To Deceive Is To Love (Romantic suspense) (19 page)

“I hope you aren’t about to use the same aggression you showed my T-shirt. If you are, they’ll hear my screams in the next village.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” She took a small swallow and continued with her task. Taking off his shoes, she very gently pulled the dungarees down past his injury. The piece of shirt used to bind his wound was covered with dried blood and looked disgusting. Chantelle couldn’t help screwing up her nose, her gaze turning away from it.

“David, perhaps I should wait until the doctor is here. It will start bleeding again.”

“It will be all right. Rip the trouser leg and get them off that way.”

“With my bare hands?”

“Florence Nightingale you aren’t.” His voice was sluggish, his eyelids closed.

“I’ll fetch some scissors from downstairs.” Chantelle realized she was talking to herself now; David’s heavy breathing confirmed he was asleep.

The proprietor’s wife, a short stocky woman with pinned-up steel gray hair, was occupied in the kitchen when Chantelle called out in the deserted reception hall. Swing doors to the kitchen opened out and she swept through, busy wiping her wet hands on her apron. It was quiet, the season for tourists nearing its end. Chantelle and David’s sudden arrival caused the woman’s curiosity to surface as she asked repeated questions.

Chantelle tried to pretend her French was not good and that she couldn’t understand the questions concerning her husband’s condition. The fact that they had been booked in as husband and wife had been her idea, an old fashioned sense of decorum rearing its head when the proprietor had asked for their names. Asking for scissors and more hand towels certainly heightened the poor woman’s suspicions, since Chantelle knew the French words for these items but little else.

Returning to the room, Chantelle filled an ornate pitcher obviously meant for decorative purposes with warm water and cut one of the hand towels into strips. Carefully, she cut through the trouser leg lengthways, bathing the bloodied areas to release the material from the skin.

When it came to removing the makeshift bandage, nausea and dizziness struck her, rocking her back on her knees. She held a hand tight across her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to rid them of the image. With no food since leaving her mother’s villa, the nausea finally subsided, but the light-headed feeling remained.

Slowly, she opened her eyes and was met by the repulsive sight of the torn flesh and the gaping wound cut deep into his thigh. The bullet had sliced through the right thigh muscle from the front and had exited out the back, which was why there was so much blood. It was a miracle he had managed to walk at all with so much damage done to the muscle. Remembering how angry he had become when he finally couldn’t walk, Chantelle guessed it was self-denial and stubbornness which had initially drove him on and then when his body failed him, he replaced this with anger and frustration.

Normally, she wasn’t the squeamish type, but this wasn’t a hospital drama. Taking a deep breath, she took a clinical, detached approach and set about applying the strips of wet toweling around the wound to clean it. Stitches were needed, but at least there was no bullet to remove.

The bleeding started up again, but it wasn’t so profuse. Her gaze flicked to David’s face for signs that she was hurting him. His breathing remained heavy, allowing her to continue with the task. Wrapping a strip of dry towel around his leg, she got fresh water, took a clean strip of cloth and started bathing his hot forehead and chest with the tepid water.

His bronzed skin seemed to sizzle beneath the touch of the cool water as her fingers glided over the smooth, taut muscle. The fine line of springy dark hairs that rose from his navel and spread out to his breastbone brought on a sudden desire to trace their path with her tongue. Men’s bodies were not meant to be beautiful, but in David’s case, it was perfection, modeled from Adonis himself.

Closing her eyes, she brought her cheek down upon his skin, her tongue coming out to touch its texture and to taste. Her head shot back almost immediately as if she had touched an electric current. Insane, deranged by the trauma of her ordeal and her present predicament, those were the only excuses she could come up with to explain such lust-driven behavior. Her gaze shot to David’s face, relieved that her action had stirred nothing in him, not that he was in any state to respond.

Getting up from the bed, she pulled the covers back over him and went over to the phone, this time to contact her grandparents in Sete with the hope her mother had somehow made contact.

Relief flooded through her when her mother answered.

“Chantelle where are you? What’s happened? Are you hurt…?”

Interrupting her mother’s frantic questioning, she confirmed no harm had been done to her and that she was okay. “Have you called the police?”

“Of course I have. They are out searching for you and asking so many questions. I don’t understand any of this.”

“Please, mother, listen carefully. I’m safe now, but you must not tell anyone I have been in contact. I can’t explain what’s happened you have to trust me. Don’t go back to the villa, promise me that.”

“You have to tell me where you are, what’s going on.”

“Mother, I can’t. Believe me when I say I haven’t done anything wrong and will be in touch again when things are sorted out.”

“Chantelle…”

“I’m so sorry for all of this. I love you.” Chantelle hung up, unable to carry on. She buried her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The soft hammering grew louder and louder. “Madame Duvall, Madame Duvall.”

Bolting upright in bed, Chantelle realized the sound was not imaginary. For a minute or two, she felt totally disorientated, her surroundings dark shapes with moonlight casting eerie shadows across the furnishings. Gradually, her eyes adjusted, the fuzziness of her mind clearing as she looked down and found herself wearing the same filthy clothes, minus her trainers. The last thing she remembered was crawling into bed next to David. She must have dropped straight off to sleep. Turning to her side, she saw David stretched out, his breathing heavy and labored, the covers flung off him. The knocking had failed to penetrate his fever-induced sleep.

The door slowly opened and the proprietor’s head peeked around it.

“Pardon, Madame, but there are two gentlemen downstairs who insist on being allowed up. One claims to be your brother. He asked me to say that it is Pascal.”

“Oh! Yes. Quelle heure est-il?”

“Il est minuit. They woke my wife and me up with their insistent ringing of the door chimes.”

“Midnight, I’m so sorry.” Chantelle apologized profusely, claiming her brother had traveled some distance to get here, all the while pulling the covers over David’s body.

“Your husband did not look well when the two of you arrived. Is he any better?”

It was obvious her actions hadn’t gone unnoticed. His frown deepened as he looked at the clothes she still wore. Then, an anxious look took over, making Chantelle follow his line of vision to the pile of bloodied towels lying on the floor. She had been so exhausted, she had just left them there along with the pitcher.

“Please, please, I do not want any trouble. Andre told me the two of you were stranded tourists whose car broke down, but I do not think so.” He opened the door wide, revealing the rest of him was attired in a striped dressing gown.

The deep Marseille accent she recognized from the phone call broke in from behind the proprietor. It surprised them both. The proprietor’s head disappeared from view, the door closing. Hushed French dialogue was now coming from the direction of the hallway.

Finally, the door opened and two men slipped in. One looked to be in his early thirties, wearing Levi’s, a denim jacket and dark, shoulder-length hair tied back. His nut-brown skin and angled features had a severity that matched the coldness of his eyes. Next to him stood a middle-aged man with thinning hair, a crumpled, well-worn suit and a tatty black case in his hands. Steel, round glasses rested on his nose. It was easy to realize the younger man was Pascal.

“You must be Chantelle,” he stated flatly, regarding her with suspicion.

Warily, she had risen from the bed and stood with her back to the window, keeping as much distance from him as she could... He reminded her too much of the men who had abducted and terrorized her.

“You look afraid. You called me, remember?” His tone was not the least bit comforting.

“I was told to.” She glanced pointedly at David.

The doctor pulled the covers back and began removing the towel draped around David’s thigh. David started to stir, mumbling incoherently, his head thrashing from side to side. Pascal turned to the doctor and spoke hastily to him in French.

It was too much for Chantelle. She couldn’t concentrate on the translation. “Please speak English,” she broke in, causing the two men to pause.

“I asked what is wrong with him. He is delirious?” Pascal demanded of the doctor, this time in English.

“A slight fever.” The doctor snorted. “Brought on by shock, loss of blood, most probably. He has the beginnings of an infection, that’s all.” He was busy examining the exposed wound, both entry and exit, prodding the flesh around. “Very lucky, bullet must have ricocheted off the femur, missing the artery. There’s a lot of muscle and tissue damage. The bullet created quite a hole, but he’ll live. You cleaned the area up well.” He turned, peering over his glasses at Chantelle. “Makes my job easier. No bullet, just a stitch up with a small drain to discharge any fluid and he’s done. Won’t be able to walk though for a week or so.” He removed a bottle of pills from his bag. “Give him three of these a day. That should get rid of any infection.”

Chantelle’s eyes widened as she watched the thread being put through the eye of the surgical needle. “You can’t stitch him up without anesthetic.”

The doctor shrugged. “It will be okay, he’s too…” He gestured with his hands, looking unsure of the correct translation. “Out of it, as you English would say. I will show you how to change the dressing. He can’t be moved for several days.”

“He needs to go to the hospital.” She stared at both men, unable to believe this was happening.

“It’s impossible,” Pascal retorted. “Listen to the doctor. He will tell you what to do.”

“What about the proprietor? You heard him,” Chantelle argued.

“I have taken care of him; he will give you no more problems. I will arrange transport out of the country in two to three days.”

“I can’t stay here with him. I have no clothes, no money, nothing. Look at me.” For the first time she was aware of what a dreadful sight she must look. Her hair, usually so carefully groomed, hung in tangled dull strands. Her skin and clothes looked like she had spent the last twenty-four hours living on a refuse site. She had never felt so dirty and violated.

Pascal lowered his eyes, and then looked back up, straight into hers. “Such trivial matters are easily taken care of. You can buy what you want in the village. Two days, maybe three, I’ll be back.”

His condescending tone, his manner, everything about him made her angry. “Don’t you want to know what’s going on, why he was shot?” She threw the question back like a challenge.

The doctor interrupted. “You talk all you like when I’m gone. I’m paid to patch a man up. My job is to save lives, nothing more.”

“We’ll talk later,” Pascal agreed in a tone that left no room for argument as the doctor bent over David.

Several times, David tried to sit up and stop the doctor from inflicting such pain. Each time, Pascal forcefully held him down by flinging all of his weight across David’s chest while Chantelle was ordered to take hold of his ankle and prevent the leg from thrashing around. It would only last a few minutes; the strength came like a volcano erupting violently and then dissolved just as sudden as he slipped back into semi-consciousness. The sight and sounds of his pain tore through Chantelle and when it was over, her body finally gave out as she slumped to the floor.

She felt the cool water upon her forehead and slowly opened her eyes. Leaning over her was the doctor, a wet flannel in his hand.

“When did you last eat?” he asked, almost accusingly.

Obviously one of them had lifted her off the floor, because she was now stretched out next to David, a pillow fluffed up behind her to keep her upright. “I can’t remember,” she finally replied. “How long?”

Pascal seemed to understand her half-stated question. “A few minutes.” His tone softened. “You are very pale, the bruising.” His fingers lightly touched her jaw. “Maybe you have suffered an injury also.” He held out a glass of water for her to sip.

“No, I’m all right. The doctor was right with his first diagnosis.”

“I will fix you up something to eat.”

“No, the proprietor…”

He placed a finger over her lips. “He has been paid very well and will not complain.”

The doctor bid Chantelle goodnight and went back to the car to wait. The sandwiches and coffee arrived and in between bites, she tried to answer Pascal’s questions. It was obvious he was frustrated by her answers, since she had no idea who her abductors were, what they wanted or what David’s mission was. All she could tell him were that four men were dead, the plane had crashed into a mountainside and that David had warned her to trust no one, including the British authorities.

He took out a Gauloise cigarette and lit it, silent for a moment. “I think the two of you are in very bad trouble. You have a French name and can understand the language somewhat, but you are not French.”

“My mother is French, my father English and I have lived most of my life in England. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, but how did you meet David? He rarely has a woman in tow, and a beautiful, brave one at that.” He smiled, the harshness in his face vanishing for an instant.

It was obviously meant as a compliment and nothing more, but still Chantelle felt vulnerable. She knew nothing of this man or what he did, and her unease revealed itself in her tone. “We met in England. I suggest you save the rest of your questioning for David, since I have a lot to question him about, too. You could help by telling me how the two of you know each other.”

He took a last draw on his cigarette before stubbing it out, his face turned away from her. “He saved my life once and for this, I am indebted. You do not need to know more. I will leave now. You have my number, but please only call if you are in danger. I will be back as I promised.” He placed some Euro currency on the bedside cabinet. “This should take care of your needs until I return. Try to stay in this room as much as possible and as I said, the proprietor will cause you no more problems.” He started toward the door.

“Wait! What about the plane wreckage? The police or friends of the terrorists will know we couldn’t have traveled far. This village will be the first place they come looking.”

“The wreckage will not be discovered until the spring now. No one goes up into those mountains this time of year; you will be quite safe.”

Despite her uncertainty, she didn’t want him to leave. If David should worsen, she had no one to immediately turn to, and that fear had her begging him to stay.

“It is not possible. The doctor needs to go home and I have other matters to take care of. David is as strong as an ox. There is no need for you to worry about his recovery.” With those parting words, he was gone, leaving Chantelle to stare despairingly at the closed door.

For the rest of the night and the following day and night, Chantelle remained closeted in the room, too afraid to leave David. The proprietor proved very helpful by having meals sent up to her and sending their eldest daughter out shopping. With a list provided by Chantelle, she brought toiletries, undergarments and some unisex T-shirts. Obviously, Pascal had paid the man well for his services, because he asked no more questions and his wife kept her distance.

All day long, Chantelle sat on the edge of the bed tending to a man she now felt ambiguous toward. She knew every inch of his lean, perfectly molded body as she sponged him down continuously. The wound in his shoulder blade wasn’t the only scar, she soon discovered. There was another inch long scar under the sprinkling of dark hairs covering his chest, very close to his heart. A shudder rose through her at the thought of David coming so close to death. She had made love with this man, argued with him, been rescued by him, desired and hated him, and yet, she knew no more about him than she had after their first meeting.

During this period, his eyes would open briefly, barely focused. He would sip the water she offered and would swallow the pills, then his eyelids would close again and he would slip away to some dark, hidden recess of his mind. She tried to make sense of his mutterings, but the words never formed sentences.

Wherever he went in his dreams it did not bring comfort or pleasure, because pained expressions always twisted his features. Once or twice, he called out her name, which was both heartening and alarming as she was never sure whether it was spoken through need or torment.

Her administrations to his injured leg continued. Continuously, she checked the wound as the doctor instructed for discoloring or increased swelling. So far, the stitches and drain remained in place and the area didn’t turn black, which the doctor had warned her to look out for.

Finally, by the second morning, David’s fever had peaked and his temperature began to come down. It was while she was trying to get him to take his tablet with one hand supporting his head and the other holding the cup of water to his lips that his eyes finally fully focused on her. He took a long sip of the water and for the first time, took the cup from her to finish its contents before handing the empty cup back.