by Niki Savage
“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.”
She shrugged, smiling without animosity. “My mother registered me as Marcelle Cheval, but she never contacted my father again, preferring to raise me on her own. When I was about five years old, my mother fell in love with another man, and married him. At first, I liked my stepfather, though I never accepted him in place of my real father. My mother had raised me on stories of my real father, and I guess I had built him up to a hero in my mind. My mother and my stepfather had three other children, boys, and that was where the problems started.”
Stefan heard the bitterness in her voice. “More and more, my stepfather
became bothered by the fact that I wasn’t his blood. I didn’t look like I belonged in the family, as I didn’t even resemble my mother. Clearly, I had taken after my father in looks. My stepfather made my life a misery, and my mother wasn’t always around to defend me. But the fights they had about me became more frequent, and he started drinking. He joined some way-out church, and they strengthened his views that I brought sin on the household by my mere presence, because I had been born out of wedlock.”
“He must have been a very cruel man, to treat you like that,” Stefan said angrily.
Marcelle shrugged again. “At the time, I guess I coped with it, but when I look back now, I see how badly it must have affected me. But at the age of twelve, I saw cycling for the first time when a tour passed through our town. I was hooked and asked my mother if I could take part in the sport. She was quite happy to let me start cycling, but my stepfather opposed her decision. He knew my biological father was a cyclist, and if I cycled, like my father, it would only remind him that I wasn’t his child. But my mother wasn’t dependent on my stepfather for funds, so she bought me a racing bike anyway, against his wishes.”
“Good mother,” Stefan said approvingly.
Marcelle smiled in response. “I excelled in the sport right from the start, and it was obvious that I had not only inherited my father’s looks. But relations between my stepfather and me reached an all time low in the next few years. I became openly hostile, sick and tired of his negativity, and his constant needling that I would be a failure.” She closed her eyes, grimacing. “One evening in October, a few months after my sixteenth birthday, things came to a head. My mother had taken my three brothers to the movies, but I had stayed at home to study for the year-end exams. And I was due to take part in a race the next day, so I needed an early night. My stepfather was still at work, and I knew that afterwards he would meet friends for a few drinks at the local pub. With any luck, I would be asleep before any of my family returned. Or so I thought.”
“And this is when it happened?” Stefan asked, sitting forward in his seat, reaching out a hand to touch Marcelle’s forearm.
She didn’t pull away, but hugged the cushion tighter to her breast. “It was a little after nine when I heard the front door slam, but I didn’t worry, thinking my mother and my brothers had returned early. I resumed my studies, but about ten minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs, and realized my stepfather had come home early.” She didn’t look at Stefan, staring at the gray carpet instead. “I prayed that he would leave me alone, as I wasn’t in the mood for a fight the night before a race. But a moment later, my door burst open. My stepfather stood in the doorway, a nasty smile on his face. I could smell the booze on him, and his eyes were bloodshot, confirming my suspicions that he was dangerously drunk. I didn’t say anything, hoping he would leave if I didn’t provoke him. Then I saw the gun in his hand.” She squeezed her eyes shut, clearly still traumatized by the events of that fateful night.
Stefan waited long moments. A shudder passed through her slim frame, and he touched her upper arm to reassure her. “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”
Marcelle swallowed hard. “He shoved the gun into my face, and grabbed me by the arm. He said he should have killed me years ago, but he would correct the error that night. He dragged me down the stairs, and I must have hit my head, because I blacked out. I came to when he kicked me in the ribs. Some time must have passed, because I saw my bike was broken and twisted beyond repair. I was furious, fighting all the way, as he dragged me to my feet again.”
“The man was a bloody monster, to treat a young girl like that.” Stefan jumped to his feet, unable to contain his agitation, and paced over to the window before he turned to face Marcelle again.
She didn’t appear to notice his anger, because she continued speaking, hugging the cushion to her chest, keeping her gaze focused on the gray carpet, her fists bunched so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “In the struggle, he must have lost the gun, because when he hit me in the face, and I fell to the carpet, I felt it beneath me. By then I had only one desire, and that was to survive. I grabbed the gun, and jumped to my feet. When he lifted his hand to strike me again, I pointed the gun at him, and told him to back away.
“At first he stepped back, more surprised than anything else, I guess. But then he came at me again, taunting me and saying that I wouldn’t shoot. He told me what a thrashing he would give me before he killed me, and then he rushed at me. I pulled the trigger over and over and over again, until all I heard were the dry clicks when the gun was empty...” Marcelle’s voice was devoid of emotion as she distanced herself from what had happened. “He was quite dead. The gun had been a .38 Special, and had made a real mess of him.”
“Nothing less than what he deserved, I would say,” Stefan said, coming back to sit next to her on the sofa.
Marcelle let go of the cushion, allowing it to drop into her lap. She held the cushion with her left hand, while she used the fingers of her right hand to rub out imaginary creases on the surface of the cushion. “When I came to my senses, I realized what I had done, and I knew I would have to get away. We lived in Sandton, an elite suburb of Johannesburg, and gunshots were not common. Anyone who had heard the shots might have called the police. There was no way I could face my mother, my brothers or the authorities. I was convinced I would get the death-sentence, because I was over sixteen, and who would believe my stepfather had gone mad.”
“What a terrible situation. Your mother should have done more to protect you from that man. None of that was your fault,” Stefan said sympathetically.
“I know that now,” Marcelle said, finally looking up at him. “But at the time I was convinced that no one would believe me. A crazy idea began to surface in my head. I would find my real father. He would protect me, and give me the love I so desperately needed. But I knew the rest of the family would be home soon, so I didn’t have much time. Every breath I took was agony, and I realized I had one or more broken ribs. My face was bleeding, and my left eye had started to swell. But I managed to throw some clothing into a suitcase. I had a passport, luckily, because I had won a holiday to Mauritius a few months earlier. I had money, but not enough for an air-ticket and living expenses in France.” Marcelle grimaced. “As unsavory as the idea was to me, I knew I would have to go back to my stepfather’s body and get the keys of the safe from him. He always kept a few thousand rand in there, money he didn’t want to declare to the government. I found about forty thousand rand in cash, exactly what I needed.”
“And so you made your escape,” Stefan said, satisfaction in his tone.
“Yes, about fifteen minutes later, I drove my stepfather’s car out of the driveway. I drove to the airport, and parked the car in the underground long-term parking. I slept in the car, and the next morning went to the airport change rooms where I had a shower and changed my clothes.
“Then I bought a plane ticket for London. I had seen the report of my stepfather’s death on television that morning, and it appeared the police had assumed it was a robbery, because of the missing car and the stolen money. They believed I was a hostage, as they had found my blood on the floor and stairs. So I knew they wouldn’t be watching the airports. I would have the time I needed, and the bruises on my face disguised my appearance. Later that day I boarded a British Airways flight to London, at last able to relax.” The tension flowed from her rigid frame.
“In London I had no difficulty obtaining a three month visa for France. A day later, I boarded the ferry in Plymouth, bound for Roscoff in France. Once there, I booked into a hotel in Lanrivoare, one of the many small towns in the Province of Bretagne. I spent the next two weeks recovering from my injuries. At least I could speak the language, because I had been taking French lessons since I was ten. But I felt lost and lonely, desperately in need of my mother, and overcome by guilt. It was the middle of winter in France, and dreadfully cold. When I had recovered fully, I travelled to Paris, determined to fi
nd my father.” She turned to Stefan and said, “And that’s how I made my lucky escape.”
“So did you find your father?
“Yes, nearly four years later.”
But how did you survive in Europe until then? I mean, you were only sixteen, and you had limited funds.”
Marcelle winked at him. “That’s a story for another day.”
“You are merciless,” Stefan said with a smile.
Marcelle smiled too. “You have no idea. There’s quite a good movie showing tonight. Shall we watch it?”
“Sure, suits me fine,” he agreed.
They watched the movie in companionable silence. It was after ten when the movie ended, and dusk had turned to evening.
“Shouldn’t you be getting an early night?”
“Yes Boss, I think you’re right. But the race is only in the afternoon, so we can sleep late.”
“We?”
“You, me, separately.” She stretched like a sleepy feline.
He stared at her. In those three words, she had made clear that there would be no more physical closeness between them. The kiss that afternoon had been a mistake. “Of course,” he replied. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Her smile was a little forced. “I’ll be fine. Good night.”
She disappeared down the passage, and he followed a short while later, noticing she had already closed her bedroom door. Well, there wasn’t much more he could do for her.
~ . ~
A soft drone drew Stefan from the depths of sleep. He raised his wrist to peer at the luminous face of his watch. It was one in the morning. What was that sound?
Instinct told him to investigate. He threw the covers aside, and stepped into the passage. A blue glow shone from the living room, and he headed in that direction, the soft drone now turning into voices and laughter.
The television was on, and he froze when he saw Jean-Michel Deschamps on the huge television screen, turning towards his smiling wife, and kissing her affectionately.