Crossfire (31 page)

Now she wondered if she had initiated sex that night. Perhaps it had been Stefan, and when she had shown such disgust next morning, he had savagely raped her, enforcing his will by brute strength. He had probably enjoyed doing it, she thought, shuddering at the memory.

His grief afterwards had been false. He hadn’t cared that he had raped her. Most likely rape came naturally to a man such as him. She wasn’t the first, and wouldn’t be the last. Claude had been right. The mercenary was a monster, a ruthless killer who cared for no one but himself.

Her heart tried to find a defense for him. Perhaps he had left because she had been unable to forgive him. Maybe it was her fault. But the condemning factor was the fact that the Omega mercenaries had appeared on the scene only a few hours after her departure. How could she explain that?

She was too stunned to feel anger at his betrayal. Her heart was frozen. She was alone. Claude was in Australia, due to compete in the Grand Prix next weekend. He would come to her, if she asked him to, but she couldn’t bring herself to pick up the phone. She remembered how she had disregarded his warnings about Stefan, allowing the mercenary to come between her and one of her few true friends.

When she roused herself from her confused reverie, it was after ten, and dusk had fallen. She pushed herself to her feet with an effort, picked up her bags, and carried them to her bedroom.

When she had finished unpacking, she took her soiled clothes to the laundry room next to the kitchen. She immediately noticed the folded blue bedclothes on top of the dryer.

Stefan had washed the bedclothes, just as he had given her a bath after his hideous act. That way there was no physical evidence, just in case she thought of pressing charges.

Giving her the gun, inviting her to kill him, had been just a ploy to see how she would react. She had been too shocked to check if it was loaded. Now she was sure it hadn’t been. If she had pulled the trigger, her only reward would have been a dry click. She was sure what his reaction to that would have been. The fact that she had saved his life would have meant nothing to a merciless killer as he was.

Marcelle ran a deep bath, and added antiseptic to the water. She sank into the hot water, desperate to wash the terrible ordeal off her skin. If only she could wipe the last five weeks out of her memory. If only she had left Stefan to die at the post office. If only...

If only Jean-Michel hadn’t died, and left her to face the world alone. She pressed a clenched fist to her mouth, trying to keep her grief inside her. She cried alone, her sobs echoing back at her in the silence.

~ . ~

Marcelle got out of the bath after midnight, her eyes puffy from crying. She dressed in the pajamas Claude had given her, trying to draw comfort from the garments. Not satisfied, she took a worn leather jacket that had belonged to Jean-Michel out of the wardrobe. She put the jacket on over her pajamas, feeling a bit more secure.

Exhaustion dragged at her body, but the thought of sleeping in the bed where Stefan had raped her, made her sick. She went to a spare bedroom, and climbed into bed, drawing the covers around her neck. She would sleep here, and get decorators to redo the master bedroom.

She didn’t want any trace of Stefan’s presence to remain in her life, and hoped the memories would fade in time.

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If you enjoyed this eBook, be on the lookout for
Crossfire: Fire & Ice
, the second book in the Crossfire Trilogy. Can Stefan find his way back into Marcelle’s heart?

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Excerpt from
Crossfire: Fire & Ice

Marcelle fought the bonds of sleep, apprehension running up and down her spine. But she couldn’t wake up, powerless against the dream that held her in an unbreakable grip. She heard Jean-Michel’s car approaching, and started running towards the track, waving her arms to stop him. He flashed by, unaware of the warning she shouted.

Moments later she found herself somewhere on the track, and his car came around the corner at tremendous speed. He cried out in surprise before his car went into an unrecoverable spin. His car became airborne, and hit the wall with a tremendous crash. It sounded like a sonic boom, and the shockwave smashed her into the ground.

The car burst into flames, and she could hear Jean-Michel’s screams coming from within the wreck. She tried to get to her feet, to go to him, but something or someone pinned her to the ground. She struggled to get free, frantic to get to her husband, but the weight of the person on top of her became heavier, and in the dream, she opened her eyes.

The glittering blue eyes staring down at her was familiar, and filled her with terror. She felt him tearing the clothes from her body, and forcing her thighs apart. A frozen lance invaded her, tearing into her shocked body while Jean-Michel’s cries rose to a crescendo.

Suddenly Jean-Michel was quiet. The soft surface and familiar smells told Marcelle she was in her own bed again, but the violation continued. To her horror, she felt herself beginning to respond, wrapping her legs around the stranger as he thrust into her. She closed her eyes and heard her own moans mingling with the grunts of the stranger above her.

A feeling that they were no longer alone came to her, and she opened her eyes again. Jean-Michel stood next to the bed, clad in racing overalls, watching them with shock in his eyes. Watching as she gave to another man what had been his alone.

Marcelle reached out to him, calling his name, but his face became cold and unforgiving as he turned away from her. She watched his receding back with horrified eyes as he walked out the door.

She fought against the stranger on top of her, but he would have none of it. He put his cold blue eyes close to hers and said, “I can have you, lady, anytime I want to, whether you like it or not.” He climaxed, and she felt him filling her with ice. The ice radiated from her centre to the rest of her body, threatening to smother her, cutting off her breathing. Sated, the stranger collapsed onto her, becoming impossibly heavy, crushing her into the bed. Screaming in fear and rage, she pushed at him, desperate to break free and find Jean-Michel.

Marcelle woke when she hit the floor with a hard thump. Though she could hear herself screaming, she couldn’t stop, beside herself with terror. She struggled to her feet, trying to shake off the ice that crushed her to the ground. But it was impossible, because the ice was inside her. She crawled on her belly to get out of the room, away from the terror. In the passage, she stopped for a moment, trying to get her breathing under control, shuddering with revulsion at the memory of the dream. Her head spun from the excess of carbon dioxide bubbling in her blood. She tried to turn on her side, and lost consciousness.

~ . ~

Marcelle woke the next morning with her face buried in the plush carpeting of the passage. Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she wondered at the blood she saw on the carpet. She glanced back towards the bedroom, and saw dark stains on the sheets. Closer examination revealed that the stains were blood. She looked down at her body and found numerous scratches on her arms and legs. The blood under her fingernails accused her, and she realized the scratches were self-inflicted, no doubt when she “fought off” her attacker.

She remembered the look on Jean-Michel’s face when he had “found” her in bed with her rapist. Guilt threatened to overwhelm her. Though she knew it wasn’t real, the emotions evoked felt real to her. Believing she could put Stefan’s terrible deed behind her now seemed ludicrous. Her subconscious had added the new trauma to the old trauma, producing a new nightmare to torment her nights. But not if she was too tired to dream.

A change of scenery might do the trick. Nothing could rival the exhaustion produced by a day of strenuous climbing in the Alps. She would phone Didier Corlay, Sebastien Fontaine and Anthony Delamotte and ask them to join her for a training camp. It would only be for about two weeks, and she would ask Pierre-Henri to excuse her from any further racing. She needed time to get herself back together. But first, she had to arrange to have her bedroom redecorated, and the carpet in the passage replaced. Perhaps if everything looked different, she would forget what had happened there.

She dialed Marc Morelle’s number. He could transform her bedroom in her absence. She had known him a few years, and his work came highly recommended.

~ . ~