Midnight Train to Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Read online

  Even though it is dangerously close to midnight, every beautifully set table in the elegant dining car is occupied. As I cast a quick glance through the heated car, I marvel at each of the women’s luxurious evening gowns, the shimmering diamonds dangling from their ears, the pearls adorning their necks, and the handsome, tuxedo-clad men who accompany them.

  Samuel nods toward the back of the car, where two women are dining solo, each at their own table, with their backs to us. We stroll casually in their direction, and I hope that none of the passengers who witnessed the bewildered looks on our faces and our out-of-place clothing a little while ago will recognize us now.

  When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the steamy train window, I realize that I barely recognize myself. My long violet gown swishes as I walk, hugging my figure in places I wish it did not…although I’m certain by the way Samuel—my pretend husband for the night—combed my body earlier with that intense gaze of his, he doesn’t mind in the least.

  As we approach the backs of the two women, I notice that one is donning a showy fur shawl around her bare shoulders while her smooth blond hair twists up into an intricately designed diamond headpiece. The other young woman has silky brown curls that slide over her shoulders as she lifts her striking sapphire gaze to ours.

  Rosie.

  I just know it’s her.

  Samuel doesn’t miss a beat as he flashes the girl with the curls a warm smile. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.” The French rolls off his tongue with ease this time, melding perfectly with his impeccable charm. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

  I notice her left hand instinctively running over her abdomen as she peers at us underneath a set of long, curly lashes. “Oh dear, is it that obvious that I’m the only American on the train tonight?” Her big blue eyes twinkle as she smiles sweetly, revealing that same dimple I noticed earlier in the corridor.

  “Well, you’re certainly not alone,” I say. “My husband and I are from Washington, D.C.”

  “Oh, how lovely,” the young girl replies. She opens her plump lips as if she’s about to say something else, but then stops herself.

  “The late night dinner on the Orient Express must be exquisite. It appears that all of the other tables have been taken,” I say with a lighthearted laugh. “Would it be terribly inconvenient if we joined you for dinner?”

  Before she gives me an answer, the blond woman in the fur shawl stands from her table behind us and places a silky black glove on Samuel’s shoulder. “I would love company tonight,” she says in a sophisticated British accent. “Although the ride on the Orient Express is most extraordinary, dining alone on Christmas Eve is still rather depressing. Perhaps we can all join Miss…?” she raises a brow, waiting for the girl with the curls to say her name.

  “Rosemary,” the young girl responds. “But you can call me Rosie. And of course you may join me for dinner. It is Christmas, after all.”

  Clad in a spotless white coat with a long white apron tied around his waist, the server appears at our table, a matching white cloth draped over his arm and a bucket of champagne in hand.

  “Une coupe de champagne?” he offers with a charming smile.

  Rosie’s curls bob over her shoulders as she shakes her head, smiling politely back at the waiter. “Non, merci,” she says quietly as she rests her hand on her abdomen once more.

  She’s changed out of the sparkling silver gown I glimpsed underneath her red coat earlier and is now wearing a beautiful, yet modest, black dress. I also notice that she is the only woman seated in this dining car who is not wearing gloves. Her fingertips are still bright pink, not yet fully recovered from the bitter cold outside.

  I remember the voyage I’ve just made to escape the Morel Château, traveling across the freezing Lake Geneva by ferry, and I wonder if Rosie has just finished the same trip in her efforts to leave her fiancé, Alexandre Morel, and meet my grandfather in Paris tomorrow morning.

  Hopefully, we’re about to find out, I think as I take Rosie’s lead and decline the champagne. As much as I would love to drown my troubles in a bubby glass, I don’t think it’s in my best interest to get tipsy before attempting to stop an abduction from taking place. Especially considering the fact that neither Samuel nor I have the faintest clue as to how this is all going to go down.

  The server makes the same offer to both Samuel and the striking blond seated across from him, and they both accept.

  Moments later, Samuel takes a quick sip from his sparkling crystal flute, then gets right down to business. “I’m sorry, Miss, I didn’t get your name,” he asks the British woman.

  “Frances,” she replies, gracefully extending her hand. Samuel clasps her fingers lightly in his before kissing the top of her black glove. “I’m Samuel, and this is my wife, Jillian.”

  Frances—who I can only assume must be Frances Chapman, the second woman listed in the 1937 abduction report—reaches across the table and shakes my hand. “How do you do,” she says with a nod. The faint creases that line her eyes tell me she is likely several years older than the young Rosie, who couldn’t be more than twenty years old.

  Introductions are exchanged with Rosie as well before Samuel continues.

  “My wife and I adore traveling Europe by train. In fact that’s how we first met,” he says, shooting me a romantic wink.

  I push the thought of Samuel’s rough, tattooed body out of my head and smile back at him. God, that man can really turn on the charm when he wants to.

  “Oh, how romantic,” Frances purrs before taking a bold sip of her champagne. “I can only hope to meet my future husband on this voyage. He has until London to board, so there’s still time.”

  Rosie giggles, then flashes us all a sweet smile. “I’ve already met the man I’m going to marry. Well, technically we’re not yet engaged, but I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before he asks me.”

  “He must be a wonderful man,” I say, thinking of Jacques, the grandfather I never knew. I wonder how things might’ve turned out differently if Rosie hadn’t been taken from him so early in their relationship. Maybe he wouldn’t have gone off to World War II, where—according to my mother’s vague stories of her parents—he would later lose his life.

  But then, if Rosie had never been abducted, Jacques might have never met my grandmother, and then my mother would have never been born.

  Although the thought of ending my mother’s miserable existence on this earth is comforting in a sickly way, I realize with a start what that would mean for Isla and me.

  “Will this love of yours be joining you on the Orient Express tonight?” Frances asks Rosie, the odd chill in her tone snapping me back to the present.

  “Oh, not tonight. He’ll be waiting for me when we arrive in Paris tomorrow morning. The anticipation of seeing him after all these months will guarantee me not a single moment’s rest tonight, I am sure of it!”

  Rosie’s excitement is so endearing, I cannot stand the thought of anyone harming her. I wish I could tell her what we know is going to happen and take her to safety immediately, but I must stick to the plan. Besides, revealing the fact that Samuel and I have traveled back in time would only serve to alienate us from the women we are trying to save.

  “Young love,” Frances sighs, before taking two more long sips of champagne. “I remember it well.”

  “If I may be so bold as to ask, what brings you to make a solo Christmas voyage on the Orient Express?” Samuel addresses Frances.

  “Oh, dear. I don’t think I’ve had enough champagne to share the details of that story,” she says with a shrill laugh. “Let’s just say I was visiting an old friend…and it ended on a rather sour note, unfortunately.” Frances pats her blond hair with gloved hands as she furiously bats her eyelashes, directing her gaze toward the thick snowflakes flying past the train window. Gaining composure, she turns back to the table and levels her gaze at Rosie. “In fact, I believe this old friend of mine may be a mutual acquaintance of ours, Rosemary.”

  Rosi
e’s smile wilts instantly at Frances’s words.

  “Am I correct in assuming that you are Rosemary Delaney, daughter of Ambassador Delaney?” Frances asks.

  Rosie sits up taller in her seat, fumbling with the cloth napkin in her hands. “My, what a small world. You are acquainted with my father?”

  I squeeze Samuel’s hand underneath the table. Rosie’s father was an ambassador too? Just like the poor, young Emma Brooks, who, with her brown curls and pretty blue eyes, actually bears a striking resemblance to the young Rosie.

  As if this entire situation weren’t creepy enough.

  “Not exactly,” Frances says. “But I am quite intimate with the Morel family. In fact, I attended the Morel Holiday Gala earlier this evening. I must say, you looked simply stunning in that silver gown you were wearing. Your fiancé, Alexandre Morel, seemed quite taken with you.” Frances’s gaze shoots to Rosie’s left hand. “Or should I say your former fiancé?”

  The color drains from Rosie’s cheeks as her eyes dart nervously around the dining car, where a few of the other passengers have begun to retire to their sleeping compartments. She lifts a trembling hand to her chest, then turns to Samuel and me.

  “And the two of you as well? Has Alexandre planted you all here? To stop me from leaving him? To save his precious reputation?” Rosie cries.

  “No, that’s not it at all,” Samuel assures her.

  “Please, we have no idea what either of you are talking about,” I add.

  Just as the server appears at our side with a tray full of silver platters, tears pool at the corners of Rosie’s eyes. She shoots up from her seat and pushes past a smug Frances.

  “I won’t be dining this evening after all, Monsieur,” she says to the waiter, before taking off through the dining car.

  I squeeze Samuel’s knee underneath the table, but he returns my silent frantic plea with a stern, unyielding gaze.

  Stick to the plan.

  I force myself to stay seated, even though I want nothing more than to storm back to Rosie’s sleeping compartment and keep her safe. As if he can read my mind, Samuel nods at me reassuringly.

  We will. We will save her.

  The server removes the lids from the shiny platters, placing three plates of le canard and petits légumes au beurre in front of us.

  “Merci, Monsieur,” I say politely, but truth be told, I couldn’t be less interested in the gourmet spread before us. I am wondering when this supposed snowdrift is going to stop the train, and who will be attempting to take Rosie, Frances, and another unknown woman from its warm carriages.

  With a dainty flip of her wrist, Frances opens her cloth napkin and spreads it across her lap, not seeming the least bit ruffled at what’s just happened. “My, my,” she says dryly. “I didn’t mean to upset the poor girl. I was simply going to commiserate with her over what pompous arses the Morel men are. I should know.”

  Samuel slices into the moist filet of duck. “What is your connection to the Morel family, if you don’t mind me asking?” Samuel inquires.

  Frances lifts a brow, then stabs at a carrot with her fork. “I do mind, actually.”

  The sounds of silverware scratching on china and train wheels chugging through the snowy Alpine terrain outside are the only noises that cut through the tense silence we now share with Frances Chapman—another woman whose mysterious connection to the infamous Morel family will prove to be the end of her…unless, of course, Samuel and I are successful in our quest to change history.

  A gust of wind rattles the dining car, making me shiver despite the insides of my black gloves, now covered in sweat. I peek over my shoulder and spot the last elegant 1930s couple leaving the dining car.

  I wait a few moments before breaking the silence. “If it was all a misunderstanding, perhaps I should invite Rosie back to dinner?” The words no more than leave my lips when Frances shoots up from the table.

  “The duck isn’t quite to my liking. I think I’ll retire early.” She drops her napkin onto her plate, excusing herself abruptly and without even a hint of politeness.

  Frances exits through the door nearest us, in the opposite direction of Rosie. Only seconds after she’s closed the door behind her, a violent jolt rocks the train, and the wheels screech to a deafening halt. Silverware and crystal champagne flutes slide off the smooth white tablecloth, landing on the floor in a shattering cacophony that pierces my eardrums.

  Samuel clasps my hand tightly as the low lights in the dining car flicker off and on. Finally, as the smell of hot steam drifts into the dining car, drowning out the rich aroma of duck and buttery vegetables, the lights fizzle off, and we are surrounded by a deep, endless black night.

  I fumble around in my seat, and as soon as my hands wrap around the silver, gun-toting clutch I carried into the dining car, I sling the strap over my shoulder and pinch Samuel’s arm. “This is it. We don’t have much time.”

  “Come on,” he says, rising to his feet and taking my hand once more. “You need to change into your warmer clothes, and I’ll see to Rosie. Stick to the plan, and everything will be okay. I promise you.”

  The glow emanating from the snow-covered hills surrounding the train breaks through the darkness as I follow Samuel down the aisle of the dining car, our feet crunching over broken glass.

  We are almost to our sleeping compartment when I hear a rustling sound down the corridor. I hold my breath and get ready to grab the gun from my purse, but soon the conductor’s hat comes into focus. “Not to worry, Madame, Monsieur,” he assures us in French. “We’ll be off shortly.”

  Panic soars through my chest, and I want to shout at him, tell him that an abduction is about to take place on his train and he must lock all the doors!

  But I keep my mouth shut. That isn’t in the plan, and he’ll only think I’ve lost my mind.

  Samuel gives the conductor a polite “Merci, Monsieur” before pulling me into our sleeping compartment.

  I waste no time stripping down to my underwear and pulling on the pants I’d discovered earlier in the old-fashioned suitcase. I’d laid them out on the sofa bed, ready to go, before we’d exited our sleeping compartment.

  “I’ll be in the bathroom down the hall,” Samuel whispers. In the suffocating darkness that seems to be closing in on us with each passing second, I think I can see him pulling his gun out from underneath his tux jacket.

  “Lock the door behind me,” he instructs. “I’ll knock three times twice when I return. No matter what you hear out there, do not open the door for anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” I say.

  But just as I am trying to ignore the sudden constriction of my heart, I feel Samuel’s heat pressing against the bare skin on my stomach and chest, his free hand sliding around my waist with force.

  “Jillian, no matter what happens tonight, you need to know that I’ve never stopped thinking about you. And I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  Samuel’s lips have no problem finding mine in this dark train car as he presses me up against the chilly train window, then sets the gun down on the nightstand beside us. His hands roam over the curves of my hips, stopping briefly at the small of my back before sliding up to explore the contours of my breasts. At once I am totally consumed and utterly powerless under the heat of his kiss. Our mouths press together almost violently, the years of longing, of needing, of loving this man that I never truly wanted to leave, pouring into the passion that steams up the bitter cold air around us.

  Samuel runs his fingers through my hair as he trails kisses down my neck and over the tops of my breasts. “I have to go,” he says, his breathing now labored, hot, blazing across my skin.

  I want more of him. All of him. And I am certain by the way his lips linger on my collarbone, by the way he holds me so confidently in his arms, that he wants all of me too.

  That he always has.

  Leaving him was a mistake. A grave, terrible mistake.

  Remembering Rosie and Isla, I place my ha
nds on Samuel’s shoulders and push him away from me. “Go,” I breathe. “You have to go.”

  One final steamy kiss grazes my lips, making me shudder in anticipation. “I’ll keep you safe tonight, Jill. I promise you,” Samuel whispers.

  And with that, he is off, and I am locking the door behind him and throwing on an itchy wool sweater, already missing the feel of his smooth hands on my skin and, even more, longing for one more rough, passionate kiss from that sinful mouth of his.

  God, I’ve missed him.

  My entire body is trembling again, but not from the cold that seeps in through the windows. I manage to slip my feet into the black patent-leather oxford shoes I discovered in the mysterious suitcase, then I double-knot the laces. Next, I throw on Georges’s large black coat, stuffing his thick wool gloves into my coat pocket. Finally, I remove the pistol from the silver purse, take my stance at the door, and attempt to calm my rapid, violent breathing.

  Suddenly the nightstand lamp flickers back on, and just as I’m squinting to readjust to the light, I hear a loud thud out in the corridor. Next there are footsteps passing by.

  Then silence.

  I wrap my hands tighter around the gun and force myself to stand still. I promised Samuel I wouldn’t leave this room, that I would follow the plan and wait until he returns.

  The plan is for Samuel to hide in the washroom at the end of the corridor, situated right next to Rosie’s sleeping compartment. He is to wait there until the abductor has taken her—a piece of the plan I can hardly allow myself to go through with—so as to avoid endangering more innocent lives on the train. Then Samuel will come for me, and we’ll follow the abductors. Samuel will take them down—with me as a backup if need be—but we’ll leave at least one of them alive so we can find out who is behind all of this and where they are planning to take the women.

  We hope this will be the same place where Isla has been taken.

  If we succeed, the question still remains—how we will travel back to 2012 to save my sister?