Crossfire by Niki Savage Page A

me.”
    She smiled wanly at his humor.
    He pulled the covers of the bed straight as she took off her robe, revealing silky pajamas. She lay down, and he pulled the duvet over her, before going to the other side of the bed. Lifting the covers, he joined her in bed. The curtains were open, and the security lights outside left the room dimly lit after he switched off the bedside lamp.
    “Do you want to sleep in my arms again?”
    She didn’t answer, but moved into the crook of his outstretched right arm, and pressed her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Sighing, she rested her right hand on his chest, careful not to disturb the raw wounds she had redressed earlier that night. He curled his uninjured arm around her shoulders and hugged her closer, intensely aware of her firm breasts against his naked chest. Only the thin cloth of her pajamas separated their bodies. Desire flared in him like a hot flame, signaling his returning health. He wanted to make love to her, to make her forget her pain, but he couldn’t shatter the trust she had placed in him.
    He found his advice to her laughable. Forgive yourself. Try to imagine Jean-Michel forgiving you. How could he give her that advice, when he couldn’t even follow it himself? He wished he could help the young widow, and perhaps in the process exorcize his own demons.
    Soon Marcelle’s deep breathing told him she had fallen asleep. Exhausted, he drifted off to sleep too.
    * * * *
     

Chapter Eleven
     
    Marcelle surprised him the next morning with a steaming mug of coffee. He had slept so deeply he hadn’t even stirred when she had risen. She had already dressed in cycling gear. It was the first time he had seen her in the clothes, and he whistled softly in admiration. The shiny black cycling shorts and the figure-hugging sponsors’ jersey displayed her slim figure to perfection.
    She responded with a soft blush on her cheeks. “These are my working clothes, nothing special.”
    Their eyes locked for a second before she turned to go back to the kitchen. “Breakfast will be ready in about five minutes.”
    Stefan finished his coffee before returning to his room. He washed his face and brushed his hair before donning a robe and heading for the kitchen.
    Marcelle motioned him to sit at the breakfast nook. She had prepared porridge, toast and fluffy scrambled eggs. In the centre of the table stood a selection of jams and honey, along with other condiments.
    She tucked into the food with gusto, and he joined her. She spoke enthusiastically about the upcoming ride, and it looked as if she had shaken off the experiences of the previous night.
    When they had finished, she packed the dishes into the dishwasher, and cleared the table. She turned to him. “I’ve put some chicken pies into the oven to defrost, and I’ve set the timer so that the stove will go on automatically. You can have lunch at one o’clock. Just listen for the stove alarm. There’s a salad in the fridge. Now don’t forget?”
    “Thanks,” he replied. “What time will you be back?”
    She thought for a moment, counting on one hand. “Around three.”
    “So you want me to save you some lunch?”
    “No, thanks. I’ll get something on the road.” She opened a cupboard above the counter and took out some energy bars, which she shoved into the pockets of her cycling shirt. “You’re welcome to have some if you want,” she said, pointing in the direction of the cupboard. “Treat this place like your own.”
    Stefan went to the living room as she disappeared down the passage. She came back a few minutes later, wordlessly handing him his holstered handguns, extra clips of ammunition, and his sheathed knife.
    He stared at her, searching her face, before he took the weapons from her. “You trust me with these around you?”
    “Don’t disappoint me. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you because you didn’t have your weapons.”
    She turned away, checking the contents of a small