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

  Samuel shakes his head, confusion sweeping through those big green eyes of his. “No, it can’t be.”

  “And before Georges left me, he said something strange. He said ‘The answer to the mystery is not always as obvious as you may think.’ Madeleine seemed to know more than she was letting on as well. She seemed to think we were being watched.” I glance around the eerie baby room once more, thinking of those stately paintings I found of the Morel women—the ones that lined the wall—Agnès, Thérèse, and Hélène. Could they have something to do with this?

  Most of all, I remember the paintings that were hidden in a storage room, draped underneath a dusty white sheet and banned from the Morel women’s wall of fame. Madeleine and Isla were among those that had been cast aside, along with a third painting that had been slashed, torn to shreds. I could still see traces of the images that remained—those dark brown curls and that sweet dimple.

  Now I knew it was Rosie’s dimple and those were Rosie’s curls.

  The Morels must have destroyed her painting after she betrayed Alexandre.

  A bitter gust of air squeezes in through the cracks in the windowpanes and whips around Samuel and me. “I don’t think the Morel men are the only ones behind this. This nursery—this hope for a baby girl—a woman did this,” I say.

  Before Samuel can respond, another freezing draft wafts into the room, bringing to life the baby mobile dangling above the crib.

  A slow, creepy lullaby travels through the cold air in the nursery while the mobile spins, gaining momentum. I vaguely feel Samuel squeeze my hand, but Isla’s presence, the memory of her voice, the vision of her pleading violet gaze puts me in a trance. The mobile spins faster, and suddenly I feel the emerald ring tingling, tightening, and squeezing my left ring finger so hard I want to scream from the pain.

  But when I open my mouth, there is no sound. No voice. Just like in my nightmares. Before I can figure out what is happening to me, I feel Isla pulling me to her.

  “Jillian, please come. You’re the only one who can save me.”

  Isla’s thirteen-year-old voice weaves into her adult cries, and I am immediately drawn to her, to my beautiful, innocent twin sister. The one I could never truly save.

  I will save her this time, though.

  I blink my eyes, and all I see is the baby mobile which twirls in violent, rapid circles before finally, it cracks and falls from the ceiling, crashing into the crib.

  The lullaby keeps playing, squeaking out its slow, eerie tune. This is all I hear as I leave Samuel’s side and go to my sister.

  “I’m coming for you, Isla. I’m coming.”

  A string of vivid scenes flash before me in full, vibrant color, like a movie reel rolling in slow motion. I have no recollection of what was going on before I arrived here—wherever here is—but I don’t care, because there, below me, is Isla posing on a plush red sofa.

  Her seductive violet gaze sparkles as she looks into the eyes of the man who sits on a stool opposite her, swiping his brush over a large canvas in short, delicate strokes.

  A strapless ivory dress hugs her beautiful curves and her thin waist, and waves of her shimmering chestnut hair fall effortlessly over her bare, dainty shoulders.

  With my full, 360-degree view of the room, I see that in between each brush stroke, the painter pauses to study my sister—but his version of “studying” is more of a silent flirtation. He is clearly mesmerized by her. As am I.

  In Christophe’s sultry dark eyes and in this lustrous painting he is creating, I know that he is the first man to ever truly see my sister. The damaged, sweet beauty of Isla is reflected in each bold brush stroke.

  And slowly, the painting I found hidden in the Morels’ storage closet comes to life.

  Isla blinks her long lashes at Christophe, and suddenly, there it is. The moment where she knows she has found him. The one who sees past her stunning, flawless exterior. The one who will love her anyway.

  They communicate without words, but I can hear my sister. She is afraid to bare her truth. But the gentleness in Christophe’s gaze, the truth in his portrait of her, tells her she will be safe with him.

  Better than safe—she can be herself. Finally.

  In an instant, the vibe in the room changes. Goose bumps prickle my neck. There, hovering in the doorway is Frédéric, his imposing, possessive gaze full of rage and jealousy. He wants Isla all to himself, but he isn’t stupid. He knows—he sees—that will never happen.

  And so it begins. Isla’s beauty drives yet another man to total madness. It started when we were only thirteen, and it has never ended.

  At once, the scene before me changes in a flash.

  Now it is Isla holding something in her hands, tears streaming down her pale cheeks.

  I go to her, and even though I can’t touch her or even reach for her, I can feel her emotions. I know instantly that the tears she’s crying are tears of joy, not sorrow.

  The little white stick in her hands reveals two bright pink lines.

  “I’m pregnant,” she whispers.

  The scene flashes yet again, faster this time, and now I see Isla closing the door to a fancy study, a slinky black gown swishing around her ankles. She turns, looking as calm, cool, and collected as ever. But I feel the fear that courses through her entire being, the horror pulsing through her veins.

  Her hand shoots instinctively to her abdomen as she takes a step closer to the man staring at her in wide-eyed bewilderment.

  Senator Parker Williams.

  “I was hoping you’d remember me.” Isla’s cool tone is laced with hatred.

  He approaches her, careful to keep his gaze focused on her eyes, and not on the dipping neckline of her dress. “How much do you want?” he growls.

  She lets out a low, sinister laugh, gesturing to her surroundings. “Frédéric is going to propose to me this weekend. I’m going to be a Morel. Do you actually think I want your money?”

  The slightest hint of fear passes through his cowardly eyes. “Then what do you want?”

  Isla takes another step toward the man who abused her, who used her body when she was too young to take a stand. She takes a stand now, though, her courage unwavering. Only I can feel the terror tying knots in her stomach, the hatred that boils inside her, that makes her want to kill this man.

  I want to kill him too.

  But I am powerless as I watch the scene unfold. I am here…but not here in the way I want to be.

  “You’ll resign from the Senate this week, or else I’ll tell the Morels what you did to me,” Isla threatens.

  Now it is his turn to laugh. “Do you think they’ll actually believe you? The whore?”

  Isla’s tiny hand comes around fast, slapping the pompous look right off his face. “I’ve already told the Morels’ lawyer—my lawyer now—in confidence what you did to me. One phone call, and the story goes to the press, to the police, to all of your slimy politician friends, and straight to your wife. Your life will be over. Unless you resign.”

  Just as he’s about to retort, she pulls a photo out of her shiny silver clutch and shoves it into his chest. “This is only a copy. The lawyer has the original, along with an entire roll of film. I may have been too young to fight back, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew I’d find you one day and take you down, you cowardly piece of shit.”

  The defeat on Senator’s Williams greasy old face is priceless as he stares at the photo in his hands, then watches Isla stalk out of the study, slamming the door behind her.

  Samuel was right. Just like me, Isla was willing to risk everything to bring this bastard down. She’d infiltrated a high-profile wealthy family and had even pretended to fall in love with their son, all to scare the shit out of Senator Williams and take away his career. Isla had no intention of taking the story of her sordid past to the Morels, to the press, or to the police. I knew her better than that. She would never want the world to know what had happened to her. She simply wanted to take something important away from Parker Willi
ams, the way he had done to her.

  Pride and love for my sister overwhelm me as the scene flashes again, now moving quicker than before. It is Isla, in the bedroom I searched at the Morel Château, leaving a note—the note I found in Frédéric’s suitcase—and the massive diamond engagement ring on the desk. Next I see her dashing into a black car outside the property, smiling at the driver.

  He tips his hat at her, his silvery sapphire eyes twinkling through the darkness. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle.”

  I know that warm voice, those knowing eyes. It’s Georges, the chauffeur.

  “I need the ferry to Lausanne,” Isla says in French as she shoots one last glance toward the looming castle.

  The scenes zip before me, moving faster as I trace Isla’s voyage to the train. Next we are on the Orient Express, and she is dialing my number with one hand and touching her belly with the other. Nervous, excited energy surrounds her as she leaves the message I have already heard. I want to scream out to her, warn her, stop what I know is about to happen, but Isla can’t see me, and I can’t scream. She doesn’t know I’m here, and I don’t even know how I am here.

  A brawny man, dressed head to toe in black, storms into the sleeping compartment and takes my sister before she can finish telling me her news.

  That she is pregnant. And that she ended the senator’s career.

  Next, Isla is out in the cold, shivering and surrounded by a flurry of snow pouring down through the trees from the black winter sky above. The man shoves her from behind, pressing a gun into her side. I feel her fear, her pain, her grief, as if it is all my own. This unbreakable bond we have always shared grows stronger than ever as I travel along beside her, willing her to see me, to know that I am here, that I am coming for her.

  Every intense emotion that runs through Isla makes an imprint on my heart. She is doing her best to suppress the terror, telling herself she’s been through worse. That she will survive. An overwhelming surge of hope and courage fills her up. She does not cry. She will do anything to keep her baby safe. To make it to Christophe, the only man she has ever truly loved.

  The wind and the flittering snowflakes disappear abruptly, and now we are inside a tiny, cold room. The lights are off, but I make out the outline of my sister tied up to a chair, a thick piece of duct tape covering her mouth.

  The creepy vibe in this space strikes me as familiar, and as I gaze around at Isla’s surroundings—at the shiny new crib in the corner, at the teeny baby clothes adorning the closet—I remember the nursery, the cabin, and my voyage with Samuel.

  This is why I felt Isla so strongly in that room.

  Because seventy-five years in the future, she is being held here against her will. Forced to sit alone in the nursery that will house her child if she isn’t saved first.

  “Jillian!”

  Isla’s panicked voice cuts through my thoughts. I will myself closer to her until I am inches from her face. One lone teardrop rolls down her cheek as she draws in a labored breath through her nose.

  “I’m here, Isla. I’m here.” I tell her, even though there are no real words exiting my mouth. Her panicked violet eyes flicker wildly, her brows raising.

  And finally, there it is—recognition. The invisible connection we’ve always shared. Somehow, in this frozen, eerie baby nursery in the middle of the Alps, my sister knows I have traveled to her. She sees me.

  “I’m coming for you, Isla. Just hang on,” I tell her, willing myself not to break. To stay strong. “I’m going to save you and your baby. No matter what they do to you, do not give up hope, do you hear me?”

  She nods her head violently.

  I want to hug her, to untie her, to rip the goddamned piece of tape off her mouth, but I have no physical abilities, no physical form. Still, she sees me, the tears now pouring down her face.

  In an instant, I feel something tugging at me, pulling me away from her.

  No. Please, give me more time with her.

  But whatever force has landed me here is sucking me back.

  “Promise me, Isla. Promise me you won’t give up.”

  One more intense gaze from those panicked violet eyes of hers—the eyes we will forever share—tells me she hears me.

  “I promise, Jilly. I promise.”

  The creepy lullaby swirls through the air, pulling me away from my sister, into a hole of frozen blackness. Sleep comforts me, makes me forget what just happened, making me feel indifferent about where I am going.

  But Isla’s voice shatters the darkness, breaking the silence that is about to swallow me into its endless depths.

  “Wake up, Jillian! They’re coming for you.”

  The piercing sound of shattering glass snaps me awake. My eyes pop open as a panicked breath fills my lungs.

  Samuel is inches from my face, his finger on my lips. “Stay quiet and don’t move,” he whispers before rushing away from my side.

  A heavy fatigue plagues me as I realize I am lying on the floor of the old cabin nursery. Before I can analyze the mysterious voyage I have just taken to Isla and back, the sound of knuckles on flesh startles me to a sitting position.

  Isla’s warning rushes back to me.

  They’re here. They’ve come back for us.

  Shooting to my feet, I scan the nursery, cursing that sickeningly sweet lullaby that continues to rattle out of the baby mobile which lies in a broken heap inside the crib.

  A crashing sound coming from the front of the cabin makes me jump. I grab a rickety wooden chair from the corner of the room and hold it in front of me, creeping slowly out into the pitch-black hallway.

  I stop just around the corner from the doorway leading into the living room, where I hear Samuel fighting with some unidentified man—a man who I am certain was sent back through the mountains to kill us.

  Finally, I build up the courage to peek around the corner.

  In front of the dying fire, Samuel is struggling to seize a shiny blade from the intruder’s hands. I recognize the man immediately as the abductor who knocked Frances out and hauled her out of the shack over his shoulder.

  Samuel’s fist flies back to sock his strong-jawed nemesis in the face, but the man is quicker, blocking Samuel’s punch, then attempting to stab Samuel in the side. Samuel jumps, missing the knife by only an inch.

  A sudden wave of dizziness threatens to knock me to my knees. I ignore the blood pounding through my ears as I grip the sides of the chair and wait for my moment.

  Samuel’s back muscles tighten as he blocks another stabbing attempt. Then with a beastly force, Samuel grabs the man’s wrist and wrenches the blade from his hands.

  I hold my breath, waiting for Samuel to stab the man and end this battle, but instead, the man’s fist meets Samuel’s abs and he doubles over, stumbling, dropping the knife to the ground.

  I feel my feet moving before I am even aware of what I’m about to do. A fierce instinct rushes through me as I swing the chair up over my head and bring it down with a heavy crash over the back of our enemy’s thick head just as he is reaching for the knife.

  He lets out a strangled cry as his hefty legs fold, and he crumbles to his knees. Samuel delivers a swift kick to the man’s face, and I follow up with another bash to the back of his head, giving Samuel just enough time to pluck the knife up off the rug.

  The last embers of the fire sizzle beside us as Samuel pins the man to the floor, wrapping his bicep tightly around the man’s neck and pressing the point of the blade just underneath his chin.

  Samuel nods for me to back away, and for once I follow his instructions. But I don’t let go of the wooden chair in my hands. I grip it so tightly that a splinter of wood slices into my palm.

  “Who ordered the abduction?” Samuel growls in French into the man’s ear.

  The man only grunts in response, so Samuel wrenches his neck back to an impossible angle, then presses the pointy blade deeper into his chin, breaking the skin.

  “Tell me who is behind this, or I’ll kill you right now. I
had no problem killing your friend back at the shack,” Samuel says, showing not a spec of fear while I stand trembling uncontrollably.

  The man struggles underneath Samuel’s firm hold, but he still won’t talk. This time Samuel pushes the blade deeper, and the man cries out as his blood trickles onto the rug.

  Finally, our enemy’s strangled voice travels through the dark cabin.

  “I don’t know her name,” he says. “I swear, I don’t know her name!”

  I think of the pink nursery, of the girly decorations and hand-knitted baby clothes. I see Isla’s pleading violet eyes trapped seventy-five years in the future, in the updated version of this same nursery, and Samuel’s words from earlier rush back to me.

  “This room is not the work of a man.”

  And as Samuel twists the blade deeper into the perpetrator’s neck, grilling him for more information, I realize that all along, we’ve been severely underestimating the power of the Morel women.

  EPISODE 7

  CHAPTER 17

  December 25, 1937

  The French Alps

  The last embers of the fire flicker out just as a haze of early morning sunlight streams through the cabin windows, reflecting off the shiny blade Samuel still holds in his hand. That blade is the only thing keeping our tight-lipped attacker in his place. Well—that and Samuel’s unparalleled brute strength. I am certainly not helping at this point, as my own putrid fear has me trembling off in the corner, gripping a splintery wooden chair as my only weapon.

  “Où sont Rosie et Frances?” Where are Rosie and Frances? Samuel asks for the tenth time as he keeps the burly man pinned to the floor, twisting his neck and arms backward at painful angles.

  The man refuses to respond, once again prompting Samuel to nick the skin on his neck, even deeper this time. The trickle of blood dripping onto the dull brown rug turns into a small stream.