Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 8

  “Va te faire foutre,” I growled under my breath, my instantaneous inner translation revealing the words that had flown out of my mouth—I’d just told him to go fuck himself.

  And although I’d never talked to anyone this way before, the anger rising in my chest wouldn’t let me stop there. I took a deep breath then spat right in Jean-Pierre’s horny, greedy little face.

  He released his grip on me, stumbling backward and wiping his right eye with the back of his palm.

  “An innocent girl lost her life here, under your watch, and the only things you care about are your damn reputation and having sex,” I said. “You’re disgusting.”

  Jean-Pierre slammed his fist on the desk then turned to face me. “You think I do not care that Gisèle is gone? That I opened this club up four years ago with Gisèle as my vision, and now someone has killed her here, in the place that made her a star. Of course I care, Ruby! But she is gone now, and there is nothing we can do to bring her back.” Jean-Pierre walked up to me and squared his cold eyes directly in front of mine.

  I didn’t flinch this time.

  “Mais la vie continue. The show, it must go on. And I need you to do what you promised, Ruby. In fact, I do not think you have lost your memory. I think you are choosing to forget that I was the one who took you away from your horrible life in New York, from that despicable man. I saved you, Ruby. And now you will fix this problem with François Lefevre. I don’t care what you have to do, but you will fix it before the detective comes back tomorrow. And you will keep the agreement with the film director for tomorrow night. And if you fail to do either of those two things, you are finished here.”

  Jean-Pierre shot me one last cutting glance then turned and stalked out of the apartment, the door slamming behind him.

  His threats rang in my ears as I collapsed against the wall and sank to the ground, my entire body trembling.

  I was the one who took you away from your horrible life in New York, from that despicable man. I saved you, Ruby.

  I wrapped my arms around my legs and closed my eyes. And there, in Ruby’s dark memories, I found the jagged knife again, and the scarred hand that held it. And while I still couldn’t see the man’s body or his face, I could see something else behind the knife—a floor-to-ceiling window with a clear view of the New York City skyline.

  If it was true, if Jean-Pierre had really saved me from that despicable man, whoever he was, and brought me and Titine to dance at this club in Paris, it was clear that his service to me did not come without a price…or several of them.

  This apartment.

  My livelihood.

  My body…which I was apparently selling to some American film director tomorrow night.

  With my face buried in my knees and vicious thoughts about Jean-Pierre churning through my mind, I wished I could curl up in a ball forever and pretend that none of this was happening. How would I fix this unthinkable situation in only five days? Where was my magical fairy godmother when I needed her?

  But then, in the silence of this old Parisian apartment, a ticking sound above my head made me remember.

  Antoine.

  The clock hanging above me read a quarter till five. I’d agreed to meet Antoine at five o’clock at Café de Flore. I squeezed my eyes shut and told myself that I should focus on finding François Lefevre and clearing my name from this murder investigation.

  But before I could exhale, I was already on my feet, running to Ruby’s bedroom, digging through her mess of a closet. I threw on a shimmering violet sweater and a pair of sleek black pants with matching black heels. Then I crossed back through the living room and pulled her red peacoat and silver scarf from the hall closet before slipping out the door.

  TEN

  The urge I felt to spend time with Antoine Richard—a man with whom I’d only shared a few brief words, a whisper of a touch—overpowered any rationale that may have tried to stop me. I didn’t know Antoine, but after everything that had just happened, I knew I had to see him again.

  I raced down the stairs of my building, surprisingly still not hindered by my tall heels. And from what could’ve only been explained as muscle memory, I easily found my way to the large black door that opened to the streets of Paris.

  The glare of the setting sun blasted through the clouds and blinded my vision as I stepped straight into a bitter, cold draft. But as soon as the fiery orange ball disappeared over the tops of the buildings, I stopped walking, my jaw dropping once more at the 1950s Parisian scenery unfolding before my eyes.

  A pale-green 2CV car, which resembled a larger, more classic version of a modern-day Volkswagen Beetle, rambled down the chilly boulevard, honking its squeaky horn at a curly-haired brunette in the crosswalk. The gorgeous French woman, who looked as if she could’ve been straight out of a vintage issue of Vogue, paid no attention to the approaching vehicle.

  Cinched at the waist by a shiny black belt, the woman’s long red dress billowed in the wind as she sauntered across the street in a pair of chic black pumps. She fastened the buttons of her gray wool coat all the way up to the high neckline of her dress as she reached the sidewalk. Sleek white gloves covered her tiny hands, and a dainty violet hat pinned atop her curls gave way to a thin layer of netting, which shielded her forehead.

  She dashed past me, her pretty green eyes radiating the kind of bold, sophisticated confidence I only wished I possessed. Whatever handsome Frenchman was awaiting her arrival tonight was going to be happy to see her, and she knew it.

  Strolling leisurely in the other direction, a man in a long black coat, gray trousers, and a black bowler hat grinned slyly at me, le journal tucked neatly underneath his arm.

  “Vous êtes ravissante, Mademoiselle.” You are ravishing, miss, he said to me.

  But he didn’t stop to wait for a response. Instead, he tipped his hat and continued down the boulevard, just another day in Paris.

  I watched him walk away and was suddenly and completely hit over the head with the impossibility of this situation.

  I was really here. Living in Paris in the year 1959 in the body of Ruby Kerrigan, with her memories, her acquaintances, her abilities and experiences all imprinted in this body and in this soul I now shared with her.

  How could this have happened?

  Another frosty draft snapped at my cheeks, and I remembered.

  Antoine. Café de Flore. Five o’clock.

  As I took off down the sidewalk, I didn’t need a map to tell me that I was on Boulevard Saint-Germain, in the sixth arrondissement of Paris, on the left bank of the Seine. I just knew.

  And as my heels combed the cobblestones, I realized that I also knew exactly how to find Café de Flore.

  Along my brisk walk to meet Antoine, I pushed the disturbing argument I’d just had with Jean-Pierre out of my mind and instead marveled at the pâtisseries dispersed among the cafés, their windows lined with delicate French pastries—works of art begging to be eaten. The aromas of fresh buttery croissants and melted chocolate oozing out of their doors made me hungry and nostalgic all at the same time. I remembered those scents—and it wasn’t from living in San Diego.

  Endless rows of brasseries and cafés welcomed Parisians in from the cold, and quaint little boutiques boasted more styles from that classic 1950s wardrobe, making me wish I could forget about all of this disastrous nightclub and murder business and take myself shopping instead.

  Bold French men didn’t hesitate to hold my gaze, tipping their hats at me as they walked past, again reminding me that I was not walking the streets of Paris in my thirty-five-year-old pregnant body, but instead in the body of a striking blonde Américaine.

  I crossed rue de Seine, then a few blocks later, passed by the Église de Saint-Germain-des-Prés. My head snapped back as I took a double take of a young couple all but undressing each other on a green bench facing the old church. They didn’t care that it was freezing outside or that the church was only a few steps away.

  They were young and in love. And i
n Paris.

  It was just like Édouard had described to me. I only wished he were here now.

  My ears tuned in to the church bells chiming five o’clock. I needed to get moving. I picked up my pace, crossed rue Bonaparte, then spotted the green awning of Les Deux Magots café. Café de Flore was juste à côté, Ruby’s memory told me.

  And there, at the corner of rue Saint-Benoît and the bustling Boulevard Saint-Germain was Café de Flore. A sign that read Terrasse Chauffée was posted on the outside of the restaurant’s lovely windowed terrace, making me bolt to the door, my new body craving the heat even more than it craved food.

  Bright interior lights, swirls of cigarette smoke, and sounds of clinking wineglasses mixed with bubbles of soft laughter spilled out into the early Parisian night as I opened the door. I stepped inside to find a bustling, lively café, its cherry-red booths filled to the brim with more of those sophisticated Parisians, stripping off their dark coats and scarves as a blast of heat swept through the dining room.

  I scanned the tight tables, one squeezed right next to the other, the Parisians not seeming to mind the invasion of space. And there, in a back corner, sipping a steaming cup of French café, was Antoine.

  It had been so dark earlier in the wings that I hadn’t gotten a proper look at him…not like this, anyway.

  He’d changed out of the suit and tie he’d been wearing earlier into a dark-gray sweater, which accentuated his broad shoulders. The lamplight overhead made his eyes gleam as he searched the crowded café. I stepped to the side of a tall, ivory pillar, just out of his view, so I could gaze at him another second longer.

  A sexy five o’clock shadow graced his smooth face, his features exuding strength and warmth all at the same time. Like a strong cup of steaming hot coffee, I wanted to drink him in…and when I finished, I wanted to pour another cup.

  I shook my head, told myself to get it together. I may have known Antoine in this lifetime the first time around, but right here and now, I did not know him.

  Certainly not well enough to give merit to this overwhelming desire brewing inside of me.

  But still, as I stepped aside from the pillar and weaved through the cramped café aisles to reach him, my heart squeezed a bit tighter with each step. And when his striking gaze landed on me, I couldn’t ignore the heat that spread through me like a wildfire.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, gesturing to the red booth across from him.

  Right as I took a seat, a server clad in a crisp white shirt and a spiffy black vest appeared at my side with a steaming bowl of soupe à l’oignon gratinée and a beautiful salad covered with thick slices of ham, cheese, egg, and tomatoes.

  “Bon appétit, Mademoiselle,” he said, placing the dishes in front of me.

  “Merci, Monsieur,” I said, without a second thought. French onion soup and a salad—covered in meat, no less—had never looked so delicious to a former vegetarian.

  I looked up to Antoine. “Aren’t you having anything?”

  His gaze flicked toward the window. “No, I have not had much of an appetite this week. But please, go ahead. The Salade Flore is superb, and besides, I thought you might be hungry after your rehearsal. I remember Gisèle telling me that Jean-Pierre did not allow the girls to eat much. Le connard.”

  Hearing Antoine call Jean-Pierre an asshole in French made me smile for the first time all day. “I couldn’t agree more.” Totally and utterly ravenous, I picked up my large soup spoon and dug into the thick layer of golden-brown cheese melting over the sides of the bowl. I hadn’t eaten anything except a few bites of that magical ham-and-cheese baguette this morning.

  After a few spoonfuls of the most delicious soup I’d ever tasted, I lifted my gaze to Antoine and smiled again. “Thank you for ordering this for me…”

  The tiny lines around his smoky-gray eyes had reappeared, his expression one of confusion as he searched my face. “Where were you this morning? You said you saw something that night…the night Gisèle was murdered. What was it, Ruby? What did you see?”

  I set the spoon down on the table and cleared my throat. “I…I’m sorry I missed our meeting this morning. I fell during rehearsal and passed out, and ever since I woke up, my memory is…well, it’s almost completely gone. I don’t remember what I was going to tell you.” I wished I could tell him the whole truth, that I wasn’t only Ruby anymore, that I was confused and scared and wanted to go home. But if I confessed what was truly going on, he would have no choice but to cart me off to an insane asylum.

  And I wouldn’t have blamed him.

  Antoine’s jaw hardened, the lines on his forehead tightening. “Is this a game? You are under investigation for my sister’s murder and you are telling me you have conveniently lost your mémoire of what happened that night?”

  Pain and anger seared through Antoine’s eyes, making me wish I could remember more. Making me wish I could help him.

  “I remember bits and pieces…but not everything.”

  Antoine leaned forward in his chair, the clamoring of silverware against plates and the incessant French chatter swimming around us seeming not to distract him at all. He gripped my wrist from across the table. “I need to know everything you can remember. I don’t trust the police, Jean-Pierre won’t tell me a damn thing, and Delphine is too terrified to talk. You are the only one who will speak to me, Ruby. Now tell me what you know.”

  The intensity in Antoine’s tone made me afraid that I’d made a mistake in coming here. But I had to answer him. I had to at least try to help. “I remember seeing Véronique in the wings, running from something, looking scared and out of breath. Do you know who Véronique is?”

  Antoine nodded. “Yes. I remember my sister talking about her.”

  “I don’t know where she was running from, but when I asked her about it today, she got really angry and skirted around the question.”

  “When did you see her running? Was it before you found Gisèle?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t remember the timeline of that night very well. Like I said, since this morning—”

  “Do you think Véronique has something to do with this?” he interjected. “Do you think she could’ve murdered Gisèle?”

  “I…I’m not sure. It’s possible. I know she’s really angry that she didn’t get the starring role. But I don’t know if that means she’s capable of murder.”

  “Tell me what else happened that night. I know there’s more.”

  I opened my mouth but hesitated when I thought of the photo of me with François Lefevre. Of the money I’d taken from him. Of the sex we’d had in the office. I gazed deep into Antoine’s eyes and knew I couldn’t tell him any of that. I didn’t want him to know who Ruby really was. What she’d been willing to do.

  After all, I wasn’t Ruby anymore. Deep down, I was still me, Claudia. Someone who would never dream of living the type of life Ruby had lived.

  And even though the circumstances under which we were meeting were horrible, I wanted Antoine to get to know me, the real me.

  But Antoine had other motivations at the moment. His fist clenched over the shiny wood table, his cheeks reddening. “Ruby, we spoke yesterday at the club and you told me you had information surrounding Gisèle’s death. I’m not leaving this café until you tell me exactly what you know. When did you run into Véronique?”

  Suddenly I realized that coming here may not have been a good idea after all. I couldn’t give Antoine the information he needed or the justice and closure he craved after what had happened to his only sister. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t know. I told you, I don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces.”

  “Are you scared, Ruby? Did Jean-Pierre threaten you not to talk? Did he have something to do with Gisèle’s death and he’s forcing you to be quiet? To make up this histoire ridicule of memory loss?”

  I gazed down at the steaming bowl of soup and the perfectly arranged salad, realizing I didn’t have an ounce of hunger left in me. “I don’t know what Jean-Pie
rre did or didn’t do. All I know is that he’s a horrible man.”

  “A horrible man who you are sleeping with, and who gave you the starring role the minute my sister was dead, no?”

  I lifted my eyes to Antoine’s, searching for that same look of blame I’d seen in the dancers’ eyes during rehearsal. But despite his accusatory tone, the disdain wasn’t there. His expression was unreadable, his cheeks drawn, his face pale.

  “There is something else,” he murmured as he reached into his coat pocket and removed a crumpled paper bag. When he turned it over, a broken silver chain slipped out onto the table.

  On the end of the silver chain was a beautiful heart-shaped ruby pendant.

  It was shinier and newer than I remembered, but there was no mistaking it.

  That was my grandma Martine’s necklace. The same necklace the old woman had placed around my neck in the dance studio in San Diego, the one that had made my skin spark, just minutes before I’d been zapped back in time to Ruby’s life.

  “How did you get this?” I asked him, my voice trembling almost as much as my hands.

  Antoine raised a brow. “C’est à toi, non?” It is yours, no?

  My hand instinctively went to the bare skin on my chest. “Tell me how you got this,” I demanded.

  Antoine picked up the broken chain, rolling the smooth ruby pendant around in his hand. “When I met with the police today, they gave me a bag with Gisèle’s personal effects. This necklace was lying underneath Gisèle when they found her. It was stuck to her costume, the chain already broken. The police said the fact that it was broken showed evidence of a struggle. This, I agree with. But the police have assumed that the necklace belonged to Gisèle, which is why they turned it over to me. I did not tell them that they were mistaken. That this necklace, Ruby…belongs to you.”