Crossfire (29 page)

Marcelle hadn’t moved, and he gathered her in his arms, sheet and all. “Everything’s going to be all right. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a warm bath, I promise.”

She didn’t answer him. Tremors shook her body, reminding him acutely of that first night when she had shared his bed. He thought she had to be in shock. He sat her on the edge of the bath and tested the water, closing the taps. After removing the sheet, he lowered her into the fragrant bubbles. She groaned in discomfort, and he could only imagine how sore she must be feeling. The shivering seemed better, and she opened her eyes to focus listlessly on her surroundings. The fear in her eyes had gone, leaving only indifference.

Stefan knelt next to the bath and picked up a face cloth and a bottle of body wash. He dribbled some of the soap onto the cloth and handed it to her, but she made no move to take it. With a sigh, he gently started washing her body, wincing when he saw the bruises on her wrists and upper arms.

He washed every inch of her traumatized body before he pulled her back to her feet, and wrapped a large towel around her. He picked her up and carried her back to the bedroom, settling her on the chair in front of her dressing table.

“Please talk to me,” he begged when she still showed no response to him. “We washed it all off. Please, Marcelle, talk to me.” Stefan felt desperate. For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do, or who to turn to for help.

It wasn’t rape, was it? They had spent the night together after all, even if she had thought he was someone else. Though he had no memory of what had transpired after she had rejected him this morning, the bruises on her body were enough evidence to accuse him. He had taken her against her will. He had raped her. He was terrified she would snap at any moment, sure that he had dealt her a major psychological blow, and destroyed her tenuous hold on emotional stability.

He walked to her closet to find clothes in which to dress her.

“I can dress myself, Stefan. Why don’t you take a shower?”

He whipped around to look at her. She seemed more in touch with her surroundings, but he could see the memory of her ordeal in her eyes.

“I won’t be long. If you’re sure you’ll be all right?”

She nodded, motioning him away.

He took his firearm from the bedside table before leaving, and closed the door behind him. Back in his own room, he took a quick shower, eager to wash the stench of his betrayal off his skin. He dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, but left his feet bare. Then he went to the kitchen and switched the kettle on for tea, hoping to cheer her with the brew.

Approximately fifteen minutes had passed by the time he knocked on her door and depressed the handle. Marcelle had been standing at the window, staring out at the beautiful day, but she turned when she heard him entering the room. She had dressed in jeans and trainers, and a T-shirt showed beneath her open team jacket. The significance of her attire didn’t dawn on him right then. She was still pale, but he spotted a flicker of interest in her eyes when she saw the steaming mugs of tea.

Without speaking, he handed her a mug. She murmured her thanks and carried it back to the sofa, sitting down gingerly. He noticed that she moved with difficulty, as if her muscles were sore and stiff. He cursed himself again for what he had done, wishing he could undo the damage of the past twelve hours.

He followed her to the sofa, but sat on the coffee table, resting his forearms on his knees, facing her. She kept her eyes down, refusing to look at him as she sipped the sweet tea.

He waited until she had finished, and took the mug from her, putting it on the table next to his own empty mug. “Please, look at me.” He reached out a hand to tilt her face up towards him. His chest ached when he saw the shame in her eyes. “Marcelle, I don’t know what to say to you. What I did was unforgivable. I don’t know what happened. There’s nothing I can say to defend myself...” Stefan was shocked to hear his voice break with emotion as his eyes flooded with tears. He didn’t attempt to wipe them away as they rolled down his face. “God knows I’m not perfect, but I love you, please believe me. I don’t expect you to forgive me now, but perhaps one day...?” He saw the shock in her eyes at the sight of his breakdown, but he didn’t care, dropping his face into his hands as sobs racked his body.

He cried for all the lost years before he knew Marcelle, and for all the empty years without her that now stretched ahead. He cried because he had betrayed his friend, Jean-Michel. Most of all, he cried for the pain he had inflicted on the woman he loved, desperately wishing he could undo it somehow.

Gradually he became aware of her presence. Her hands gently pulled his clenched fists from his wet face, and he took courage from this gesture, wrapping his arms around her waist, desperately seeking comfort.

Marcelle’s own eyes were dry as she stood between his parted knees, and pulled him closer. She buried her fingers in the mercenary’s luxurious blond hair as she held his face to her frozen breast, and listened to his sobs. They were the suppressed, painful sobs of a strong man not accustomed to crying. She offered him no false words of comfort, but held him as a mother would her child, absorbing his pain. His weeping had touched something deep inside her frozen heart, but she couldn’t forget the rage and cruelty she had seen in his eyes.

The mercenary was two people, she realized. He could switch to the savage Stefan in a second, and her disgust and rejection that morning had triggered it off in him. She had been wrong. It had taken two to tango last night, and from the mercenary’s reaction, she realized that she had instigated affairs. He had gone along with her wishes, not realizing she had thought he was Jean-Michel.

She remembered waking from a beautiful dream, in which she had been making love to Jean-Michel. Upon finding Stefan in bed next to her, she had somehow thought he was her husband.

But no matter what fault she had in the whole affair, Stefan’s reaction had been unwarranted and inappropriate. Whereas another man, a normal one, she had to add, would perhaps have resorted to a shouting match, he had turned violent, and had raped her. In doing so, he had destroyed the bond they had shared until now, and he had lost the power to keep the ice away. Even now, she could feel icy tendrils reclaiming her body inch by inch, and she could hear her lungs crackling as they fought to expand against the ice filling her chest.

Eventually Stefan calmed down and was quiet, though he still hugged both arms around her waist, trying to draw comfort from her closeness. She drew away first, and looked down at his face, seeing the pain in his eyes. If she could forgive him, he might be able to regain his power over the ice.

“Stefan, I realize that I haven’t been fair to you. Please, just give me some time to think.” She clenched her jaw until it hurt, trying to keep her teeth from chattering against the intense cold.

Hope dawned in his eyes as he rose, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands. “You mean it? You could forgive me?”

A loud horn sounded outside.

“The team’s here,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I have to go. We can talk when I get back.”

“Marcelle, you can’t race. You can’t leave in your condition.” He rushed to intercept her as she crossed to her bags waiting in one corner of the room. He grabbed her upper arm, but let go immediately when he saw her wince. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please don’t go. Don’t leave me like this.”

His arguments couldn’t sway her. “I have commitments, contracts I have to honor. I have to race, no matter what happens in my personal life.” She couldn’t tell him that racing offered her a chance to drive the ice away again, even if just for a few hours.

The horn blew again, more impatient this time. She turned from him and gathered up her bags, brooking no further argument. When he saw her determination, he picked up the remaining bags and carried them to the elevator for her.

She tried a smile that failed miserably. “We’ll talk when I get back. It’s just a few days, Stefan, I’ll be fine.”

He nodded, feeling shattered. She stepped into the elevator, and the doors closed.

~ . ~

Stefan crossed to the window, and watched the activities below. He saw the Ultima-Fabelta team bus, a custom-built luxury liner painted in the purple and green colors of the team. A faint cheer came from the bus as their leader appeared, wheeling a bike in front of her. Pierre-Henri jumped out, and took the bike. Another helper disappeared into the garage and came out carrying Marcelle’s bags.

He watched as she hugged some of her teammates who had disembarked from the bus. He marveled at her ability to act. No one would guess what had happened, looking at her.

He worried that she planned to deal with the rape the same way she had dealt with the dead man at the post office, by simply denying it had ever happened.

A few minutes later, he heard the powerful engine of the bus starting up. He strained his eyes, but couldn’t see Marcelle through the tinted windows of the luxury vehicle as it headed for the gate. A terrible sense of unease settled on him as he watched the bus disappear up the road.

Too sickened by what he had done to eat, he skipped breakfast, and returned instead to the master bedroom. Shame burned inside him as he stripped the sheets from the bed, and saw the stains on the bottom sheet. He carried the soiled bedding to the laundry room and bundled everything into the washing machine, adding a few generous scoops of soap powder.

Next, he went to the linen cupboard and found clean bedding. He remade the bed, tidied the bedroom, and took the empty mugs back to the kitchen. He rinsed them in the sink, and sighed. He had nothing more to do. Now it was just him and his guilt, in the empty apartment.

He prowled around the apartment for half an hour until the washing machine had completed its cycle. The sheets now showed no evidence of his repulsive act, and he wished he could wash his crimes away as easily. He bundled the damp sheets into the dryer and switched it on.

He walked to the kitchen and sat at the table, lost in thought. A while later he heard his cell phone ring. He rushed to his bedroom, and grabbed it, pressing the button that sent a warbling shriek down the line. The same came back, after which he held the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Stefan?” It was Karl.

“Yes, what is it?” he said, switching to German.

“We’ve found our friends. What do you want to do?”

He thought about it for a moment. He had to deal with Ahmed Rashid and his comrades, because they could pose a threat to Marcelle in the future. He could leave a note asking her to contact him upon her return. “I want you to tell the men here in Paris to collect me at this address within the hour. I’ll accompany them to the airport. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

He walked to the study and sat at the desk, searching for writing paper in the drawers. He found some, and picking up a pen, he started composing a letter.

Ten minutes later, he had written only two lines. He tried again to concentrate on the letter. The words wouldn’t flow. Anything he wrote sounded empty and clichéd.

Eventually he wrote a short note, telling Marcelle he had to leave, and asking her to call him at La Montagne when she got back. He wrote down the number where she could reach him, and wondered if she would bother. If she didn’t, he would phone her, he thought as he slipped the note into an envelope.

He put the envelope on the kitchen counter, balancing it against the coffee machine. She would be sure to find it there.

Then he went back to his room and dressed in his own black jeans and boots. He strapped the black money-belt around his waist before pulling on one of Jean-Michel’s black shirts and tucking it into his jeans. The knife and scabbard went around his ankle and the twin 9mm pistols into their holsters. He shrugged into the black leather jacket Marcelle had given him, and glanced around to see if he had forgotten anything. Satisfied, he tidied the room, and went to the laundry room. He took the bedding out of the dryer, and folded the sheets and pillowcases neatly before leaving them in a neat pile on top of the machine.

It felt good to have a purpose in life again, even if it involved settling a score with his enemies. His appetite had returned, and he made himself toast with coffee. Then he walked to the window in the living room, and looked towards the road. His men would arrive any minute.

He returned to the kitchen and rinsed his cup and plate, glancing around a final time before he headed for the elevator. But as he passed by the counter, his leather jacket caught the corner of the envelope balanced against the coffee machine, and dragged it off the counter. The envelope spiraled for a second in the flurry of his passing, before it slipped underneath one of the fridges, leaving only a white corner visible.

He strode briskly to the gate. A car pulled up just as he arrived, and he recognized Heinrich Schmidt’s blond head immediately. He said goodbye to the guards before he got into the car.

Heinrich shook Stefan’s hand, permitting himself a rare smile. “Good to see you in one piece, Boss,” he said gruffly.

Stefan nodded. “Yes, this one was too close for comfort.”

The two men sitting in the back reached forward to shake his hand. Olivier Brochard and Gilles Bertoux were ex-members of the French Airborne division. The two French mercenaries greeted him awkwardly, trying to banish emotion from their voices. Despite their hard faces, they were all glad to see him alive.