by Niki Savage
~ . ~
The sound of the elevator roused Stefan. He rushed down the passage, and found a weary Louis Gautier in the living room.
“Where’s Marcelle?” Stefan asked, skidding to a halt.
“We’ve decided to keep her in the hospital for observation, just to be safe. She’s under sedation, so she’s sleeping now.”
“What are her injuries?”
“Concussion, some bruises, and three cracked bones in her right hand. She needed five stitches for the cut on her head.” Doc Louis looked searchingly at his former patient before continuing, “I’ll bring her home tomorrow afternoon. I think it’ll be good for her to be around you, Stefan. She needs you, even if she doesn’t realize it.”
Doc Louis enjoyed a quick cup of coffee with him, before he was on his way again.
Stefan went to bed, cheered by what the doctor had told him. But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was Marcelle’s face in front of him. He longed to have her sleeping next to him, secure in his arms.
* * * *
Chapter Sixteen
Doc Louis brought a subdued Marcelle home on Monday afternoon. An adhesive dressing above her right eye covered the cut she had sustained, and a white bandage bound her right hand. Her normally graceful movements were stiff and visibly painful, and she looked exhausted, her face pale and drawn. She brightened at the sight of him, and walked into his embrace, wordlessly clinging to him, as if he were the only anchor in the storm that had erupted in her life.
Stefan held her to him for long moments. “You’re safe now,” he whispered into her hair, wishing he never had to let go of her again.
Marcelle rewarded him with a wan smile before extricating herself and heading for her room. She ran a deep bath and relaxed in the hot, fragrant water, eager to wash the smell of the hospital off her skin. Afterwards she dressed in pajamas and went straight to bed. Doc Louis had given her some pain tablets for her headache, and she was asleep within minutes.
The doctor accepted Stefan’s offer of coffee, and each took a seat at the kitchen table.
“I take it she’s in a lot of trouble,” Stefan stated, handing Louis a mug of the steaming brew.
“Well, it’ll take a few days before we know what’s going to happen. She’s under the jurisdiction of the French Professional Cycling Federation, and the incident happened on their territory, so it’ll be up to them to take action against her. However, the UCI, which is the world body, could get involved if the Dutch Federation decides to lay a charge against her. It could snowball if her sponsors decide to end her contract. They hate bad publicity. Then everybody will get on the bandwagon. It’ll be a massacre.”
Louis took a sip of coffee before continuing, “And of course the two victims could try to bring a separate lawsuit against her. Marcelle is a wealthy woman, so it’ll be a tempting possibility for easy money. Our little champion is in a lot of trouble, whatever the reason she decided to hit those two. I know they’ve bothered her in races before, but never has she reacted like this. Did she tell you what they said to her?”
“No. She told me that they said horrible things, but she wasn’t specific.”
“Jean-Michel would have found a way out of this. He always knew what to do. Without him to bail her out, I think she has destroyed her season, and done irreparable damage to her career. We’ll know within a few days what they plan to do. She’ll most likely get a phone call and a letter telling her she has been suspended pending further action.”
“What would Jean-Michel have done?”
“Well, he knew a lot of people in high places, and his status as national hero had some perks, I’m sure you understand. Let’s just say he would’ve stopped at nothing to save her. With his help, she might have received only a rap on the knuckles.” The doctor shrugged and continued, “Without Jean-Michel influence to protect her, things will go badly for Marcelle. She’ll never apologize for her actions, especially if she feels she was right. And if she shows no remorse in front of the disciplinary committee, they’ll throw the book at her.”
After Louis had left, Stefan sat deep in thought, thinking of the many favors he could call in to help Marcelle. Every major figure in the world was indebted to Omega in varying degrees, so he had a wide range from which to choose. It would take some time to set up, however. He picked up his cell phone and punched in the number to reach Karl on the island. It was pay-up time.
~ . ~
Much later, he went to Marcelle’s room, to find her staring at the ceiling with wide eyes.
“How are you feeling?” He sat on the edge of the bed.
She dragged her eyes from the ceiling. “The headache is better, but my hand hurts quite badly.”
“Not as badly as their faces, I can guarantee you,” he responded with a grin.
He sobered when she didn’t smile. “Why did you hit them? Because they made you fall?”
“They did cause the accident but that’s not why I hit them,” she answered in a small voice.”
“Then why?”
She stared at her bandaged right hand before she spoke, pain in her voice, “They said everybody knew I only married Jean-Michel for his money, and that now he was dead, I had a relationship with his team mate, Claude Cloarec. They said everybody knew I only became world champion because Jean-Michel paid the other riders to let me win....”
“Marcelle,” Stefan said firmly, “they are two small-minded people who are jealous of your success and talent. They would love to believe you had an unfair advantage, because then they would feel less inadequate. They used those accusations to hurt you. You shouldn’t let them get to you.”
She looked at him, her peculiar gray eyes immeasurably sad. “I don’t know why they said that. When I married Jean-Michel, it was for love. Yes, he was a multimillionaire, and he helped me a lot in my career, but if I didn’t have the talent, all his efforts would’ve been for nothing. He didn’t buy the world championships for me. I had to put in the effort to win. Jean-Michel was so happy, and so proud of me. That meant more to me than all the crowds, and the media attention.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I’ve seen what’s going on, and I don’t believe those accusations. Those two riders got what they deserved.”
“They called me a murderer, and what they said is no doubt in today’s papers. They’re going to dredge up my so-called dark past all over again. I’ve managed to destroy my season in the space of a few seconds. How could I have been so stupid?” She moved restlessly, uncomfortable with the thought. “I’m facing suspension, if not an outright ban for the rest of the season. Why couldn’t I control my temper?” She took a deep breath. “But those two have been at me for a long time. I hope they’re in pain right now. They deserve it.”
“Oh, I’ve diagnosed at least one broken jaw and nose between the pair of them,” he remarked. “Where did you learn to punch like that?”
She managed a slight smile. “Claude taught me. He says that a young woman needs to be able to defend herself, especially when she goes cycling on lonely roads. His parents were gypsies, and he ran away when he was fifteen. He grew up on the streets of Paris, so he learned to fight dirty from an early age. I could’ve killed those two, if I had wanted to, or ended their careers forever.”
“Do you see Claude often?” Stefan questioned, curious about her relationship with the racing driver.
“Yes, he lives in the complex, but he’s away on the racing circuit most of the season, though he drops by whenever he can. I think Jean-Michel asked him to look after me, in case the worst happened. Claude and Jean-Michel went into some business ventures together, and I inherited Jean-Michel’s share, so we’re business partners too.” Her face changed to an expression of pain as she continued, “Those girls were wrong. Claude is like a brother to me.”
Stefan felt reassured that the Frenchman wouldn’t present any competition. “You realize that when the papers print those accusations, you could sue those two riders for libel
. With your resources, you could keep them in court for years. So if they decide to sue you for their injuries, you could countersue to discourage them. Doc Louis thinks they might try such a move.”
“Well, I’ll let my lawyers deal with that,” she said without much enthusiasm, pulling the duvet up to her chin.
“What you need is some tea.”
She rewarded him with a smile.
~ . ~
Later in the evening, Stefan defrosted some lasagna for them. He knew it was her favorite dish, but she displayed little appetite, picking at the food on her plate.
“Not hungry?”
“No.” She put down her fork.
“It’ll get better,” he assured her, speaking from experience.
She grimaced, not answering.
“You should listen to me. Everybody else does,” he said with mock arrogance.
“And what do you want to tell me now?”
“Don’t worry. I have a strong feeling that everything will be all right. Just trust me.” He didn’t want her to know he had taken a hand in the proceedings, but he didn’t want her to keep worrying either.
She stared at him with wide eyes. “Just promise me you won’t harm anyone, Stefan. I don’t need that on my conscience.”
Stefan was hurt. How could she suspect him of deeds that hadn’t even crossed his mind? Killing or injuring those involved wouldn’t solve anything, and where would it stop? It would attract too much attention anyway. The phone call to Karl had set in motion a far bigger mechanism. But he couldn’t tell her what he had done.
She saw the injured look on his face and was immediately repentant. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was that you mustn’t get into trouble on my account. Please forgive me?”
“Of course.”
She scrutinized his blue eyes, a soft look in her eyes. “You’re a special man, do you know that?”
He smiled, charmed by her sincerity. “I like you too.”
~ . ~
That night, when they went to bed, she took his hand, and without a word led him to her bedroom. He understood that she needed him more than she cared to admit, and didn’t protest, happy to have her in his arms. But he didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the act. He wanted Marcelle, more than he had ever wanted a woman before, and he wanted far more than just holding her in his arms.
But when she snuggled up to him in sleep, he reproached himself for being so shallow. To win her love would take time, but it would be worth it.
~ . ~
The next day dawned, dark and dreary, with intermittent drizzle. At least that took care of any temptation for Marcelle to go outside, though Stefan noticed she showed no inclination to do so. Perhaps her body was too tender, he thought, studying her. She wore a deep purple tracksuit that contrasted with the white bandage on her right hand and the dressing on her smooth forehead.
He had dressed in a pair of Jean-Michel’s jeans again, with a loose sweater. He left his feet bare, enjoying the plush carpeting installed throughout the apartment.
The morning slipped by with many of Marcelle’s friends phoning to pledge their support for her. She was friendly and polite, but subdued, even when speaking to Richard. Her appetite hadn’t revived, and she hardly touched breakfast. Stefan knew she was sick with worry. The next call was from Francois Cheval, her father. He told her he would do what he could to help her situation. He was however, unable to come and see her as an important business deal kept him tied up in Japan.
The call seemed to lift her spirits, until she received a call from the Directeur Sportif of the Ultima-Fabelta Team, Pierre-Henri Petton. He told her that her sponsors and the French Federation wanted to see her at his smallholding on Friday morning. She said she would be there, but when she asked her team manager how things looked, he was evasive.
After she put down the phone, Marcelle raised her eyebrows at Stefan and said with flashing eyes, “Looks like Ultima-Fabelta wants to get in on the act. They had better be careful. I might get upset and stage a hostile takeover of their companies.”
He laughed, pleased that her sense of humor hadn’t left her.
One phone call, a little bit later, seemed to have more meaning than those before, drawing a quick smile of pleasure from her when she heard the caller’s voice.
After the call, she came to sit on the sofa again. “That was Anthony. He’s racing in Italy. He wanted to quit the tour and come to me, but I told him to forget it. One of us in trouble is enough, but I miss him.”
“You’ve never told me how you two met,” Stefan said, alerted by the tender tone in her voice.
“I met him while on the lamb, so to speak.” Marcelle said with a chuckle. “He saved my life, literally as well as figuratively.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Stefan asked, hoping for a chance to distract her from her predicament.
She smiled at him. “You’re going to get it all out of me, eventually, aren’t you?”
“I have extensive training in various interrogation techniques. So you might as well give it all up now,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
She sighed. “Well, his story starts where the last one left off, more or less. And I can’t tell you about Anthony without telling you about Jean-Michel, and how Anthony is the man who helped Jean-Michel to save me.”
“We have nothing but time, Marcelle. I’m listening. So you travelled to Paris, looking for your father, but you found Anthony instead.”
“Something like that. I lived in Paris for nearly three months, but with my limited resources, finding my father was impossible. By then my visa was about to expire, and life in Paris wasn’t cheap. I worried how I would survive once my money ran out. It was early January by then, and the European cycling season was around the corner.”
“Did you have any further news about the situation in South Africa?”
“Yes, I regularly checked on the news in South Africa, so I knew that the police hadn’t identified me as a suspect yet. I decided to go back to what I do best, and bought a bicycle and new cycling kit. I hoped I would be able to obtain a license somehow, start racing again and earn money that way.”
“And you weren’t worried about exposing yourself to the public eye like that?” Stefan asked, moving closer and putting a comforting arm around her shoulders.
She didn’t seem to mind the contact, and moved closer to him, allowing her thigh to press against his. “Well, in the end it didn’t come to that. One day I cycled out to one of the early season international races, to watch, and I met some riders who had come out from Belgium. They were foreigners from America, New Zealand and Australia. They told me they knew a man in Ghent who could help me with a place to stay and get me to races. They said they knew of many places where one could cross from France into Belgium without going through border posts. I returned to Belgium with them, because my French visa had expired so I faced deportation if found. I also realized that the police could track my whereabouts if I kept entering countries legally.
“But that still didn’t solve your passport problem. You could hardly compete under your own name.”
“Yes, but the interesting fact was that these cyclists had assumed I was a boy. I had worn a few layers of thermal cycling clothing because of the extreme cold, so it was a natural mistake. Suppressing my initial impulse to correct them, I decided it could only work in my favor. The police would be looking for a girl, not a boy. I couldn’t have asked for a better disguise.”
“That was a lucky break.”
“Yes, and it gets better. In Belgium, my friends introduced me to Etienne De Wilde. He owned many houses in Ghent, and made his money by renting rooms and amenities to foreign riders and students. He was a real schemer, and not above breaking the law. He would often obtain false licenses for riders that the Belgian Cycling Federation had banned. He would portray them as local riders, so that they could at least race, and he could collect the rent every month.”
; “Quite a rogue,” Stefan commented with a smile.
“That’s a fact,” she agreed. “I paid Etienne to get a Belgian racing license for me, and a Belgian passport. He obtained the passport by portraying me as his seventeen-year-old son, Michel de Wilde. His real son, the youngest of three, had died two years previously during a training accident. Afrikaans, my home language, was similar to Dutch, and I spoke fluent French, so I could pass for a Belgian. I raced in Belgium for that season, in the junior category, and did well enough. I managed to win enough money to support myself, so that I didn’t have to touch my own money.”
“So you managed to adapt to your new surroundings, and make the best of a bad situation.”
“Yes, but my problems were far from over. At the end of the season, I told Etienne I would return the following season. Armed with my Belgian passport, I crossed into France again, planning to spend a few weeks there, except that I saw an outdated picture of myself in a French newspaper. The accompanying report named me a murder suspect, wanted by the South African police. The report said I had obtained a visa for France in October the year before, and that the police suspected I was still in France. Completely spooked, I entered Spain by loading essential clothes into a backpack and crossing the border on my bicycle.”
“That was a bit too close for comfort,” Stefan said, feeling the tension in her body.
“You’re telling me. In Spain, I bought what clothes I needed and found accommodation with a family who rented rooms to tourists. That’s where I learned to speak Spanish. I spent the entire off-season training in the warmer parts of Spain, and at least felt safe.
“When I returned to Belgium in March, I no longer looked like the frightened sixteen-year-old who had fled South Africa. My hair was short and bleached by the sun. I had lost a lot of weight, and had a dark tan. By keeping my fat percentage to a minimum, and training hard, I had managed to keep puberty at bay, and no longer looked like a girl. I always wore dark glasses to hide my eyes, because they are a bit unusual, and tend to stick in people’s memories.”