Crossfire Read Online Free Page B

mechanism she always used. Rather than take her on about it, as he has so many times before, he sought to change the subject. “Well, he’s going to be here at least six weeks. How will you train?”
    As usual, everything revolved around her sport. “Maybe you could watch him for the first couple of weeks, until he can help himself. I’ll keep my sessions down to two hours, and you can tell Pierre-Henri I’m sick, and can’t race for the next two weeks. It’s only the beginning of April, so it’s early in the season. I can afford to miss a couple of races.”
    Louis sighed. “You have it all worked out, chéri.”
    “Will you help me? Please.”
    “How can I refuse?”
    She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him until his ribs creaked in protest. “You won’t regret it.”
    “I hope not,” Louis murmured.
    ~ . ~
     
    Louis shook Marcelle’s shoulder where she lay on the second twin bed.
    She woke with a start, her gaze immediately focusing on Stefan, who no longer wore the oxygen mask. “Is he okay?”
    “He’s doing fine,” the doctor replied, rubbing a hand across the stubble on his chin, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.
    She sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “I’ll make us breakfast. Then you can sleep while I watch him.”
    The kitchen was large and modern, situated next to the dining room at the head of the long passage. Decorated in yellow and white, it was a chef’s delight. Marcelle was an excellent cook, and when she had time, she cooked in bulk, freezing meals in the two huge refrigerators.
    She filled the coffee machine, and while the coffee brewed, made breakfast, treating them to eggs, bacon and toast, foregoing her usual healthy breakfast.
    After readying a large tray with mugs, milk and sugar, she added the plates of food. When the coffee was ready, she put the glass jar on the tray, and carried it through to the bedroom.
    ~ . ~
     
    After breakfast, Doc Louis went to sleep in another bedroom.
    Marcelle pulled a chair up to her patient’s bedside. She remembered sitting with Jean-Michel for seven torturous days while he lingered in a coma. Selfishly, she had been unwilling to let him go, though she had known he wouldn’t have wanted to live in a broken body, unable to pursue his obsession.
    Stefan’s lighter skin and pale hair contrasted with her memories of her husband’s dark features against the white hospital sheets. She remembered from the passport photo that in health the German was remarkably handsome. Now a day’s dark stubble shadowed lean cheeks and a strong chin, and silky blond hair spilled onto the pale green pillow cover. His mouth looked as if it could smile often, his parted lips revealing regular white teeth. It was a perfect face, she had to admit, sinister in its beauty, like a mask that served to conceal something hideous. A shiver passed through her. Perhaps when he woke and she could see his eyes, she might feel reassured that she had made the right decision.
    Doc Louis had asked her to wash their patient, so she fetched two basins from the kitchen, stopping at the linen cupboard for towels and face cloths. She filled both basins with warm water, and dropped soap into one. She carried the basins from the bathroom to the bedroom one at a time, and placed them next to the bed.
    As she washed Stefan’s inert body, she tried her best to preserve his dignity, uncomfortable with his nudity. Though she had been a married woman, two years had passed since she’d confronted male sexuality, and her patient had visibly received more than his fair share, even in repose. She felt uneasy, wondering what Jean-Michel would think if he saw her now.
    She noticed the scars Louis had mentioned. Some were small and puckered, and she guessed they were old bullet wounds. Several raised white scars crisscrossed his tanned upper body, as if someone had repeatedly slashed the smooth skin of his chest a long time ago. These had to be the scars of battle, and she wondered