Crossfire (7 page)

She tilted back in the leather chair, and swung her feet up on the desk. She took the photo of Jean-Michel and propped it against her bare thighs. Her husband’s handsome face laughed back at her, his warm brown eyes dancing mischievously. She gazed at the picture, the hunger to feel his warm flesh under her fingertips threatening to consume her. Her fingers brushed over the cold glass of the portrait, tracing the line of Jean-Michel’s strong jaw, touching the firm outline of his lips. His even white teeth contrasted with his tanned complexion, with the usual five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. Rebellious black hair fell onto his forehead, and she longed to push the glossy locks back, as she so often did.

Jean-Michel had been a fun-loving, generous person who had viewed the world with childlike innocence. The champion driver had believed he could do anything with his powerful Formula One car, and walk away from an accident.

No doubt, his fearlessness had led to his death. He had pushed the car further and further, until the laws of physics ceased to support him. But Marcelle knew her husband hadn’t been ready to die. Watching him trying to fight the inevitable remained a major source of her pain. She hugged the portrait to her chest, her thoughts straying back to a time when they were happy, and together. Minutes later, she was lost in her world of memories as she detached herself from the present. Eventually she fell asleep, resting snugly in the big chair.

She often slept in the study when she felt too uneasy to go to bed, fearful of the nightmares waiting in her subconscious. When she slept in the chair, her sleep was never deep enough for dreams.

~ . ~

Marcelle woke four hours later, feeling terrible. While she had slept, the ice had taken hold again, and she shivered from the chill in her chest. She sat up, and replaced the picture on the desk. Her heart fluttered like a trapped little bird, and she found it hard to breathe. She stumbled to the door of the study. The apartment was dark and quiet, adding to her panic. She put a hand to her chest, trying to still her breathing, but it only made things worse. For a second she wondered if she should try another session in the gym, but instinctively knew she had passed the point of no return. The ice would have to run its course, but she didn’t want to face it alone. Even sitting with a sleeping Stefan would provide some comfort.

The moon shone through the open curtains, lighting the room in a silvery glow as she entered. Stefan was asleep. She felt guilty about disturbing his rest, and considered leaving, but the ice had already penetrated her entire body. She collapsed onto the carpet next to the bed, crushed to the ground by the weight of the ice. Frantic with fear, she reached up for Stefan’s hand, desperate for a link to carry her back to sanity.

~ . ~

Stefan wasn’t sure if he had woken because of the cold hand that gripped his hand, or because of the labored breathing coming from the carpet next to his bed. It took him a moment to orientate himself and see Marcelle lying on the carpet. She seemed to be in some kind of distress, and he could hear her breathing coming in shallow gasps. He reversed the grip of the icy hand clutching his, and tried to pull her towards him. She was on his good side, but he didn’t have the strength to lift her inert weight.

“Marcelle, what’s wrong? Let me help you.” He tried a few more times before he seemed to make an impression on her. She looked up at him, and he drew a sharp breath at the suffering etched on her features. Her pupils were huge, obliterating the color of her eyes, looking like black holes descending into hell. Her mouth was wide open, sucking in shallow breaths that seemed insubstantial. Though she had clearly come to him for help, she had collapsed before she could wake him.

He tried again to pull her onto the bed. “Please Marcelle, you have to help me. I can’t lift you.”

She shook her head. “Can’t move...ice...too heavy...too cold.”

What that meant he couldn’t even imagine. He tried to tempt her. “I’m warm. I can melt the ice. If you can get to me, you can be warm too.”

Some of that seemed to get through to her. The hopeful look on her face made him feel wretched. She pulled her hand from his, and used both hands to try to push herself to her feet. After a few failed attempts, she made it to her knees. He lifted the covers invitingly. Moving like an old woman, she managed to crawl onto the bed, and curl up next to him. He covered her with the blankets, using his good arm to pull her closer to him, so that she was nearly on top of him, fully in contact with his warm body.

The sensation was unpleasant, because her skin was ice-cold, and the violent tremors that shook her body caused him great discomfort. He pressed her head against his chest, trying to soothe her. “Shhh. You’ll be warm soon. Try to take deeper breaths. Breathe a little slower.” He could sense her trying to comply, but she didn’t have enough control yet. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

She tried to speak, but between the rapid breathing and chattering teeth, she had no chance, and gave up, instead pressing her body closer to his, as if she wanted to get beneath his skin.

Stefan realized her affliction would have to run its course before he would get anything out of her. He stroked her hair while whispering soothing words, trying to ignore the twin points of her nipples pressing against his chest.

She calmed down in stages. The shaking became less and finally stopped, as did the chattering teeth. The tension started leaving her, though he noticed that every few minutes she would flinch, and cry out against his chest, as if some sharp pain tormented her. But eventually her breathing slowed and became more substantial as she relaxed against him. A glance at the bedside clock told him that the entire process had taken nearly an hour. Her skin was warmer, but still she squirmed against him, trying to get closer to his heat. He didn’t mind, though his wounds protested against the movement and friction.

He jumped in surprise when her knee pushed in between his thighs, so that her bare thigh pressed against his penis. Blood immediately rushed to the site, and apparently, she enjoyed the heat, because she rubbed her thigh harder against it, the movement sending pleasurable sensations through his groin. While he wondered what to do about it, her breathing deepened as she fell asleep.

Stefan relaxed his grip and allowed her to slide off his body, settling her next to him with her head in the crook of his arm. He lay awake for a long time, thinking. Though he would never tell her so, he had seen enough television interviews of Marcelle to remember the woman she used to be. He had always thought her attractive, though not classically beautiful. Her beauty came from the peculiar gray eyes that reflected her every emotion, and the rosy lips that could curve in an easy smile.

Now that he had met her, he sensed that she had changed in a few subtle ways. While the smile was still there, it couldn’t erase the sadness in her eyes. He remembered the massive television coverage of the funeral. Marcelle had collapsed at the graveside, and an ambulance had rushed her to hospital. She had remained there for a week. Still, all this had happened more than two years ago. By now, she should have shaken the effects of the tragedy. But this evening’s episode pointed to some serious problems, no doubt related to her husband’s death, and he wasn’t sure how to help her.

The unaccustomed activity had tired him out, and it wasn’t long before sleep claimed him once more. He didn’t resist, comforted by the warm female body snuggled so trustingly against him.

~ . ~

Marcelle woke during the night, feeling warm and light. There was no trace of the ice, and she remembered the painful process as Stefan’s body heat had banished the cold. She had heard the ice cracking and popping as it melted, but it had left its sting as the blood supply returned to her heart and lungs. The pain had been excruciating, but it wasn’t the pain of defeat, rather of rebirth. Stefan’s voice had soothed and encouraged her throughout, and she instinctively knew that they now shared a bond that could never be broken. He had healed her. She fell asleep again, warm and secure.

~ . ~

Stefan woke early. He gazed at Marcelle’s sleeping face, marveling at her long eyelashes, and her skin that was so smooth it didn’t appear to have any pores. She nestled in the crook of his right arm, clinging to him in sleep, her right arm embracing his chest, a careless leg draped across his lower body. Her firm breasts pressed against the side of his chest, and while he enjoyed it, he was sure she would feel embarrassed when she awoke. The warm womanly scent of her body, mingled with the floral scent of her shampoo, left him wishing for a few more hours of her company. He drew a deep breath, trying to imprint the memory on his consciousness.

Marcelle sighed, and her eyes opened slowly, as if unwilling to return to the real world. They widened as she saw him, and realized how intimately she had intertwined her body with his. She immediately started to disentangle herself, though she was careful not to hurt his wounds.

A soft blush appeared on her cheeks when she noticed him watching her. “Sorry...I...I didn’t mean...I hope...I didn’t hurt you.”

He smiled. “I hope you’re feeling better this morning.”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine now.” Embarrassment clouded her tones as she pushed back the covers.

He reached out with his right hand to stay her a moment. “What happened to you last night?”

She hesitated. “Sometimes I have bad dreams. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. Thank you for comforting me.”

The answer didn’t satisfy him. Last night had pointed to more than just a bad dream, but before he could pursue the subject, the sound of the elevator intruded. It was Louis Gautier.

She used the diversion to free herself from his grip. “We must have overslept. I have to get some training in while the doc’s here.” With that, she fled to her bedroom.

Marcelle had just closed her bedroom door when she heard Louis’ voice in the passage.

“Morning, chéri,” he greeted her cheerily. “Are you ready to go?”

She opened her door to a crack. “Hi Doc, I’m sorry I overslept. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”

“Of course, no problem,” Louis answered, entering Stefan’s room.

Marcelle sighed in relief, not ready to face the doctor in her disheveled state, nor did she want him to know that she had spent the night in a strange man’s arms. She hoped Stefan would be discreet. But nothing had happened between them.

Then why was she so flushed, she accused herself as she walked to her dressing table. She sat on the stool, picked up her brush and started restoring order to her tangled hair. The high color in her cheeks accused her even more, and she flung the brush down, breathing hard, furious with herself. She had suffered a massive panic attack last night, and Stefan had helped her. He had melted the ice, and healed her. That’s all that happened. Then why did she feel so guilty?

Feeling anxious, she rummaged in the gold inlaid jewelry box on her dressing table, looking for her wedding ring. Due to the weight she had lost during preseason training in Spain, the ring had felt too loose on her finger, so she had taken it off, fearing she might lose it.

Her fingers failed to locate the ring, so she took dumped the contents of the jewelry box on her bed, feeling a small stab of alarm. She searched though the many items of jewelry with feverish fingers. But the ring was gone.

She sank to her knees beside the bed, beside herself with panic. She clearly remembered placing her wedding ring in the jewelry box. Was this a sign, some kind of punishment because she had taken a strange man into her house?

She went through her jewelry again, and though she still failed to find her ring, she discovered that one of her gold chains had also disappeared. And then it dawned on her. On Sunday morning, before leaving for the race, she had threaded one of her chains through the ring so that she could wear it around her neck for the race.

She had not lost the ring during the race, because she remembered kissing it after crossing over the line. And when she had climbed into her car, she had adjusted it so that it hung outside her clothing, instead of under her shirt. And that was the last time she touched it.

Could she have lost it at the post office? Her breath caught in her throat as the horror and the danger of it dawned on her. At the same time, she realized the hopelessness of her plight. It was Saturday. If the delicate chain had snapped when she slid over the tiles at the post office, the chance of the ring still being there, a week later, was remote at best. But she would never forgive herself if she didn’t try to find it.

~ . ~

Louis raised his eyebrows when Marcelle entered the kitchen. She wore baggy blue jeans, black flat-heeled shoes, a navy sweater and a blue silk scarf knotted loosely around her neck. This was her standard uniform when she didn’t want to be recognized, and the doctor knew it.

“And now, chéri? I thought you wanted to go for a ride?”

“I’m sorry. I’ll put in two hours on the stationary bike this afternoon.”

“You’re very pale. Are you okay?”

“No,” Marcelle said, reaching up with a trembling hand to touch her face. “I’ve lost my wedding ring.”

“But you haven’t worn it in months. We all thought that was a good sign.”

“I stopped wearing it because it was too big on my finger. But I wore it on a chain around my neck for the race last Sunday. I think I lost it at the post office.”