyclists, dressed in the same team attire, standing astride shining racing bikes. Marcelle was easy to spot, though there was no trace of femininity about her. Shorter than the rest, and slender in comparison to the men around her, she looked like a teenage boy. The latter-day Marcelle didn’t exist in the serious, tanned face of Michel de Wilde. Sharp cheekbones, short blond hair, a slight smile on the lips, misery in the eyes. Her gray eyes were the only way he could identify her, because the boy in the photo bore no other resemblance to the woman beside him on the sofa. Stefan noticed a man standing beside her, a brotherly arm around her shoulders. Blond and muscular, he was two inches taller than she was. Anthony Delamotte, no doubt.

“You don’t look happy there,” he said.

She looked at the photo again. “No, I guess not. But it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes I would forget who I was and have a good time with the rest of the boys. I think I was just particularly depressed that day and feeling alone in a crowd.”

He stared at her, and she squirmed. “What is it?”

“You’ve shown so much courage, and now you’re alone again. Marcelle, you need never feel lonely again if I can help it. I’ll protect you from all the hurt this world can cause, if you’ll let me.”

She didn’t answer, staring back at him for a long moment before she produced a bright smile that looked a little forced. “I might hold you to that, Sir Lancelot.” She took the album from him and replaced it in the cabinet.

Stefan wondered how much of a threat Anthony Delamotte posed now that Marcelle was single again.

She came back to the couch, and sat next to him again. To his surprise, she picked up his right arm and crept in under it. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, pressing quick kiss onto his cheek.

“So am I.” He hugged her to him, reassured. Perhaps Anthony didn’t pose a threat after all.

~ . ~

Later in the morning, they settled in front of the television to watch the news. The prognosis wasn’t good. The Dutch Professional Cycling Federation and its French counterpart had released statements to the press, saying they would take swift action.

Television reporters interviewed the injured cyclists in hospital, though one was barely able to speak through her wired jaw. They made Marcelle appear the villain, brushing over the fact that she had also spent a night in hospital.

She made no comment on the broadcasts, watching the screen intently, listening to everything. He put an arm around her shoulders, and she responded by moving closer to him, seeking his warmth and security. Her need for physical contact and comfort was clear, and he realized she was susceptible to his attentions. Had he been a lesser man, he might have taken advantage of it. But he was Stefan Nikolai Ziegler, a man of honor, he told himself.

~ . ~

After lunch, they found a good movie to watch. Marcelle fell asleep soon after the movie started, leaning against his shoulder, exhausted from the day’s activities.

After a while, Stefan made her comfortable, lifting her legs onto the couch, and putting a pillow on his lap for her head. She stretched luxuriously, and with a contented sigh fell into a deep sleep. He used the remote to turn the sound down, and watched the rest of the movie.

After it had finished, he switched to the CNN news channel, and occupied himself with world events. Marcelle still slept, and he idly ran his fingers through her smooth hair while he watched the screen.

An hour or so later Stefan heard the sound of the elevator descending to the garage. No doubt Louis Gautier, he thought. The doors of the elevator opened, and his greeting died on his lips.

It wasn’t Doc Louis standing there, but a slender man of medium height, with black hair and an olive skin. The man nearly dropped the parcels he held in his arms, his dark eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Stefan sitting intimately with a sleeping Marcelle.

Stefan recognized him as Claude Cloarec, and the recognition was mutual.

“You!” Claude gasped.

“Nice to see you too, Claude,” he replied, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

Marcelle woke and sat up, rubbing sleepy eyes.

“Claude’s here,” Stefan said.

Her gray eyes widened, and she was instantly awake. At the sight of the racing driver, she jumped up and ran into his arms, overjoyed. “Oh Claude, I’m so happy to see you. When did you get back?”

The Frenchman’s dark features broke into a smile. “I caught the first flight when I heard what had happened. I got here about half an hour ago. How are you?”

She sobered and stood back. “Fine, I guess, under the circumstances.”

He took her bandaged right hand in his and examined it closely. “Is it broken?”

“No, just cracked. It’ll get better soon.”

“How many times have I told you never to hit anything harder than your hand?” The twinkle in his eyes softened his words. “It would’ve been better if you had hit her on the nose, or the eye.”

“I wasn’t thinking, Claude. All I wanted to do was smash her face in,” she answered with downcast eyes.

He was immediately repentant, and pulled her into his embrace again. “I didn’t mean it like that. Thanks for defending our honor.”

She remembered Stefan, and turned back to him. “Forgive my manners, let me introduce you. This is...”

“We already know each other,” Claude interrupted her, ignoring the mercenary’s outstretched hand.

Stefan cursed under his breath, dropping his hand to his side. Clearly, Claude did not intend to play the game.