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

  I’m serious Chambord—either you dish the dirty details, or you’re fired.

  —Natalie

  P.S. When are you coming back?

  In Natalie’s subsequent emails, she tells me that the search for Williams is still on and that news of the train abduction has traveled back to the States. The Washington Daily is, of course, covering Emma Brooks’s murder and the abduction of both my sister and Francesca Rossi.

  Then in Natalie’s most human moment ever, she tells me that she’s sorry I’m going through this, to stay safe, and not to worry about the Senator Williams story.

  If she only knew.

  I don’t take the time to email her back and fill her in, though. Instead, I check my phone, but still no word from Samuel.

  The tense voices downstairs have subsided, making my heart pound violently inside my chest. Why isn’t Samuel calling me back? What if the Morels are working with Williams?

  Besides their photo with the senator, I don’t have any concrete evidence to believe that Laurent and Frédéric are in any way involved in Isla’s abduction, and even though Frédéric’s spoiled, rich-boy demeanor drives me insane, he does seem to be genuinely distraught over Isla’s disappearance.

  I consider walking downstairs, questioning the Morel men about their connection to Williams, and telling them that we need to get in the car immediately and drive to the site of Emma Brooks’s murder, where the ground team is searching, so we can sic them on Williams.

  But then I click on the photograph again. The way Frédéric has his arm loosely strung around the senator’s shoulders, as if they’re all old buddies, makes me cringe. If Williams has a vacation home close by in the Alps, that could explain how they know him. And when Samuel first told me about the Morel family, I remember him saying that they had close political ties.

  I can’t risk opening up to the Morels about Williams. I imagine they’ve already gotten wind of his resignation and potentially of the fact that he’s now wanted for murder back in the U.S.

  If they had anything to do with the abduction, or even if they know that Williams is behind it, wealthy, powerful businessmen like the Morels would do anything in their power to keep their names clear.

  Which would mean shutting me up at all costs.

  I glance at my phone again, but Samuel still hasn’t called. So I send him a text.

  Please check your email and call me. It’s urgent.

  Closing the computer, I do a quick scan of the luxurious bedroom. The glowing lamplight catches on a silver sequined dress sparkling inside the massive walk-in closet at the back of the room. I walk toward the dress, imagining Isla’s shining violet eyes lighting up as she wore it. Running my hand along the rows of silky designer gowns, I remember Frédéric’s words on the stairs earlier.

  What woman in her right mind would leave all of this behind?

  Isla was certainly no stranger to leaving people and things behind, but the way she’d left this time was different. Hopping on a luxury train to Paris in the middle of the night after accepting a marriage proposal was a little extreme, even for my sister.

  Given Senator Williams’s connection to this whole disaster, I could only guess that she must’ve been running from him. Had he made it onto the train when she boarded? But like Samuel had said, there had to have been at least two or three kidnappers to get all three girls off the train without the other passengers seeing or hearing anything.

  So he must’ve had at least one accomplice.

  I continue thumbing through Isla’s ritzy clothes as I try to piece together the mystery of her disappearance. And suddenly I remember something—Isla’s voicemail to me on the train.

  You’re not going to believe what I’ve done this time, she’d said.

  Then she giggled. A devious, silly giggle.

  Isla wouldn’t have laughed like that if she thought Williams was following her.

  Which meant she couldn’t have been running from him. She wasn’t running from anyone.

  Perhaps it was what or whom she was running to that had excited her.

  And at the end of her message, before she was taken, she’d said she had something important to tell me.

  What could it have been?

  I peek my head into the bedroom to make sure Frédéric hasn’t come upstairs, then check my phone once more. No missed calls. No text messages.

  I can’t wait around here much longer. If Samuel isn’t going to call me back, I’ll just have to go to him. I pull the town car driver’s card out of my pocket, dial his number, and feel relief flood through me when he picks up on the first ring.

  “Hello, this is Jillian. We met earlier this morning,” I tell him in French.

  “Of course. Will you be requiring my services?” he asks politely.

  “Yes. Immediate service in fact. Please pick me up at the Morel estate.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Mademoiselle. Will that be okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you so much.”

  I’m just about to flick off the light in the obscenely large closet when a long black suitcase shoved into the back corner catches my eye. Isla always liked to travel with colorful suitcases, so this one must be Frédéric’s.

  Everything else in this entire closet must’ve been Isla’s—the dresses, the heels, the elegant scarves.

  Except that plain black suitcase.

  My hands shake as I unzip Frédéric’s bag, my ears painfully alert for any sound that he might be coming. But to my dismay, the silky black lining inside the suitcase is completely empty. No useful clues here.

  Just before I close it up though, I spot a little lump beneath the zippered lining.

  Running the zipper down the middle, I peel back the lining to find a small, black velvet ring box. This must’ve been the box that Isla’s engagement ring came in, but why would he hide an empty box in the lining of his suitcase?

  When I open the delicate velvet case, I realize why he’d hidden it. A massive round-cut diamond that must be at least three or four carats sparkles up at me.

  I can’t see Isla’s dainty hand with this gaudy ring weighing her down. Not in a million years.

  I realize that when Samuel was questioning him earlier, Frédéric conveniently left out the part of the story where Isla gave him the ring back before she left the party. Why would he do that? I snap the box closed and slip it back below the lining, but gasp when I feel a piece of paper crinkle underneath my fingers.

  Tears sting my eyes as I unfold the paper and see my sister’s pretty, delicate handwriting dancing across the page.

  Frédéric,

  These past few months with you have been incredible. You really are an amazing man, and you have so much to give.

  But I haven’t been honest with you.

  The truth is, I’ve fallen in love with someone else, and it’s for this reason that I can’t accept your proposal. I know you were just trying to do the right thing because of the baby, but you don’t have to worry. The baby isn’t yours.

  I know you’ll fall in love with the right woman someday, and she’ll adore this beautiful ring and this glamorous lifestyle. I’m sorry, Frédéric, but it’s just not for me.

  —Isla

  The paper shakes in my hand as I try to digest this insane news. Isla left to be with another man. She left because she was pregnant. And it wasn’t Frédéric’s baby.

  That’s what she was going to tell me on the phone.

  I have something important to tell you, Jillian. Please call me back. I…I’m…

  I’m pregnant.

  Frédéric knew this. He knew all of this, and yet he chose not to tell the police.

  I have to get out of here.

  I storm out of the closet with the note clutched tightly against my chest, but just as I round the corner, I smack straight into a hard body.

  The dim lamp in the bedroom casts an eerie glow on Frédéric’s tight jaw line, on the crazed look in his dark, fixed eyes.

  I
try to push past him, but he squares his tall frame in front of me.

  “Frédéric, get out of my way,” I say firmly.

  “I loved your sister, Jillian. I wanted to marry her. Not just because of the baby. I loved her!” The high-pitched panic in his voice makes me squirm.

  He snatches the note from my hands and tears it to shreds right in front of me, Isla’s beautiful handwriting, her words, her truth, now a pile of trash at our feet.

  “That baby is mine,” he growls. “It belongs to this family. But Isla was selfish. A dirty, little selfish liar.” Rage flashes in those dark eyes as he clenches his fists. “She lied about having a sister, she lied about the baby, and she lied about him.”

  Frédéric’s fist goes flying past my face and punches the wall behind my head.

  I duck to the side and rush for the door, but Frédéric is quicker. His hand wraps tightly around my elbow as he yanks me backward, then grips both of my arms in his trembling hands.

  “Why didn’t you just tell the truth, Frédéric?” I say as I try to wriggle out of his grasp. “Why didn’t you tell Samuel the truth?”

  “Your whore of a sister humiliated me. She humiliated my entire family. She deserves what’s happening to her. That little bitch deserves it.”

  The fury that boils over inside me is uncontrollable. Isla’s bloodstained tears flash before my eyes as I ram my knee into Frédéric’s groin not once, but twice. He doubles over, losing his grip on me.

  Grabbing the sides of his face, I smash his forehead hard against my knee. He winces, stumbling to the ground, while I grab my cell phone and purse off the desk and bolt out into the hallway and down the stairs. Loud footsteps echo through the house, and just as I’m skimming over the smooth white tiles in the foyer, I glimpse Laurent running down the hallway toward me.

  “Jillian!” he calls.

  But I’m not about to wait around here and get myself killed.

  I fly through the front door, slamming it at my back as I jog down the ivory steps and out over the snow-covered lawn.

  Tall, snow-dusted pines hover over the dark winding road ahead, but there’s no sign of the black town car.

  Shit.

  I run down the never ending driveway, pumping my legs as quickly as I can in these stupid heels, ignoring the bitter wind that shoots right through my thin suit jacket and blouse.

  “Jillian, wait!” It’s Laurent, crossing the lawn to reach me.

  I don’t know if Frédéric’s father knows about my sister’s lies or if he has anything to do with her abduction, but I can’t take any chances. His son is clearly a psychopath who used his connection with Williams to take my sister down, all because of his own hurt pride.

  I pick up my pace, turning down the empty street, wincing as my ankle rolls. Just as I consider tossing my heels into the bushes, a bright set of headlights comes into focus.

  Racing even faster than before, I hear Laurent’s footsteps close behind.

  “Jillian, I’m not going to harm you! Please, come back. My son, he’s—”

  But I don’t hear the rest of his words because I’ve already slid into the backseat of the sleek black town car, slammed and locked the door behind me.

  “Allez-y!” Go! I yell to the driver. “Vite!”

  The car zips right past Laurent, who throws his hands up in frustration as we drive into the dark night and away from that godforsaken château.

  CHAPTER 8

  Thick white flakes blanket the windshield and swirl around the car as the driver floors the gas. We skid over the crunchy snow, past another lakeside mansion, until the image of Laurent waving wildly in the rear view mirror vanishes completely.

  My fingertips are numb from the cold, my hands trembling as I turn over my phone to dial Samuel’s number. But before I can get my shaking fingers to cooperate, my cell vibrates.

  “Samuel, thank God,” I breathe into the phone.

  “Jillian, listen. You have to get out of there.”

  “I already did. I’m riding away from the château of horrors as we speak.”

  “Who are you with?”

  “I called the driver who picked us up from the airport this morning. I had a feeling I might be needing him.”

  “Shit, Jillian. I’m so sorry I left you there.” Samuel’s deep voice is lined with regret, but I’m not angry. This is all happening so fast. How could he have known?

  “Where are you headed?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure. I just told him to get me away from that house.”

  “Good. I want you to meet me at the train station in Lausanne,” Samuel says.

  “The same station where Isla boarded the train?”

  “Yes. I just left the crime scene, and I’m pulling into the closest station. With the snowstorm wreaking havoc on these mountain roads, the train will be the quickest, most direct way for me to get to you right now, and Lausanne is only an hour ride from where I am. Plus I want you on the other side of the lake from the Morels. So I’ll need you to follow these exact instructions to get there. You ready?”

  “Yes. Just get me the hell away from here,” I say, wishing the driver would crank up the heat. My race through the snow in this thin blouse, skinny pencil skirt, and these open-toed heels is beginning to take its toll on me. Not to mention the fact that I just kicked a psycho French boy’s ass and learned that my sister, who is still missing, is pregnant.

  I could use a little warmth right about now.

  “Tell the driver to take you to the ferry that runs across Lake Geneva. It will take you from Évian-les-Bains straight to Lausanne,” Samuel says. “The next one should be leaving at 10:00 p.m., so you don’t have much time.”

  “Okay, hold on,” I say, before leaning forward to instruct the driver in French. After I do so, I ask him to turn the heat up. He eyes my outfit with a perplexed eyebrow lift, then turns the heat up to full blast.

  “What then?” I ask Samuel as I watch my bare knees shake uncontrollably in the darkness of the car.

  “It should only take you about a half an hour to cross. When you arrive, I’ll have a car waiting for you. My colleague will take you to the train station to meet me; it’s only a few minutes away. When you get there, stay in the car until I come out of the station. I don’t want you standing and waiting anywhere alone, do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand. Do you—” I start, but the driver’s loud voice cuts me off.

  “Mademoiselle, were you expecting visitors?” the driver asks in French.

  “Hold on, Samuel.” I lean forward. “What are you talking about?” I ask the driver.

  The older gentleman nods at the rear view mirror. “Two cars are trailing us. There is no one else out driving on a night like this, not to mention that it’s Christmas Eve. Is it possible someone would be following you?”

  The driver wasn’t an idiot. He’d seen the way I lunged into his car, and he’d watched as Laurent had screamed after me. Clearly, I hadn’t called him to take me for a scenic ride around Lake Geneva.

  “Can you lose them?” I ask.

  “I’ll do my best, Mademoiselle.”

  I peek over my shoulder and glimpse two bright pairs of headlights, trailing closely behind. The only thing separating us from them is the blanket of snow falling rapidly from the sky.

  “Samuel,” I whisper. “Whatever happened to the car you said would be waiting just around the corner from the Morels in case I needed anything? Is it possible that he’s following me?”

  “No, it’s not him. Do you have a tail?”

  “Two of them. Where’s your guy? Can he come scare them off?”

  A long pause travels over the line, and I hear a train whistling loudly in the background.

  “Samuel?”

  “Right before I called you, I received word that he’d been shot in his car.”

  “What? But how—”

  “Listen to me, Jillian. I have to get on the train now, and I’m going to lose reception for a little while. I ne
ed you to lose those tails and get to the ferry by ten o’clock. My guy will be waiting for you when you get to the other side of the lake, and police are on their way to the Morel Château as we speak.”

  “What if the guy who’s waiting for me gets shot like the last one?”

  “He’ll be there, Jillian. I promise you. Do you think you can do it?”

  “We may have to start doing wheelies in the snow to lose these assholes, but I’ll be there.”

  The train whistles once more through the line as my driver makes a sharp turn down another dark, winding road.

  “Samuel, did you find out about Isla? That she was pregnant? And that she turned down Frédéric’s proposal? Is that why you wanted me to get out of there?”

  “Yes, we just tracked down the man Isla was going to be with in Paris. The father of the baby. He told us everything.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I’m not at liberty—”

  “Samuel, cut the shit. I’m obviously on your side here.”

  I can hear the train wheels squeaking as Samuel shouts into the phone. “His name is Christophe Mercier. He’s an artist—a painter I believe. He was the one waiting for Isla that morning at the train station when she never showed up.”

  C. Mercier. The signature of the artist who’d painted Isla’s portrait for the Morels.

  I knew I’d seen something in her eyes in that painting…something deeper and more emotional than the usual breezy flirtation that she tossed around to any handsome man who came her way.

  Despite the unbelievably grim circumstances I’m facing, I feel the slightest opening in my chest. Hope. Isla had finally found love. And she was going to have a baby.

  I know my sister, and when she is passionate about something, she will fight to the death to protect it.

  In that way, we are a lot alike, Isla and I.

  “Jill, lose that tail, and I’ll see you in an hour.” The line crackles as Samuel’s voice is swallowed up by the loud train.

  “I’ll be there, Samuel. I’ll be there.”