by Leela Ash
“I know this is crazy,” she whispered. “But I never want to leave here.”
Eli smiled and pulled her in close. “I never want you to either,” he admitted.
As they held each other tightly and Chantel listened to the beat of his heart her mind raced with thoughts and possibilities of how she could keep him without having to sacrifice the rest of her life.
If only there was a way they could make it work.
9.
When Eli reluctantly rose from the bed and Chantel lazed back and watched him walk across the room naked, before he gathered up a robe and wrapped it around himself, she realized she had no idea how long she had been away from home.
Would people have noticed she was missing?
Would Sarah have alerted the police?
Would her family be looking for her?
Would they think she was dead?
Her mind began to race and she felt the dread creeping up inside of her again. She knew that she couldn’t stay there. She couldn’t give up her life in order to roam around space with her hot alien lover, no matter how much she may want to.
Eli turned to her with a sad smile as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“I’ll be reluctant to take you home,” he said. “But I know it wouldn’t be fair to keep you here.”
Chantel wiped a lone tear from the corner of her eye. The last thing she wanted to do was say goodbye.
“You must think about what I said,” Eli said with a smile. “How you respond to all of this once you return home. Remember, I said that you have been given a unique opportunity and set of information.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, growing frustrated with how cryptically he spoke.
“I mean, you have seen things no one of earth has ever seen, and you have knowledge of the universe that not many know. If you wanted to, you could help me, in the future.”
He said it hopefully and raised his eyebrows and Chantel felt a rush of excitement.
“I could help you?” she asked with glee.
“Yes,” he smiled. “Now you know what to look for in the beings of X-11 and of how they try to organize large groups of women together when they are off their guard. Maybe, you could be like a watcher for your planet. I could certainly do with the help.” Eli walked back over to her and took her hand.
“Oh my, Eli.” she gasped. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Please, just say yes,” he said as he leaned over and kissed her softly on the forehead. “I couldn’t bear the thought of taking you back to your planet and never seeing you again.”
“And if I become a watcher?” she asked.
“Then you will have one of these,” he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a watch similar to the one he had been wearing when he rescued her. “And you’ll be able to contact me whenever you need me.”
He held her hand and looked deep into her eyes. Chantel wasn’t sure if she could handle the responsibility of having to watch over her entire planet, but she knew she didn’t want to lose Eli. Maybe they could have secret space rendezvous and travel together again. Maybe he would show her other planets and tell her much more about the universe. It was sure to blow her mind, but she knew that it was something she was willing to explore and open up to.
“Of course I will,” she smiled as she wrapped her arms around him. “I’d be honored to help you Eli.”
They kissed and she stared into his eyes again. He really was an incredible being, whether he was a man, or an advanced version, he certainly had all of the qualities she wanted and loved and she knew she had found someone special.
“I think it’s time,” he said sadly as he got to his feet and held out his hands.
Chantel stood up beside him and gathered her clothes. As she dressed Eli watched her and she knew what he was thinking because she was thinking the exact same thing. Out of an entire universe, they had been brought together and had shared an amazing, life changing experience. She would love him forever and she would never forget him.
Eli wrapped his arms around her and slipped the watch around her wrist. He fastened it in place and Chantel looked down at it. On first glance it just looked like a plain circular face, but when she looked closer she could see the intricate system of stars glinting within in.
“When you need me,” he whispered. “Just ask.”
He leaned forward and kissed her again.
“I’ll be watching over you Chantel,” he smiled. “And I’ll be back for you soon.”
Chantel kissed him and tried to cling to him as the whole expanse of space around them seemed to begin to disappear. She felt her body jolt and her mind begin to spin. She could see stars. Millions of stars. Shooting past her and swirling, gaining momentum and forming a spiral.
With a crack she was in darkness and when she opened her eyes she realized she was back in her own bed. She sat upright and in the other corner she could see the mound of Sarah’s body, breathing softly beneath her duvet and snoring ever so slightly.
“Sarah?” she croaked.
Sarah groaned and rolled over, rubbing her eyes and peeking out at Chantel through the dark.
“What?” she said sleepily.
“What happened?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” Sarah leaned up with irritation. “You bailed and left me at the party so I had to come home. You were passed out drunk here.” She rolled her eyes and flopped back down on the bed.
For a moment, Chantel really did think she had imagined it all. Could it have all been a dream? But the small watch that was still strapped tightly to her wrist told her otherwise. She had been somewhere else that night, somewhere she could never, and would never tell anyone about.
She lay back down in bed and turned towards the window. The stars above her twinkled brightly in the night sky and she smiled. For the first time ever, she had a very special secret and it felt good. Now every time she looked up at the heavens she would only think of one person. Because now she knew what was out there, and she couldn’t wait to experience it again.
THE END
Time Travel Romance
Into The Duke’s Arms
Katie Maddox
Copyright ©2016 by Katie Maddox. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic of mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
Florida, 2016
“If I see one more piece of friggin’ lace, I am simply going to hurl. And hurl good.”
Standing at the center of a lavish Victorian style sitting room, Jasmin Lawrence did have to take a moment and admire her surroundings; her bespectacled gaze perusing the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, plush ivory carpeting, and central tables doused in reams of pure white lace and topped by a lavish setting of floral print china. Overseen by the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky, the room did boast a lovely, resplendent décor was meant to promote a certain air of serenity and grace.
At this moment, however, Jasmin felt about as graceful and serene as….
Well, something that’s not very graceful or serene at all, she mused in silence with a sigh, rolling her eyes heavenward. I am in no mood to be witty or clever. I just want to clear out of here and grab a Big Mac.
At this point, however, the only edibles in her future took the form of those Victorian era delicacies that she would not be eating herself, but instead, would be serving to patrons at Chez Victoria, the elegant Florida area tea room where she had sought gainful employment for the past year.
Each day, she pushed a silver cast food cart that came complete with piping hot scones topped by clotted cream and jam, finger sandwiches, decorative iced fancy cakes, and, of course, tea.
Lots and lots of tea.
Didn’t those pesky Victorians ever drink anything else? she queried silently, continuing her tortured but nonetheless cathartic internal monologue before adding, as she winced in acute discomfort, And didn’t they ever lower themselves to the wearing of clothes that were remotely—I don’t know—wearable? Or at least comfortable?
Again, she did have to admit that her work uniform—a true to life, cream colored reproduction of a classic Victorian gown—absolutely stunned with its fitted, lace-bordered floral print bodice with a matching flowing skirt and puffed, lace-lined sleeves. The soft cotton gown served to flatter and accentuate her rubenesque curves. And when she adorned her long mane of lustrous dark hair with a smooth floral print ribbon, she did indeed feel every inch a prim and proper Victorian lady.
Cha! Got them fooled! She smirked now, rolling her eyes heavenward. I full well realize that this gown is infinitely preferable to my last work uniform, worn during my college days while toiling away as a head bun dresser at Cal’s Coney Heaven. Sorry, but it seems rather odd to wear a polyester Coney dog costume while one actually serves Coney dogs to perplexed looking customers. It seems almost fatalistic, to a point.
Yet, no more fatalistic, she presumed, than the everyday wearing of hoop skirts, pantaloons, not to mention those ancient mummification devices known as corsets.
Sheesh, no wonder those ladies were always ‘swooning,’ she reasoned as she felt her rib cage protract. Again. Who can breathe and function worth a darn while wearing a blasted corset?
As she continued to use her tortured inner thoughts as a surefire distraction from the painful—or, at the very least, irritable—truth of her everyday life, Jasmin struggled to remember the time when she loved and lost herself in Victorian lore; those blissful teen-aged years when she lost herself in the novels of Jane Austen, also in the numerous filmed adaptations of her timeless books.
I was bound and determined to marry Mr. Darcy, totally ignoring the three major obstacles standing in our way, she recalled now. Number one: Mr. Darcy is a total and complete fictional character, no joke. Number two: If he was not indeed a total and complete fictional character, he would be long dead by now. Number three: Mr. Darcy is already married. And Elizabeth Bennet is just tough enough to kick my heiny—though, I am certain that, with her velvet tongue, she would come up with a far more proper term for my defeated posterior than ‘heiny’.
It was, in fact, her great love for Victorian literature that had inspired her to pursue a degree in English literature at Clearview State University, the premiere—okay, so the only—collegiate institution located in her Florida hometown.
After working her way through school via a food service job, she graduated cum laude and immediately, scored a job—in food service.
So now I know the true and full meaning of the term ‘literary irony’, she mused, heaving a deep sigh as she wheeled her cart, with sluggish slippered steps, between endless rows of lace afflicted tables. Now instead of asking, ‘Would you like fries with that?’ I ask customers, ‘Would you like clotted cream and chutney with that?’
Her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sudden entrance of her supervisor; a tall, slender woman with distinguished silver hair and a flowing day dress of pure blue satin, adorned with lace and sleek ruffles.
Although Jessymyn O’Reilly generally had the tendency to float into a room, she, on this day, seemed to trudge a bit as she dragged a large and rather unwieldy portrait into the main dining room of Chez Victoria.
“Can I help you with that, Jessymyn?” Jasmin queried, rushing forward to grab up the right edge of the brass bordered frame that enclosed the mysterious portrait; righting the painting as she did to take a closer look at its surface.
She froze then, and gaped outright, as she beheld the image of the most beautiful man she ever had seen.
His tall muscular frame was dressed resplendent, in a long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and tight fitting taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. The subject of this portrait boasted a chiseled face featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and eyes that shone as bright and azure as the image of the bluest sky.
This face came framed with a shoulder length mane of thick ebony hair that fell free across muscled shoulders, and came adorned with a soft, subtle upturn of his full moist lips.
“Who’s the beb?” she asked Jessymyn, all the while never tearing her gaze from the captivating man captured in the frames of the ebullient oil painting.
Jessymyn let loose with an undignified snort, rolling her eyes heavenward as she considered her most unique turn of phrase.
“The beb, for your information, is Lord Nathaniel Barrett; the man who originally made his home in this very building—or, at the very least, a reasonable facsimile,” she informed her employee. Adding with a proud smile, “A local historian is writing a book about this area and he interviewed the lovely elderly couple that owns this fine establishment. And, as it turns out, the structure of this tea room is based on the floor plan of a manor house they visited while on a trip to London. They had seen the home of a stately nobleman named Nathaniel Barrett, a widower who lived the gist of his days alone and miserable in his big old house. They thought that it would be a fitting tribute to build a house, much like his, then fill it with laughter, good food, and lots of company for his lonely spirit.”
I’d be more than pleased to provide him tons of company for his lonely spirit, Jasmin mused in silence, saying aloud, “Well that sounds like a really nice story, Jessymyn; one that we will have to share with our customers. In the meantime, let me help you hang that portrait—maybe right over the fireplace, where everyone can see it? Me, especially?”
Soon, Jasmin found herself back at work on the floor at Chez Victoria, rushing from table to table as an endless line of customers made demands on her services.
“Could we have more tea over here?”
“Could we have more scones over here?”
“Could we have more raspberry jam over here?”
Could I have a life over here? Jasmin felt like barking in kind return—especially at the man who apparently considered it his mission in life to get just a little bit more of that blasted raspberry jam.
“Coming, Sir.” She smiled through gritted teeth at the balding old man who visited the tearoom at least once a week; and always on the days that she was on shift. Lucky her. And to make things worse, today, he seemed unwilling to await her apparently less than timely arrival at the side of his table.
“I’m a goin’ to that front counter myself and get my own raspberry jam,” he told his rather depressed looking wife, who looked as though she would rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, at this point in time.
Swinging his feet out from under his table, he stuck his leg out in front of Jasmin’s food cart, tripping up the cart’s motion and sending several pieces of priceless floral print china flying forward off the crystalline tray that lined its top.
The server’s eyes flew wide as she lunged forward in an impulsive attempt to catch the flying flatware; her feet leaving the floor as her body soared like a rocket across the surface of the cart.
The rocket crashed unceremonious seconds later, as Jasmin’s form flattened atop the cart; her head falling forward to hit the hard brass handle that lined its northern border.
“Fab-ulous,” she muttered, feeling her eyes cross in her head as her entire world went black.
Chapter Two
She was pretty passing sure that she was dead. Dead as a doornail, in point of fact.
And, for that matter, she was loving every minute of it.
Her body relaxed in the soft cushion provided on the surface of a plush luxurious carpet; her senses bathed in a veil of silence that soothed and coddled her addled psyche.
For once, she reasoned, she wasn’t straining her feet and stressing her knees in an endless effort to serve her customers at Chez Victoria. She wasn’t trying to fill an insistent and compelling need for
more raspberry jam.
Now she could simply bask, full and free, in an air of peaceful tranquility; laying blissfully motionless as her tired limbs relaxed and luxuriated.
Things got even better, she mused, when she finally did open her eyes; witnessing firsthand what just had to be the vision of an angel.
Aside from being strikingly beautiful, the man before her seemed somehow familiar to her wide, dazed eyes. Immediately, she recognized the tall, muscular frame dressed in the long jacket of azure jacquard, a white satin shirt with a stately high collar, and oh so delightfully tight taupe pantaloons adorned with brass buttons. She also recalled the chiseled face framed by the glorious mane of long, thick ebony hair and featuring carved cheekbones, a cleft chin, and the biggest blue eyes she ever did see.
“It’s the dude in the portrait,” she mused aloud, adding as she reached a curious hand forward, “Only I wasn’t aware that the photo existed in a three dimensional version.”
Her eyes flew wider still, moments later, as her wandering fingers made startling contact with the dark silken locks of a head of hair that seemed all too real in texture.
“What the…” she squeaked out, her words echoed by a deep sonorous voice that resounded hard from the bronzed throat of the gentleman before her.
“For your information, milady, I’m a duke—not a dude,” the man informed her, folding his arms strong and firm before him. “And nobody touches the hair.”
Bolting upright on the floor, Jasmin inspected her surroundings, which seemed eerily familiar; recognizing, immediately, the splendorous interior of the Chez Victoria tea room. She nodded in recognition as she spotted the room’s shining wallpaper of scarlet brocade, and plush ivory carpeting; also noting the glow of brass chandeliers and the spectacle of a hand-painted mural that depicted angels in flight across a gem blue sky.
