My gaze lowered to my new neck and shoulders. They were thinner and bonier than my old ones, and they gave way to a set of round, perky, and, I couldn’t deny it, gorgeous breasts.
Thirty-five-year-old breasts did not sit up this tall. How much younger was I?
But just before I tore my gaze from the shocking reflection in the mirror, I spotted a small, thin scar on my lower abdomen and another thicker, more jagged scar stretching around my side and across my lower back. Running my finger over the deep, nasty gash, my stomach curled and my head became woozy. I reached for the edge of the mirror to steady myself, but as I closed my eyes, instead of finding blackness, I saw a shiny knife pointed straight at me.
A gruff, scarred hand held onto the knife, but no matter how hard I focused, I couldn’t see past that hand. And before I could stop it, the knife came swirling around my side and sliced into my back.
The sound of my own bloodcurdling scream woke me from the vision. I ran to the trash can in the corner of the dressing room and hurled the contents of Ruby’s last meal into the plastic bag.
I slid onto the ground, but refused to close my eyes out of fear that I would see that hand, that knife, coming at me again. Feel it slicing me across the back, feel the blood running down my legs.
Each shallow breath burned my lungs as my stomach contracted for one final purge.
Someone had tried to kill Ruby. The memory was so absolutely terrifying and clear, and the scars on my back and stomach were fresh enough, I knew it couldn’t have been long ago.
And on top of all of that, Ruby was now a murder suspect.
I was a murder suspect.
And I had no clue what I’d really been doing the night of Gisèle’s murder. Or who François Lefevre was, or what the arrangement was for after the show.
I had no idea what any of this madness meant, or what monumental task I was supposed to accomplish in only five days.
And I didn’t want to know.
All I wanted was to go home.
But as I turned my weary face back toward the mirror and spotted the gray circles forming around my own blue eyes—the eyes that had traveled back in time with me into this other woman’s body and her mess of a life—I wondered if I’d brought enough strength with me to fight back and find my way home.
SIX
“Ruby, what happened?” Titine appeared in the doorway of the dressing room moments later, her sparkly green eyes gaping down at me in horror. “We’re all waiting for you on stage, and Jean-Pierre is livid! What did you say to him? And why on earth are you naked on the floor?”
When I responded with a violent shiver, Titine crossed the dressing room, grabbed a throw off the tiny couch, then crouched down and wrapped it around me. She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ears. “Oh, Ruby. My Ruby. What am I going to do with you?”
My trembling body snapped to attention at her words.
Ruby. My Ruby.
I’d heard someone else say those exact words in the dance studio, just before I’d woken up in Ruby’s body in Paris.
Is it possible? Could Titine really be…?
I focused in on the strawberry color of Titine’s hair, the way the curls bounced off her neck, the shiny strands swept up into a messy bun. Her skin was pale and dotted with tiny freckles—freckles I knew. Although in her old age, she would have even more freckles, and her smooth skin would become paler and lined with thin wrinkles. But her gorgeous eyes—her sea-green, sparkly eyes—those wouldn’t change a bit.
There was no mistaking it. I just couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it earlier.
Titine was my grandmother.
“Ruby, what is going on? Why are you looking at me like that? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Hadn’t I?
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled as I tried to put the pieces together in my head. I knew my grandmother had spent time dancing in Paris when she was younger, but she’d never elaborated much. And why was she called Titine? And how would I ask Titine these questions without making her think I was completely nuts?
“Don’t be sorry, sweetie,” she said as she reached past me for the costume I’d dropped on the floor. “Just get dressed. With everything that’s going on this week, you have to pull yourself together. You have to finish rehearsal.”
I stared back at Titine, at my young grandmother, completely mesmerized by her, and wondering how in the hell this could be happening. Her movements, her hands, her words, even the rhythm and inflection of her speech—it was all the same. A bit bouncier and livelier than the seventy-six-year-old version, but really, not much had changed.
But why had my grandma Martine called out Ruby’s name just before I’d passed out in the dance studio? Had she seen Ruby in me that night? Had she somehow known this would happen?
Titine pushed the costume into my hands, snapping me back to reality, or whatever the hell this was. “Come on, Miss Drama. Not a moment to waste. It’s time to get dressed and show Jean-Pierre what a great choice he made in making you the star of the show. Otherwise, that little tramp Véronique is going to try to mosey her way in. And I’ll be damned if I let that happen.”
Yes, Titine was most definitely my grandma Martine. Sassiness and all.
Just as she was about to stand up, I grabbed her wrist. “Titine, I need to talk to you.”
“We can talk while you change into your costume. I’m serious, Ruby, we need to go. Now.” She clasped my hand and pulled me up to my feet.
“I’m sorry, but this can’t wait. Are you…” I trailed off, not sure how to approach this without coming off as if I’d completely lost it. The fact that I was naked, shivering, and wrapped in a blanket would not add points to my credibility either.
“Yes?” she said, her foot tapping the ground impatiently. Grandma Martine always did that when she was in a hurry.
“Was your name ever Martine?”
A hint of fear punctured Titine’s determined gaze, but she quickly blinked it away. “Ruby, I’m serious. We don’t have time for games. I know you want to pretend you don’t remember anything. I know you want to run from all of this. But you can’t run. Not from me, anyway.”
“So your name wasn’t ever Martine?”
Titine stomped her high-heeled foot on the floor and threw her hands into the air. “Ruby, my name is Martine.”
“So why are you called Titine?”
“Because in France, Titine is the nickname for Martine, plus we thought it would be a better stage name. And your new nickname is going to be Amnesia Ruby. Do you really not remember any of this? Do you not remember me?”
“Of course, I remember you.” She had no idea how much of her I remembered. “It’s just that the details of my life here, of our lives, are a little fuzzy to me.”
“Do you think you can get through rehearsal at least, and then we can call the doctor to come tonight, before the big show tomorrow? Does your head still hurt from the fall?”
“No, my head feels fine. I mean, physically it feels fine. But I still don’t think I should dance today. If that girl Véronique wants my part, she can have it.” Right as those words exited my lips, though, I felt a strange pang of…something in my gut. Was it jealousy? Before I could figure out why I felt that way, though, the feistiness I’d seen in Titine’s eyes earlier returned in full force.
“Ruby, for the last time, we have to go now. I know what happened to Gisèle was horrific, and that finding her like that must’ve really taken a toll on you…we’re all scared here. But to be honest, you’re the strongest one of us all, and you’ve been through much worse.” Titine’s hands shot to her hips as she leveled her determined gaze at me. “If you’re honest with the police, they’ll have no choice but to find you innocent. As far as we know, they have no real evidence to convict you. They haven’t even found the murder weapon. Plus, you and Gisèle were friends. You had no reason to want to harm her. I know the other girls might not think so now that Jean-Pierre has given you her role, but I kn
ow you’re innocent, Ruby, and I’ll do everything I can do help you. Acting as if you don’t remember anything is not going to help, though. It’s only going to make you appear guilty.”
“Titine, what was I doing the night Gisèle was killed? Where was I when it happened?”
“You went up to your apartment because you didn’t feel well, but then you decided to come back down a little while later. That’s when you heard one of the younger dancers, Delphine, screaming in Gisèle’s dressing room and ran in there. I still don’t understand why the police aren’t placing much weight on the fact that you weren’t even the first one to find Gisèle, but we can talk more about that later.”
Titine gazed back at me with a genuine look in her pretty green eyes. Old or young, I knew my grandmother. And I knew when she was telling the truth. From her point of view at least, the story Jean-Pierre had told me was true. But she hadn’t mentioned that man’s name—François Lefevre. And for some reason, my gut told me not to say anything about him yet—not until I knew who he was, anyway.
“If I didn’t have anything to do with Gisèle’s death, then do we have any idea who did?” I asked.
Titine shook her head. “No, we don’t. Gisèle had a lot of admirers—including a few scary ones—and just as many enemies. The club was so crowded that night…it could’ve been anyone. That’s what’s so frightening about the whole thing.” She reached down and squeezed my hand. “But we have to keep going, Ruby. We can’t let this stop us. This was our dream. To be dancers in Paris. And you’re the star of the show now. You can’t throw it all away before the biggest night of your career just because you’re scared. You’re the strongest woman I know, Ruby. You can do this.”
My brain grasped on to what Madame Bouchard had said to me earlier at the café. That I’d been brought here for a reason…that I’d been given the chance to correct my ill-fated course. Although I hadn’t a clue what that reason was, or how in fact I would go about correcting my fate, I knew without a doubt that it must have something to do with my young grandmother. After all, it was not a coincidence that she just happened to be my best friend in my past life.
And in that moment, even though I didn’t feel an ounce of the strength Titine insisted I possessed, and I would have much rather booked a one-way flight to the States, I knew I had to do this. I had to engage in Ruby’s life if I wanted to have any shot at making it home. At seeing Édouard again.
At having my baby.
Swallowing my fear, I took Titine’s hand and nodded toward the door. “Let’s do this.”
SEVEN
Dressed in a skintight red leotard, black tights, and my sparkly red heels, I stood at the edge of an empty stage, my newfound cleavage overflowing and my confidence waning.
What in the hell was I doing here? I was a fraud. And the minute I stepped out onto that stage, everyone would know it. I stared down at the three-inch glittering red heels on my feet and wished I could click them together three times and be magically transported back to San Diego—to the life I was comfortable in, to the life where my grandma was actually my grandma and not my best friend.
But again, that only worked in fairy tales, didn’t it? And sending me onstage to do a solo song-and-dance routine, that was a nightmare.
I peeked out from behind the curtain and spotted Jean-Pierre leaning over the piano, talking with the accompanist. I probably only had a few more seconds until he’d summon me.
What am I going to do?
Closing my eyes, I forced myself to inhale, but my breath caught in my throat when a warm hand landed on my arm.
“Ruby?”
I opened my eyes to see whose hand was resting on my skin, whose deep voice had whispered in my ear. But by the lack of arrogance in his tone, I knew even before I saw his face that it wasn’t Jean-Pierre.
Before me stood a tall, distinguished man, his black top hat, crisp black suit jacket, and red tie giving off an air of professionalism I hadn’t yet encountered in this dank, smoky nightclub. His dark-brown hair shone in the low light of the wings, and the tiny lines surrounding his smoky-gray eyes crinkled as he gazed at me in anticipation.
Before a simple Yes, I’m Ruby could escape my lips, I realized that I knew those tiny lines, those smoky eyes, those classic, yet unbelievably handsome features.
Antoine.
My heart raced as his name shot into my brain.
Was this the Antoine Richard? The renowned surgeon I’d read about in the newspaper article? Gisèle’s brother?
And possibly the A. from the note who I was not supposed to speak to?
“Suivez-moi,” he whispered, as he gestured toward the darkest area of the wings, where we wouldn’t be seen by any of the dancers milling around or by Jean-Pierre.
My hand effortlessly slipped into his as I followed him into the shadows. We squeezed behind the last curtain, and as I breathed in the scent of cold air and cologne on his clothes and felt his hot breath grazing my cheeks, I felt as if my legs might give way underneath me.
What was it about this man that was making me feel so…off-balance?
“Where were you this morning?” he whispered in my ear. “I waited for you at the café, and you never arrived. I need to know what you were about to tell me yesterday…what you saw before you found Gisèle.” He glanced over his shoulder, and as the sounds of the dancers’ heels and Jean-Pierre’s voice shot past us, he squeezed even closer to me, his lips barely brushing my ear. “There is something else…something important that has come up today, after my meeting with the police. But now is not the time to discuss this. I know what Jean-Pierre will do if he finds me here with you, so we will talk later. Meet me at Café de Flore at five o’clock. And remember, don’t tell anyone you’re talking to me, especially the police.”
Our eyes locked in one final, intense gaze, and it was then that I noticed the pain in his regard, the pain that permeated his entire being. He’d lost his only sister, Gisèle, and I’d found her dead in these very wings. Of course he wanted answers. I would too.
And even though I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk to him—that doing so could endanger me further—I felt an instinctual pull toward this man. I wanted to hear his deep voice echo through my ears again, feel his hand brush against my skin once more, breathe in his cool, masculine scent. But most of all, I didn’t want to lose the strange sense of comfort and familiarity I felt from these few brief seconds in his presence.
Of course, I had no idea what information I could give him, seeing as how I wasn’t actually Ruby anymore and her memories were only coming to me in short, jagged pieces, but even so, I knew I couldn’t refuse his request. I had to help him.
“I’ll be there,” I said, recognizing that the sensation coursing through my veins at that instant was a feeling I’d only experienced one other time in my life—when Édouard had taken me in his arms and danced with me.
And since nothing had ever made me feel so complete, so whole, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away from this man if I tried.
With only a nod and a whisper of a good-bye, Antoine disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving me alone in the wings trying to catch my breath.
I stepped out of the shadows and set my gaze on the stage as the spotlight flickered on. In the front row, Jean-Pierre glanced down at his watch and took a puff of the cigarette dangling from his thin lips. As I watched his building impatience cause his nose to twitch, I dreaded ever having to speak to him again. Instead, I found myself wishing it was five o’clock so that I could find out more about Antoine—the mystery man who’d appeared like a lightning bolt straight out of the sky.
“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” Titine slid up beside me and placed a microphone in my hands. “It’s time.”
I wrapped my sweaty palms around the microphone, holding on to it for dear life, and wondered how I would fill up the stage with a song I didn’t have the words for and a dance I’d never done.
But as my long legs carried
me toward center stage, I figured I was about to find out.
It felt like my first day of kindergarten—except it was like kindergarten on acid. My ankles trembled, my mouth went dry, and my stomach balled up in so many knots, I felt like I might throw up.
The haze that had engulfed me since my encounter with Antoine dissipated completely as I focused on Jean-Pierre leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, a smug look of entitlement on his face. The other dancers, along with Titine, filled up the wings, their anxious gazes set firmly on me. And as a group of musicians began playing at the foot of the stage, I had the sickening feeling that I never should’ve agreed to rehearse because there was no possible way I could follow Ruby’s legacy.
But then, something happened—I recognized the song they were playing. It was “Fever” by Peggy Lee. It was an old song, but it was one that I knew from my life as Claudia too. Though even stronger than the memories I had of this song from my twenty-first-century life, I remembered it here. From this life. On this exact stage.
Suddenly, the lyrics and the dance I was set to perform flooded into my consciousness like a tidal wave—forceful and unapologetic. The bass player plucked away, and just when I reached the chair in the middle of the stage, my body—Ruby’s body—took over. Without thinking, I flipped my back to the audience, grabbed on to the chair with my left hand, and lifted the microphone to my mouth with my right. I cringed on the inside as I sang the first few notes, expecting to hear my usual off-pitch singing voice. But when the most sultry, seductive sound I’d ever heard escaped from my very own lips, I could hardly keep from grinning.
I snapped my fingers in time to the song, which magically flowed from my own mouth as my long, toned legs strutted around the stage, my graceful arms knowing exactly where to go for each dance move, my body moving in perfect sync with the beat of this sexy tune.
Dancing with Paris (A Paris Time Travel Romance) Page 5
