Crossfire (9 page)

A gate loomed in front of her headlights, but opened automatically in response to the transponder installed in her car. But as the gate swung shut behind her, a thick reinforced steel slab rose from a slot in the road, blocking the way completely for the car behind her. And she knew that as soon as the blue car passed a predetermined point, another reinforced steel barrier would rise behind them, preventing them from reversing back.

The barriers would remain up for fifteen minutes before dropping down to reveal the steel gate and another no exit sign. Many a paparazzi had suffered the same fate as the blue car, and if questioned, staff would always say the tunnel had been clearly marked no exit. She laughed shakily, relieved at her escape.

But it wasn’t over yet. Now that she knew the criminals somehow had knowledge of the Ferrari, she couldn’t risk driving it any longer. The tunnel exited through another gate in a quiet side road, and Marcelle drove a few blocks to another parking garage. She ascended to the third level, and drove to a double garage door. As her car approached the door, the steel pillars in front of the door sank into circular holes in the floor, and the garage door opened. She drove into the interior, and parked next to a black Aston Martin DB7 V12 Vantage Coupe, another of Jean-Michel’s cars.

The garage door closed behind the Ferrari as Marcelle cut the engine. She allowed herself ten seconds to savor her relief before she climbed out of the Ferrari, and felt under the bumper of the Aston Martin for the keys. They were there, as she knew they would be, and she used them to unlock the vehicle. She emptied all personal possessions from the Ferrari, dumping everything, including her scarf, into the trunk of the Aston Martin.

She locked the Ferrari, and hid the key under the bumper. Then she caressed the smooth bonnet of the car, and whispered, “Till we meet again, sweetheart. I’ll come back with a truck to bring you home.” She took a dustsheet from a shelf, and spread it over the Ferrari.

Then she walked to a closet against the wall, and opened it. Several jackets and changes of clothing hung in the closet, for her and Jean-Michel. She fingered some of his shirts lovingly before selecting a blouse and a pair of slacks for herself. The only thing she kept of her original outfit was her boots and her underwear. She added a stylish jacket to her outfit, and selected a knitted cap to cover her hair. She also grabbed a different pair of sunglasses to complete her outfit, and added her discarded clothing to the items already in the trunk of the Aston Martin.

Barely ten minutes had passed by the time she had finished, and Marcelle climbed into the black car, chased by a sense of urgency. The powerful roar of the Aston Martin filled the garage. She leaned out of the car window and pressed a button on the wall to open the garage door. The metal barriers slid back into the floor as she reversed out of the garage. As soon as she was a safe distance away, the double door closed, and the steel pillars rose from their sockets.

Marcelle drove to the exit, secure in the knowledge that she had protected her identity. The registration number of the Ferrari would lead searchers a merry paper chase to a dummy corporation and an empty lot somewhere outside Paris. Jean-Michel had jealously protected her privacy, and his own, and she was grateful.

~ . ~

Doc Louis’ eyebrows rose at the sight of her changed appearance when she entered the kitchen. “And now?”

Marcelle took a seat at the breakfast nook. “I ran into trouble, and had to make use of Jean-Michel’s escape routes.”

“Oh no, chéri. That doesn’t sound good. What happened?”

Marcelle told him everything, which seemed to upset him even more, even though she triumphantly displayed her wedding ring. “Don’t worry,” she said to reassure him, “I won’t drive the Ferrari for a year. I’m sure by then everything would have blown over.”

“I’m not so sure. They sound quite determined. Are you going to tell him about it?”

Marcelle shook her head. “No, this remains between us.”

“But maybe he can help.”

“I don’t need his help. I have dealt with the problem.”

“But chéri…”

“That’s my last word on the subject. Please respect my decision.”

Louis raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “No need to get upset. We’ll pretend it never happened. Now, would you like a cup of coffee?”

* * * *

Chapter Nine

It was Sunday night, exactly two weeks since the ambush. Stefan lay on a couch in the living room, watching television. The dominating feature in the room was the huge television screen, set in a heavy oak wall unit. The unit also housed a satellite decoder, a DVD Player and a sophisticated hi-fi, with six speakers at strategic points around the room. Jean-Michel had loved music, and the cabinets of the wall unit contained an extensive collection of compact discs.

The massive screen didn’t look out of place in the large room, and the luxurious black leather furniture, thick gray carpet, and silver gray drapes spoke of wealth and good taste. In a corner of the room, a wide staircase led to the next floor.

Marcelle sat on the carpet, servicing a bike she had brought up from the garage. Normally she would have worked in the fully equipped tool room downstairs. For her guest’s sake, she had brought everything upstairs, working on a blanket so that she didn’t stain the carpet.

Stefan wore a tracksuit that had belonged to Jean-Michel. The young widow had made some of her husband’s clothes available to him, transferring suitable items to the closet in his room. She had also given him some unopened toiletries, bought absent-mindedly when shopping a few months after Jean-Michel’s death.

The racing driver had been a man with expensive tastes, similar to his own, but Stefan wasn’t comfortable wearing the dead Frenchman’s clothing. He worried that it might affect Marcelle adversely to see a man dressed in her husband’s clothing, and smelling like him too.

But she had made no comment, though he had more than once caught her eyes on him, when she thought he wasn’t looking. Since last Saturday, when they had woken up together, he had tried in vain to get her to talk about her problems. She had sidestepped the issue every time.

The atmosphere in the room was comfortable. They had eaten supper an hour ago. She had made them a tasty chicken stew, and he had eaten well, complimenting her cooking.

Stefan stole an occasional glance at Marcelle while she worked on the bike. He liked looking at her, though he hesitated to explore the feeling further than that. Physically he felt a strong attraction to the young woman. This wasn’t unusual. In the past, his relationships had always centered on the physical, and never lasted longer than a few weeks. But this new emotion went beyond mere lust, and was foreign to him, both confusing and exciting him. He wondered whether he, at the age of thirty, had fallen in love for the first time.

All he knew was that he craved her touch, and not just in a sexual context. But since he had started recovering, she had withdrawn from him, treating him less like a patient and more like a valued guest. He realized that she had seen him naked and had no doubt cared for his every need, and he understood that she now wanted to give him back his personal space. The only times she touched him was when she tended to his wounds, her hands gentle yet professional on his body. The memory of her grinding her body against him last Friday night now felt like a dream.

He longed to touch her, but knew that a relationship with him would upset her existence even further. He had no right to do that to the woman who had saved his life. So he masked his feelings, not allowing his face or eyes to show his thoughts.

Marcelle’s thoughts were busy as she worked, servicing her bike. Though she could take the bike to a team mechanic, she sometimes preferred to check her own machines. She was acutely aware of Stefan’s presence on the couch, and marveled at his recovery. At the same time, his returning health presented a problem. Within another week he could overpower her if he wanted to, even harm her. This hadn’t troubled her at first. He had healed her, so surely nothing else mattered. They shared an unbreakable bond, even if only she knew about it. She remembered how warm and secure she had felt in his arms.

But in the past few days, she had sensed a subtle change in him. The vulnerability that had been in his manner when he had been ill was gone. This new Stefan was unreachable; his face and eyes no longer reflecting his emotions. Though he still smiled, his eyes remained a bleak pale blue, and the coldness in their depths made her shiver inwardly. When he had first recovered consciousness, his eyes had been a much deeper, warmer blue. She hadn’t been afraid of him then.

Afraid. She faced the word for the first time. Yes, she was afraid of the man, a little, she admitted to herself. An aura of danger surrounded him. She compared him to a wounded tiger, in pain but no less deadly because of it.

The fact that she wasn’t sleeping well added to her jangled nerves. Stefan had conquered the ice, not the fire, so she slept only in short snatches, sometimes in the living room in front of the television, and sometimes in the big chair in the study. The discomfort kept her from sleeping too deeply, but she planned to revert to her six-hour training sessions the next day.

The race this coming weekend was an International Classic, an hour’s drive away in Dijon. Having emerged victorious the previous year, she had a title to defend, and didn’t want to be beaten. To complicate things, the feud between her and two members of a rival team had reached a peak. She didn’t doubt that her two opponents would resort to any means, fair or foul, to try to beat her.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had chosen to use foul tactics. Previously, only her excellent bike handling skills had saved her from a nasty spill when they had tried to bring her down in the pack.

Though she had reported these incidents, the referee hadn’t seen anything, and she had only her own team members to substantiate her claims. As a result, the Race Commissar had taken no action against the two offenders, giving them a feeling of invincibility. She felt her pulse quicken at the thought of what might happen in the race. She would be ready for them this time, of that they could be certain.

The phone startled them both, and Marcelle jumped up to answer it. She had received numerous calls during the week from riders asking her along on training rides. Regretfully, she had turned them down every time, saying she was ill.

To prevent staining the pristine white of the telephone handset, she used an elbow to press the button that allowed hands free operation. “Hallo, Marcelle speaking,” she answered in French.

A man’s voice came through the speaker. “Hi Michel, Richard here.”

Her voice immediately turned mocking. “Hi Richard. To what do I owe the honor? Have all those bad women left you?”

The man laughed delightedly. “No way. They can’t get enough of me, but I’ve taken the night off, saving my energy for better things.”

Stefan was shocked to hear her utter a derogatory remark that cast serious doubt on Richard’s ability to perform sexually. The man reacted indignantly, but Stefan got the feeling this was an old routine between them, throwing friendly insults back and forth, laced with words he would not have credited to the feminine woman he had come to know.

They got to the point of the phone call when Richard said, “We’re going for a ride tomorrow, and I would love the chance to teach you some manners.” The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, Richard, how many times have you tried, and failed, to teach me some manners?”

“We’ll be about ten riders, not just you and me,” he answered, refusing to rise to the jibe.

“You’re bringing reinforcements. Shame on you!”

“I spoke to Pierre-Henri today, and he told me you have been ill. He said you would benefit from a long ride. To warm up for Sunday’s Classic.”

“Well, you’ve talked me into it. What time? What distance? Where do we meet?”

“Ten o’clock. One hundred and sixty kilometers.”

“A hundred and sixty K’s? Are you out of your mind? I haven’t been on a bike for two weeks.” She lied convincingly, winking at Stefan.

“You’re not chicken, are you? A bit rich for your blood?”

“No way, I’m going to trash your ass, Richard! Now where do we meet?”

“Same place as usual. That small café about ten K’s from your place.”

“I’ll see you there. Better get ready for some serious pain.” She depressed the button, cutting off communication before Richard could reply.

Marcelle still had a smile on her face as she turned and saw Stefan. He stared at her, a quizzical expression on his face.

She felt obliged to explain who the caller was. “That was Richard, a guy I train with sometimes. He’s an amateur cyclist, and he’s good company on a long ride. We’re always trying to beat each other, so the rides are generally hectic. He thinks I’m an easy target tomorrow, because he believes I’ve been ill. Boy, do I have a surprise for him! After a week of easy training, I’ll be flying. I’ll sit in the pack for the first eighty kilometers, and then I’ll turn up the heat, and watch them fry!” There was a note of profound satisfaction in her voice.

“You’re going to cycle one hundred and sixty kilometers?”

She returned to the bike she had serviced. “Sure. Why not? I’m racing on Sunday, so I have to get back into full training. I don’t appreciate getting my butt kicked by some nobody. My sponsors have been building a huge publicity campaign around that victory, so I have to deliver the goods.” She turned to him. “I’ll be away about five hours. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”