Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance)

by Juliette Sobanet

  ALSO BY JULIETTE SOBANET

  Sleeping with Paris

  Kissed in Paris

  Midnight Train to Paris

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 Juliette Sobanet

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  PO Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477805916

  ISBN-10: 1477805915

  For Karen, I am forever blessed to have you as my writing teacher and friend.

  And for my Grandma Martha, who would’ve loved to dance in Paris.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  “Claudia, what do I always tell you? Salsa comes from the hips! Now, move!”

  My face flamed as Kosta, my Serbian-born salsa instructor, squared himself in front of me, then grabbed my hips and tried to emulate the smooth gyrations that were coming from his own. When I snuck a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I decided I looked more like a swollen purple balloon jiggling atop a pair of stilts than the Latin dance goddess Kosta expected.

  And of all nights, tonight was not the night to look like a swollen anything.

  But I wouldn’t let the growing baby bump hiding underneath my loose violet tank stop me from telling Édouard the truth. Tonight was my last chance.

  If only he would get here.

  I glanced at the clock as my feet stumbled to keep up with the rapid Latin beat booming through my grandmother’s San Diego dance studio.

  It was already seven thirty. He’d never been this late before.

  Kosta grabbed my chin and swiveled my face back to his. “He’ll be here, Miss Claudia. And in the meantime, you need to focus. Focus on the movements. On the hips. On the sex. Like I always teach you.” Kosta twirled me around, then pulled me back into his chest as he flipped his full head of wavy brown hair over to one side. “After all, what do you think Édouard is going to want to do with you tonight once you make your confession?”

  I pulled away from Kosta’s grasp and shot him a scowl. “The point of telling Édouard the truth about me being pregnant is not to get him into bed.”

  Kosta raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow, his hands on his bony hips. “What? A thirty-five-year-old woman cannot make the sex just because she is pregnant? If sex is not the point, Miss Claudia, then what is?”

  Over the past five years that I’d been taking lessons at my grandma Martine’s dance studio, Kosta and his inappropriately tight black pants had become like family to me. And just like family, sometimes I wanted to smack him.

  “The point is that for the past three months, I’ve told Édouard everything about myself, except for the most important thing of all: that I’m pregnant. And that I’m going to be a single mother. Because I was too…I was too—”

  “Cowardly? Scared?”

  I sighed. “Yes. Thank you for that. But really, when Édouard and I first became dance partners, what was I going to do? Tell him that I just found out I’m pregnant and that the father of the baby turned out to be a married asshole who wants nothing to do with his child?”

  Kosta shrugged, his twenty-five-year-old eyes revealing their naivety. “Why not?”

  “Édouard didn’t even know me. You can’t blurt out that kind of humiliating information to a perfect stranger. Especially not to a handsome, famous actor like Édouard Marceau. But then once we got to know each other more and started going out together after class, and I…I started falling for him, I just never found the right time to tell him. I mean, seriously, what man would want to date a woman who’s about to have some other man’s baby?”

  Kosta pulled at my loose purple tank. “Well, you can’t hide behind these poofy tops forever.”

  “Besides the fact that I’m just starting to show, you know it’s Édouard’s last night here before he leaves for Brazil for three months to shoot his next film, and if I don’t tell him now—”

  “You will always wonder, could I have gotten that sexy French actor into my bed? Even with a pregnant belly that will soon look like a small basketball?”

  This time I did smack Kosta. Once on the right arm. And again on the left.

  “I am sorry, Miss Claudia. You know, I kid. You are beautiful. And while Édouard is a little too French for my taste, he is clearly a much better man than Ian, that bag of scum. Plus, I have never seen you dance better than you do with Édouard. There is a…how do you say in English? An energy? Yes, an energy between the two of you. It is intense. It is sexy. I have never seen anything like it.”

  The flush on my cheeks crept down to my neck. “Let’s not get carried away,” I said to Kosta, although as I searched the studio to make sure Édouard hadn’t walked in unnoticed, I knew Kosta was right. I felt that energy, that inexplicable connection. I’d felt it the moment Édouard had first walked into the dance studio three months ago.

  But now, as I waited for him to make that same entrance, the only person I spotted was my elegant grandmother, practicing a waltz with one of the many older men who frequented the popular studio just to have the opportunity to dance with the infamous Martine Porter. Her soft, springy red curls coupled with her dazzling smile and her ability to tear up a dance floor still drew them in from miles away.

  I clearly hadn’t inherited my grandmother’s man-magnet skills.

  I pulled away from Kosta, the clock above the open window now reading a quarter till eight, my heart sinking into my chest.

  Édouard wasn’t coming.

  “Kosta, I think I’d better call it a night. It’s been a long day.” I turned from him as I blinked away the warm tears that had sprung to my eyes.

  Damn hormones.

  I walked over to the bench on the far side of the studio, and my gaze immediately caught the scarlet-red journal sticking out of my purse. I couldn’t help but open it up and pull out the small black-and-white sonogram picture I’d tucked inside after my doctor’s appointment earlier that day.

  As I gazed down at the cute little blob that was my baby’s head, a gush of warmth laced with a twinge of sadness rushed through me.

  “Looks like it’s just going to be me and you, baby girl,” I whispered as I patted my belly then tucked the photo back into my journal. But just as I was closing the book, the other picture I kept inside those worn pages slipped into my hands.

  It was a photo of me as
an innocent-faced little girl, sitting on my father’s lap, smiling at him as if he were the only man on earth worthy of my love.

  And completely oblivious to the fact that he would be taken from me only a year later.

  I shook off the familiar feeling of guilt that threatened to engulf me as I gazed into my dad’s eyes, an endless sea of blue that mirrored my own. I wondered, if he were here now, would he be disappointed in me?

  What would he think of the fact that I made my living as a marriage and family therapist, counseling others on how to keep their families together, yet somehow here I was—thirty-five, pregnant, and single? And on the night I was finally going to open up to the man I truly cared about, he wasn’t even going to show.

  If I couldn’t keep a man around, would I really be enough for my little girl?

  Tucking the old photograph of me and my father back into my journal, I blew a strand of my long, chestnut-brown hair out of my eyes and plopped down on the bench, exasperated. But just as I was bending over to take off my glittery red heels, a sweet, rose-scented perfume wafted my way.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled the scent, feeling a strange calm momentarily wash over me. My shoulders relaxed, the knot in my chest loosened, and when I opened my eyes, I found a striking older woman sitting next to me. She looked older than my grandmother and not nearly as glamorous. But as her silvery hair glistened underneath the bright lights of the dance studio and her oval-shaped violet eyes sparkled back at me, I felt as if I knew her somehow.

  “Did you lose this?” she asked, stretching her weathered hand in my direction.

  I gazed down to find my grandmother’s heart-shaped ruby-red pendant dangling from the woman’s fingers.

  “That’s my grandmother’s favorite necklace. It must’ve slipped off her somehow. She’ll be so happy you found it.”

  A mischievous gleam flashed in the woman’s eyes as she unhooked the clasp on the silver chain. “It looks like your grandmother is busy over there, so why don’t you wear the necklace tonight? The ruby will bring out that gorgeous sparkle in your blue eyes.”

  My cheeks flushed as I gazed down at the vintage necklace, which I’d never once seen my grandmother take off. The gorgeous stone twinkled in the old woman’s hands, and before I could say no, she had already reached behind me and fastened the silver chain around my neck. She arranged the sparkling ruby heart in the center of my chest then beamed back at me with a warm, knowing smile.

  “Just like I remembered. Stunning.”

  “I’m sorry. Have we met?” I ran my hand instinctively over the finely cut stone. But when a sharp spark flashed under my fingertips, I jumped in my seat.

  “What the heck?” I said, shaking my hand out as the jolt of electricity sizzled underneath my skin.

  The old woman chuckled, then raised a silvery brow. “Sometimes all it takes is a little jewelry to bring the spark back to your life, no?”

  A bubble of nervous laughter escaped from my lips as I bent over again to slip off my heels. “No, I think this is a case of pregnancy exhaustion paired with mild delirium. Thank you for finding the necklace, though. I know my grandma will really appreciate it.”

  The old woman laid her warm hand on my arm. “I wouldn’t take your dancing shoes off quite yet, if I were you,” she said with a wink before lifting her striking eyes toward the front of the studio.

  I opened my mouth to ask her what she was talking about, but when I followed her gaze, my breath caught in my lungs and refused to exhale.

  With his head of jet-black unruly hair, his smoky-gray eyes, and his rugged five o’clock shadow, Édouard bounded across the shiny hardwood floors straight toward me.

  “Breathe,” came the old woman’s soothing voice. “Just breathe.”

  I finally puffed out my bated breath and glanced quickly to my left, but the silver-haired woman was gone. All that remained was the lingering scent of roses and the distinct feeling of Édouard Marceau’s gaze piercing through the cool, salty air in the beachside studio and straight into my soul.

  Where had the woman gone? And why did I feel as if I’d met her before?

  And why on earth was my hand still tingling?

  When I lifted my eyes back up, I found Édouard standing over me, his breath heavy and his gaze serious.

  “Dance with me, Claudia.” He stretched out his hand, the determined look in his eyes telling me he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  I rested my hand inside Édouard’s; more tiny sparks ignited under my skin at the mere feel of his touch. Hope rose in my chest as he swept me onto the dance floor.

  “I hope you didn’t think I wasn’t coming,” Édouard whispered in my ear as we fell into the natural rhythm we’d had since that first night he’d asked me to dance.

  As our feet and hips swayed in perfect unison to the sultry beat of the salsa music lacing through the air, and my baby filled the tiny gap between us, I couldn’t get a single word past my lips.

  He’d shown up.

  And before he walked back out those doors tonight, I had to tell him the truth.

  Édouard wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him, his grip tighter, more urgent than the other nights. As if there wasn’t a moment to lose.

  His deep voice cut through the music before I had a chance to speak. “I’ve been wanting to tell you since the first night we met…you’re a stunning dancer, Claudia.”

  A blazing heat fanned over my cheeks as I focused on keeping my balance. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  He gave me his first sultry grin of the evening. “Merci. I must make a confession to you, though. These are not the only dance lessons I have ever taken.”

  “Oh?”

  “When I was growing up in Paris, it was my mother who taught me how to dance. You see, in the fifties, she was a dancer near the famous Latin Quarter of Paris.”

  “Really? I can’t believe you’ve never mentioned that.” God, I was one to talk. “My grandmother spent some time dancing in Paris when she was younger too. She never talks about it much, but I can only imagine how glamorous it must’ve been. I’ve never even been to Paris.”

  “Ah, Paris. There is nowhere in the world like it,” he said. “When you leave your apartment in the morning, you smell fresh croissants, le café, et le chocolat. You see couples kissing on the streets, not caring who might be watching. You sit for hours at cafés with your friends and drink wine and talk about nothing and everything.” Édouard blinked away the wistfulness in his gaze, then twirled me around and pulled me tightly into his chest. “You must go someday. I am sure you would adore Paris.”

  Suddenly, a scene of a busy Parisian boulevard packed with old cars and lively French cafés flittered through my mind. I could almost feel the soles of my shoes on the rough cobblestones; hear the French chatter swirling around my head; and smell the coffee, the buttery croissants, and the chocolate, just as Édouard had said. It felt so strangely familiar, as if I’d actually been there.

  But then Édouard’s hips shifted against mine, jarring me back to the present, erasing the vivid scene from my confused head.

  I told myself that the vibrant picture of Paris I’d just envisioned must’ve been from all of the old films I’d watched with my grandmother.

  But it felt so real.

  Shaking off the bizarre notion that something strange was happening, I told myself I was simply nervous. I focused on Édouard’s handsome face, his hands around my waist. It was time to come clean.

  But as the salsa tune came to an abrupt halt and a dark, seductive tango took its place, for some reason, in my jumbled mind, the sexy beat rang a bell of recognition.

  Focus, Claudia. Focus.

  I cleared my throat over the loud music and focused on Édouard’s slate-gray eyes. “Édouard, there’s something I need to—”

  “Shhh,” he whispered as he leaned closer to me, his lips brushing softly over my ear, his hot breath warming my already flaming skin. “Just for tonight—fo
r our last night—let’s forget about everything else that is going on in our lives. Just dance with me.”

  Édouard’s firm shoulders locked into place, his strong arms enveloping me as he led me around the dance floor. All words escaped my lips once more, and as his silent gaze cut through me, I wondered what was going on in his life that he wanted to forget. Perhaps whatever it was had made him late tonight.

  Before I could ask, a gust of bitter cold air swept through the dance studio as two teenage girls bounced through the front door. A chill rolled down my spine as I wondered how the temperature had dropped so fast. December in San Diego had never felt this icy.

  My eyes stayed on those girls and their long blonde ponytails, which bobbed as they tossed their purses onto the bench and sat down to change into their heels. But when one of their designer bags toppled over, a magazine slid out and skidded to a stop right next to our feet.

  I peered down at the glossy cover of the latest People magazine, and my heart stopped.

  Édouard’s charming smile beamed up at me, and next to him stood a young, rail-thin French actress named Solange Raspail, one hand on her emaciated hip, the other draped loosely through Édouard’s arm.

  And above her chilly smile, I read the word engaged.

  Édouard snatched the magazine up off the floor before I could reach it then marched it over to the girls. “I believe you dropped this,” he snapped at them before tossing the magazine onto the bench and striding back over to me, a flare of anger present in his gaze.

  He was engaged. Édouard was engaged.

  All this time, I’d never asked if he was seeing anyone. And he’d never shared.

  And here I stood, a complete and utter fool about to tell him the truth about me being pregnant, as if it even mattered to him. Édouard was leaving the next day for Brazil to shoot a film where he would play a sexy dance instructor, and it was clear now that he wouldn’t be making the trip alone.

  A spurt of rage flowed through me as I thought about all the chances he’d had to tell me about Solange. Then again, I’d had just as many chances to tell him I was pregnant. Even if I had told Édouard the truth from the start, I was now certain it wouldn’t have mattered.