Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 2

  “Claudia,” he said, placing a firm hand on my arm.

  I tore away from his grip, unwilling to meet his gaze—the same gaze that had melted me from the inside out these past months. The gaze that, for once, had made me drop my defenses and be vulnerable.

  That was over now. This was over. It was time to go.

  But just as I turned to leave the studio, a jarring pain ripped through my chest, directly underneath the ruby pendant. The pain intensified then soared down through my stomach. I doubled over, hands clasping my tight, round belly, my eyes squeezing shut from the intensity of the pain rushing through me.

  “Claudia, what is it? Are you all right?”

  I vaguely felt Édouard’s hands wrapping around me as my knees buckled and I crumpled to the floor.

  Another jolt of pain rattled my insides, and I let out a low whimper. What was happening? I’d lost everything else. Was I going to lose my baby now too?

  Édouard’s strong voice boomed through the studio, ringing through my ears. “Stay with me, Claudia. Stay with me.” He knelt on the hardwood floor, cradling me in his arms.

  I will not lose my baby. I will not lose her.

  Another frosty draft whipped through the studio, chilling me to the bone, numbing me only slightly to the pain that now rolled through me in waves.

  I closed my eyes and felt Édouard’s warm breath blowing over my frosty skin, his face only inches from mine.

  “Why is it so cold in here?” I whispered, my whole body trembling.

  But before I could hear his answer, I saw something in the darkness—it was Édouard’s smoky-gray eyes dancing before me. I remembered the way his strong hands had felt on my skin, his warm breath grazing over my neck, his sexy hips and broad chest shifting in tune with mine to the same tango beat we’d danced to just moments before.

  Only there was something different about Édouard. His hair was shorter, the lines around his eyes were more deeply pronounced, and his lips were a bit fuller, happier even.

  The vision slipped away when another burst of pain ruptured inside of me. I opened my eyes and gasped for breath. Édouard’s face—the one I knew—hovered over me, his mouth moving in slow motion, but no sound coming out. The chill that shot through me intensified, spread from my toes up to my chest, my neck, and finally, to my head.

  I shivered as Édouard’s concerned face distanced from me. Farther and farther away he drifted, his message to me unclear. But by the urgency in his eyes, I knew it was important. No matter how hard I tried to focus though, I couldn’t hear him.

  I tried to yell, to reach out to him, to tell him that no matter what, he needed to save my baby. But I couldn’t because the blackness was quicker. It closed in around me, eerily dark but strangely comforting in its obscurity. And just as the last flicker of light left my sight, I inhaled the strong scent of roses and heard my grandmother’s voice whisper in my ear.

  “Ruby. My Ruby.”

  TWO

  “Ruby, wake up,” a soft, familiar female voice whispered off in the distance.

  “Qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” What happened?

  It was a different voice—a man’s. And something was odd about the way he spoke. Was he speaking French?

  Ruby, Ruby, Ruby.

  I went in and out of consciousness as that name flooded my ears, ricocheting through my pounding head.

  Then a hand, cool and steady, cupping my chin.

  “Ruby! Lève-toi!” Wake up!

  He was definitely speaking French. Was it Édouard? No, Édouard’s voice wasn’t that demanding or harsh. But I’d understood him. And I didn’t speak French.

  My brain spun in circles as the skin on my face blazed with heat. I’d never felt so hot in all my life.

  Warm breath engulfed me. Where was I? Who was standing over me?

  I blinked a couple of times, noticing the weight in my eyelids. It was different. My eyelashes were so long they clouded my view.

  The hand on my chin slid up my boiling cheek.

  “I’m so hot,” I murmured.

  But whose voice was that? It wasn’t mine.

  I opened my eyes fully and focused on the man’s face which hovered only inches from mine. He knelt over me, his brown eyes widening and his thin lips forming words as if in slow motion.

  “Ça va, Ruby? Ça va?” Are you okay, Ruby? Are you okay?

  Jean-Pierre. The name soared into my brain as the gruff sound of his voice trickled through my ears. He leaned closer, his breath a mixture of cigarettes and peppermint. I didn’t know anyone named Jean-Pierre. Who was this man? I blinked a few more times and refocused on his face—his dark five o’clock shadow and his lips, drawn into a tight line.

  Those lips. I knew those lips. As I lay flat on my back, my limbs as heavy as cement, their weight keeping me strapped to the floor, I could almost taste those lips.

  “Ruby, you’re awake,” he said, the corners of his mouth relaxing slightly.

  “Jean-Pierre?” I whispered before I could stop myself.

  “That’s right, baby. Have some water and you can go back onstage.”

  Onstage?

  “Jean-Pierre, she needs a break! We’ve been rehearsing since six in the morning and she hasn’t eaten a thing. You can’t keep pushing her like this, not after what happened this week. Putain.”

  It was the female voice from before, its inflection and feistiness more familiar to me now. But this time, she’d spoken French, hadn’t she? And again, I’d understood what she’d said. But how?

  I swiveled my head to the left, away from Jean-Pierre, and found a pair of silver strappy heels right in front of my face. The toenails protruding over the edge of the shoes were painted a blood red, and the feet attached to them were small and heavily arched. I worked my eyes up the length of her body to see a pair of legs, short and slim, covered in tan panty hose, then a red sequined leotard with feathers sprouting from the shoulders, and finally a gaudy red-and-silver feathery headpiece.

  She knelt down beside me, taking my hand, and immediately the scent of lavender swirled underneath my nose. “We’re going to get you something to eat, sweetie. Don’t you worry.”

  I stared into her eyes. They were a crystal green, gleaming in the dim light that surrounded us.

  What in the hell is going on?

  Suddenly, a vision of me dancing with Édouard flashed through my jumbled head. I’d been planning on telling him the truth about being pregnant. But why hadn’t I told him?

  And where was he now?

  I gazed up at the two concerned faces hovering over me and wondered why Édouard had been replaced with this man and woman who both looked so familiar to me. Why were they calling me Ruby? And why were they speaking French?

  Where am I?

  “I’m not Ruby,” I said, my voice still foreign yet strangely familiar. “My name is Claudia. Do you know where Édouard is? Or my grandmother?” My hand shot up to my neck, but I only felt warm, bare skin where my grandmother’s necklace should’ve been. “And the necklace. Where is it?”

  “You see, Jean-Pierre! She doesn’t even know her own name. She needs a break. We all do,” the woman spouted, hurling daggers at him with her eyes.

  Panic seized my chest as I flicked my head toward Jean-Pierre, who towered over me, shaking his head. “After what happened to Gisèle last weekend, no one is in their right mind. Get her some food and water and be back onstage in an hour. We have already replaced the star of the show once this week, and I refuse to do it again. Merde.”

  Gisèle.

  As soon as that name left his lips, the blood drained from my head and the insides of my palms coated with sweat. I closed my eyes, hoping the nausea would leave. Instead, a rush of terror boiled over inside of me.

  Why did the simple mention of this woman’s name make me want to crawl out of my skin?

  My eyes shot open as I reached for the woman with the red feathers in her hair. “Where am I? What’s going on?”

  A hint of fe
ar passed through her eyes before she glared up at Jean-Pierre. “Bastard,” she murmured under her breath. “Come on, Ruby. Let’s get you up. You’ll feel better once you get some rest.”

  As she peeled me off the ground, I noticed a crowd of women surrounding me—all of them dressed alike in their low-cut red leotards, feathers, silver high heels, and cherry lipstick. They whispered and stared at me, a few of them with concern etched in their brows, but one of them—a tall brunette with hazel eyes and cheekbones that almost reached her forehead—glared at me so hard I thought my face would break.

  I didn’t have time to process the ominous feeling that crept into my stomach, because the woman with the familiar green eyes ushered me through the throngs of red and silver and into a messy room lined with mirrors and bright lights and makeup scattered all over the countertops. As my eyes darted frantically around the clutter, a hauntingly vivid sense of déjà-vu suddenly came over me.

  I’ve been here before.

  The smell of lipstick, the missing lightbulb over the mirror in the right corner, the racks of skimpy, sequined costumes shimmering before me.

  My mind took a mental snapshot of each item, each color, each scent in this room, and for every single one, my brain told me that I’d already touched it, seen it, smelled it.

  But how could that be possible?

  “Here, doll. Just lie down on the couch and I’ll get you some water and something for your head. You’ll feel better in no time. Tomorrow’s a big night, and we’re not letting Véronique weasel her way into your role. La salope.”

  Okay. That was it. I had to let this woman know that although I was having a major, inexplicable case of déjà-vu, I did not belong here. I had to get back to my home in San Diego. To my grandma Martine, to my clients, to Édouard…and to my baby.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who are you? Where am—” I started, but my strange voice caught in my throat as the reflection of a young woman I didn’t recognize stared back at me in the mirror.

  She wore an outfit almost identical to the other girls, skintight and low-cut, except her leotard was all silver sequins, and a lone red feather stuck out from the soft blonde curls piled atop her head. Her breasts were voluptuous and bursting; her skin as pale as a first snow; her cheeks rosy; her lips full, round, and bathed in crimson lipstick; and her legs long, thin, and toned.

  She was undeniably gorgeous.

  It was when I gazed into her eyes that my entire body went ice-cold.

  She had my eyes—the exact same iridescent blue eyes I’d seen each time I’d gazed into a mirror, for all of my thirty-five years as Claudia.

  How were my eyes in this body?

  I peered down at my stomach—at her stomach—and the air constricted in my lungs as the flat, sequin-covered abdomen confirmed my worst fear.

  My baby girl was gone.

  I remembered then. I remembered why I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell Édouard that I was single. The magazine cover announcing his engagement. The pain that had ripped from my chest down through my stomach.

  Lights and sequins blurred around me as I stumbled backward and landed with a thud on the couch.

  “Oh, dear. You really bopped your head hard, didn’t you?”

  I barely heard the woman as she fumbled around the dressing room. How could I have woken up in someone else’s body?

  Where is my baby? Am I losing my mind?

  The woman appeared at my side with a cup of water and some pills. “Here, take these. They’ll help with your head.”

  I pushed her hand away. “No, I can’t take pills. I’m pregnant. I’m eighteen weeks along. But something really strange is happening to me. Did I lose her? Did I lose my baby?”

  Small lines crinkled around the woman’s sea-green eyes, replacing the feistiness I’d seen earlier. “Calm down, sweetie. You haven’t lost anyone. And you’re not pregnant. I think you just bumped your head a little too hard.”

  I pushed myself up to a seated position as hot tears filled my eyelids. “I told you, I’m not Ruby. My name is Claudia. And I am pregnant. I’m not that girl in the mirror! Tell me where I am. What is going on?” I struggled to breathe the stale, smoky air in the dressing room as I gripped the side of the couch.

  The woman reached for my hand. And through my panic, I felt another jolt of déjà-vu…but this time it was one of comfort. I gazed into her green eyes. Those eyes. How did I know them?

  As if she was talking to a child she said, “My name is Titine. You and I, we grew up in New York City together and we’re best friends. We moved from New York to Paris a little less than a year ago, and we dance at the club together.”

  When I didn’t respond to that absurd statement, an exasperated sigh escaped her lips. “Don’t you remember any of this?”

  “No, I don’t. What club? What are you talking about?”

  Her brow creased in concern as she pushed a lock of strawberry-red hair off her shoulder. “Ruby, you’re a singer and dancer at a famous jazz club near the Latin Quarter called Chez Gisèle.”

  I’m in Paris?

  What is this? Some sort of messed-up version of The Wizard of Oz?

  Before I could form a coherent response, Titine continued speaking, her eyes revealing a sadness I hadn’t noticed before. “And as of this week, after what happened to Gisèle…never mind, we don’t need to talk about that tonight. It’s been a tough week on everyone. You’re the star now, sweetie. And you took a really bad fall onstage. Let’s get you upstairs to your apartment and fix you something to eat. I think you’re just exhausted.”

  The dread that had consumed me earlier at the mention of Gisèle’s name reared its ugly head once again. “What happened to this Gisèle woman?” I asked. “And why am I the star of the show now?”

  Titine squeezed my hand and lowered her glittery eyelids before speaking. “Gisèle used to be the star of the show, and she was our closest friend here. But on Saturday night she…she was found dead in her dressing room.”

  “How did she die?” I asked.

  Titine shook her head at me. “You honestly don’t remember?”

  “Just tell me. Please. What’s going on? What happened to Gisèle?”

  She let out a weary sigh before looking me in the eye. “Ruby, you were one of the first people who found her. And I think you’re still in shock.”

  I swallowed hard and stared back at Titine, my entire body paralyzed with fear.

  “When you found Gisèle, her neck was broken…and she’d been shot,” Titine continued.

  “Did they catch the murderer?”

  She bit her lower lip. “Talking about this right now isn’t going to help you feel any better.”

  From the way Titine suddenly avoided my gaze, I knew there was more to this story. And even though I didn’t want to acknowledge the possibility that any of this terrifying experience could be real by asking another question, I couldn’t stop the words as they burst from my lips. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Titine stayed silent, her eyes combing the floor for what seemed like hours before she finally lifted her deadpan gaze to meet mine. “The police are investigating you for Gisèle’s murder, Ruby…you are their main suspect.”

  THREE

  I had to be dreaming. There was no other logical explanation for this insane situation.

  If I’d suddenly morphed from a pregnant, straitlaced therapist into this blonde-bombshell performer who was wanted for murder, hell must’ve frozen over.

  I closed my eyes in an attempt to snap myself out of this insane dream, but then I remembered something else about my dance with Édouard.

  Before I’d seen the magazine announcing Édouard’s engagement and passed out in his arms, Édouard had spoken to me about Paris. This was making more sense now. Of course I would dream about being a dancer in Paris after that conversation. After all, my mind always liked to grab on to the last conversation I’d had, the last song I’d heard, or the last movie I’d watched, then
concoct some bizarre dream about it.

  But why was everything and everyone so familiar here?

  I shook my head and told myself not to overanalyze. If this was a dream—and I was sure it was—all I needed to do was go back to sleep within the dream, and I would wake up in my grandma’s dance studio in San Diego. I just hoped that when I woke up, my baby would be okay. I had to get back there now.

  “You said my apartment is upstairs?” I asked Titine, still startled at the sound of this voice, much deeper and more seductive than my own. This was one absurd dream.

  She nodded. “Yes, let’s get you up there.”

  Even with her tiny frame, she was able to hoist me up off the couch and support me as she led me to a dark, winding staircase. A familiar musty smell assaulted my nose, and the sound of our heels tapping on the hardwood stairs made me remember walking this exact same path before. With each step, the feeling of déjà-vu grew stronger and the panic returned.

  This is only a dream. I’ll follow this woman, go back to bed, and when I wake up, everything will be back to normal.

  It had to.

  Five flights later, we arrived at the top floor, and I found myself gravitating to the tall blue door on the left. Titine reached for the doorknob.

  “Does this ring a bell?” she asked as she ushered me into what I was assuming—and praying—was my dream-state apartment.

  I glanced around the cluttered abode, taking mental snapshots of the rickety black desk in the corner and the piles of newspapers that littered the dusty surface, the pairs of sleek high heels carelessly strewn over the hardwood floors, and the cherry-red scarf draped over the stark white couch. A strong perfume masked the distinct smell of cigarette smoke, and a frosty draft sent shivers up my arms.

  I know this apartment. I’ve been here before.

  I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, telling myself this would all be okay.

  This has to be a dream.

  But just as I was about to open my eyes, a vision of a man with hair the color of dark chocolate and broad, muscular shoulders appeared in my mind. He stormed toward the window on the far side of the small apartment, and standing there, topless, was the woman I’d seen in the mirror earlier—the woman whose body I was currently inside. The man reached for her and kissed her forcefully on the lips as he cupped her breast in his palm, then whispered something in her ear.