He had no answers as their eyes locked. “I’ll just have to be more careful in future,” he said with a shrug.
She had to be content with that answer.
He had a question. “I went down to the garage this morning. Which car did you use to transport me?”
“My Ferrari,” she replied.
“I didn’t see it downstairs. I must have bled all over it. Did you send it away for cleaning?” Stefan tried not to show his alarm.
Marcelle smiled. “It wasn’t necessary. The carpet was fine, and I had seat covers on the front seats. Luckily, the blood didn’t get through the covers, so I pulled them off and put them in the wash. They didn’t come clean, so I cut them to shreds and burned them in the barbeque pit on the roof.” She appeared unperturbed. “You mustn’t worry so much.”
“You seem to have a talent for covering up evidence.”
“You have no idea,” she responded, a wry smile on her lips.
“But where is the Ferrari now?”
“It’s parked in a secure garage in Paris, and I don’t plan to drive it for a long time.”
“Why? Did someone see you when you helped me?”
“I told you before that nobody saw me.”
“But still, it might be a good idea to get someone else to collect your post for a couple of months.”
Marcelle chuckled. “I’m way ahead of you there, Boss. The guards collect my post for me now. It’s just a precaution, but better safe than sorry.”
“You and I share that philosophy,” Stefan said, finally relaxing. “That Diablo you have parked downstairs is quite something.”
She sobered. “The Diablo is...was Jean-Michel’s car. I generally don’t drive it much, but I haven’t had the heart to sell it. I use it every Wednesday when I drive out to my team manager’s smallholding. After the turnoff, there’s an open stretch of road for about thirty kilometers, so I can really open up the taps.”
Stefan’s professional mind immediately came into play. “It’s dangerous to have a set routine like that. If someone meant to hurt or kidnap you, they would be waiting for you on a Wednesday.”
She dismissed this with a wave of the hand. “I don’t have enemies. Anyway, the person who tries to stop me when I’m doing between 200 and 250 kilometers per hour, deserves a medal for bravery, don’t you think?”
“You should still be careful.”
She smiled at his concern as she rose. “Of course. Would you like some tea or coffee?”
He accepted tea, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
~ . ~
Later in the evening, Stefan glanced across at Marcelle, who was sprawled in an armchair, watching television through half-closed lids. It was obvious that the young woman was dead tired, though it was not quite nine o’clock yet.
She must have felt his gaze, because she sat up, as if she had reached a decision. “I’m wrecked,” she said, reaching up to touch her forehead, wincing. “My head feels like it’s about to explode.” She looked up at him. “Would you mind if I left you now and went to bed?”
“No, you look like you could use some rest, and no midnight dips in the pool tonight. Agreed?”
“Sure. Good night.” She weaved a little as she made her way to her bedroom.
He stayed for another hour or so, watching the news on television.
Before retiring to his own room, he opened her bedroom door, to check on her. In the half-light, he could see her stretched out under the covers. Her deep breathing told him she was sound asleep. He hoped she would stay that way for the rest of the night.
* * * *
Chapter Thirteen
The rest of the week passed without incident. Doc Louis paid regular visits to check on his patient, and Stefan recovered full use of his left arm. His strength increased with every passing day, and he occupied his time doing what workouts he could in the gym. When he wasn’t in the gym, he lay next to the pool, lazing in the sun, allowing his body to heal.
Marcelle went riding every day, sometimes with the same men she had gone with before, and once with the other female members of her team. She went to the meeting with her coach on Wednesday, driving the black Lamborghini.
She had no more nightmares. She fell exhausted into bed each night, and didn’t wake until the next morning. Though she treated him well, she seemed to have withdrawn into her own world of cycling, eating, sleeping, and cycling.
Stefan felt excluded. He was jealous of the time Marcelle spent in the company of the male cyclists, and of the many telephone calls from hopeful training partners. He wanted, no needed, her around him all the time, but she seemed to have moved out of his reach. This only served to spur him on further to recover his strength and health.
* * * *
Chapter Fourteen
Saturday dawned with drizzle and overcast skies. Stefan watched Marcelle as she lingered irresolutely in front of the picture window in the living room, gazing at the bleak landscape. He could sense her discontent as she dragged her fingers through her shiny hair.
“Surely you’re not going out in that kind of weather?”
She sighed and turned from the window. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll race in the rain if I have to, but I try to avoid training in the wet if I can. These Frenchies are used to it, but having grown up in sunny South Africa, I doubt if I’ll ever feel comfortable training in a downpour.”
“Do you miss South Africa?”
“Sure I do, that country is paradise. Great weather, great roads to train on and the people are fantastic. But France is pleasant too, in summer.” Her tone was wistful enough to rouse his interest.
Intrigued, he probed further. “Why don’t you go back to South Africa in winter, and spend time there?”
She sat before answering. “There’s nothing for me there. I’m a French citizen now, though I think I’ll always consider myself a South African.”
“Why did you leave?”
She squirmed uncomfortably. “It’s complicated. You don’t want to know, believe me.”
“Maybe I do,” he insisted, sensing that he had stumbled onto sensitive territory.
She sighed. “Are you sure? I’m a criminal on the run. You could be named an accessory.”
“Your secret would be safe with me. I’m hardly one to point fingers.”
She studied him, and then sighed again. “You’re right, what’s another dead body?”
He smiled, charmed by her sense of humor.
“When I was sixteen, I shot and killed my stepfather.”
Stefan stiffened. “You weren’t kidding. Why did you kill him?”
“Self-defense. It was kill or be killed. I chose to live.”
“But what happened to put you in that situation?”
“Well, it’s the standard dark fairytale, except that in my story there’s an evil stepfather, not an evil stepmother. And if I ever set foot in South Africa again, my fairytale will have a very grim ending.”
“And?”
“And that’s the end of my story. You wanted to know why I don’t go back to South Africa in winter, and I’ve just told you.”
“Come on, I’ve told you about my past.”
“And I appreciate it. But I just don’t feel like reliving the past,” she said, softening her words with a smile.
“I guess I’ll have to abide by your decision,” Stefan said, picking up a book he had brought from the study earlier, and stretching out on the couch.
Marcelle saw his disappointment, and sought to make amends. “How about I bake you a chocolate cake that will blow your socks off?”
“Sounds like you have a deal,” he said with a smile.
The rest of the afternoon passed without incident. Stefan read his book while Marcelle busied herself in the kitchen, baking a chocolate cake and some biscuits.
Delicious smells wafted through the apartment, taking him back to when he was young and innocent, and his mother was alive, baking on a Saturday afternoon. He felt relaxed and at home, and fell asleep on the couch, reaching for the dream.
~ . ~
When Marcelle came through to the living room to call Stefan for supper, she found him sound asleep, a book lying open on his chest. She watched him for a few moments. The tender embrace of sleep had wiped away the years of pain and hardships he had endured, and he looked at peace. She felt a deep sadness stirring inside her at the life he had chosen, and the possibility that it could end violently, and abruptly. Why did it matter so much to her?
She wondered what other powers he possessed. He had already banished the ice, and when he slept beside her, the fire stayed away. Perhaps if she kissed him, he could restore her to the person she had been before…before… She couldn’t even say it. Before she could talk herself out of it, she knelt next to the couch and kissed Stefan on the mouth.
He woke, startled by the pressure on his lips.
Marcelle smiled. “Hello, Sleeping Beauty. So the kiss doesn’t just work in fairytales.”
He stared at her, tasting the sweetness on his lips. “Have you been dipping into the icing sugar?”
“You got me. I love anything sweet.”
“Me too,” he said, pulling her closer.
She was too startled to resist, and then the thought was lost. His lips were soft as he explored her mouth, deepening the kiss only when he felt her willingness.
After long moments, he released her, and ran his tongue over his lips. “Definitely sugar.”
She stared at him, her senses whirling, uncomfortably aware of her tight nipples standing proud, and trying to ignore the heat at the juncture of her thighs.
Stefan said nothing, looking at her as if he knew about the rioting hormones coursing through her blood, and raising an eyebrow at the evidence of her arousal.
Finally, she could trust her voice. “How can you be so casual?”
“What? You kissed me and I kissed you back. What’s the problem?”
“You were serious.”
“I thought it was what you wanted. You seemed willing enough.”
Marcelle felt sick with guilt. What would Jean-Michel think of her kissing the mercenary? She imagined his pain at her betrayal. “I’m sorry;” she said, getting to her feet. “I made a mistake. This was wrong. It must never happen again.”
“It won’t.” Stefan got up from the couch, disturbed at her conflicting signals. “But you had better be careful. If you play with fire, you could get your fingers burnt.”
She made the mistake of looking at him, and he kept her captured in his gaze for long seconds. Marcelle felt like a small animal hypnotized by a snake, aware of the danger but unable to turn away. She realized she was a mere beginner compared to this man. His raw sexuality unnerved her, and she decided she would have to watch herself around him.
She resorted to humor to mask her discomfort. “I’m sorry,” she said with mock remorse, adding with a laugh, “I’d hate to see you go up in flames. Come on, supper is ready.”
He smiled as he followed her to the kitchen, feeling he had managed to get somewhere with her at last. She had returned his kiss, for whatever reason, and for a few moments, she had been his. He had noticed the quick rise and fall of her firm breasts, and the way she had passed her tongue over her lips. The lady wasn’t as untouchable as she would have him believe.
~ . ~
Later, they had the chocolate cake for dessert. When Stefan tasted the cake, he said it was even better than that of his late mother.
She smiled. “See. I can do more than just ride a bike!”
“Your talents are many and varied. You are also an accomplished escape artist.”
Marcelle frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Well, the fact that you can’t return to South Africa interests me. I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what happened.”
Marcelle’s eyes darkened. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?
“What possible harm can come from telling me? You know all my secrets.”
She shrugged. “I just don’t see the point of dragging it all up again.”
“Well, for instance, where was your real father? Couldn’t he protect you from your stepfather?”
“He’s alive and well, and living here in France. I see him from time to time.”
“Now you have me completely intrigued. Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”
Marcelle stared at Stefan, trying and failing to resist his smile. “I guess you mostly get what you want, don’t you?”
His smile broadened. “I can be quite persuasive.”
“Well, consider me persuaded. But let’s brew a pot of tea first. We’re going to need it.”
~ . ~
A short while later they had settled on one of the sofas in the living room, and were sipping steaming cups of tea.
“Okay, regale me with your tale,” Stefan said, putting his empty teacup on the coffee table and sitting back, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
Marcelle frowned at him, but got more comfortable on the sofa, grabbing a soft gray cushion and hugging it to her chest. “We’ll start at the beginning, because that’s where things started to go wrong. I’m the result of a short-lived relationship between my mother, a physiotherapist, and my father, a French cyclist, Francois Cheval. After he returned to France, my mother discovered she was pregnant. She wrote to my father, and after two months received a reply. He gave her permission to register him as the father and to give me his name. He said he would pay child support. But he didn’t offer to marry her. I guess being a new professional was difficult enough without the additional pressure of a wife and child.”