PHANTOM IN TIME (24 page)

“Closer,
Bella,” he commanded.

“No.”

He
reached out, gripped her waist, and smoothly slid her close. “That's better.”

She
glared at him, only to turn away in horror as she heard Helene cry out in
pleasure from the bedroom.

Bella's
hands were trembling so much, she could barely hold the snifter. Her agitation
only increased at the look of rakish amusement she spied on Jacques's face.
“Don't they know we're here?” she gasped.

“No,
of course they don't know,” Jacques replied huskily, moving aside a stray curl
and leaning over to nibble at Bella's nape. “They are totally consumed with
each other, as we should be. They are making love, no?”

At
the delicious contact of his lips, Bella shuddered, depositing her brandy
snifter on the coffee table with a loud clang.

Jacques
set down his snifter as well, and for once he looked totally serious. “Bella,
why is it you so fear the sensual side of yourself?”

“I'm
not afraid!” she retorted, her voice quivering. “I'm trying to be sensible,
that's all. Just because I don't want to be seduced by a rogue like you doesn't
mean I'm—inhibited.”

He
chuckled. “But of course you are,
ma belle.”

“I
can't trust you, Jacques,” she said helplessly.

“Is
it a lack of trust that holds you back?” He stroked his fingertips up and down
her spine.
“Non,
I think it's fear. You're afraid to express your
passion for me, just as you're afraid to sing.”

She
clenched her hands into fists. “Look, whether it's mistrust or fear is beside
the point. You're not the right man for me. Furthermore, I've had quite enough
of your analysis for one night.”

He
chuckled, but as always, the rogue was not the least bit daunted. “I think you
must come home with me, Bella.”

She
shot him a haughty glance, though her underlip trembled.

“There
is only one bedroom in this apartment, no?” he continued beguilingly. “And
Helene will not welcome intrusions tonight. You are sadly without a bed—are you
not,
petite?”

“Perhaps.”
The word came out barely a whisper.

“Come
home and share my bed with me.”

Bella
lurched to her feet. Being alone with Jacques while another couple made love
within earshot was driving her insane—especially after what had happened
between them at the bordello. Once again she felt as if her emotions had been
stripped bare. It would be so easy to give in to her devastating desires, but
she would not help either of them by doing so.

“You
know, you're like a damn broken record,” she muttered ironically.

“As
in the Victrola?” he teased back. “Well, you're the lady who can fix it.”

“I—I'll
sleep here on the settee.”

Jacques
approached her from behind, drew her close, and kissed her hair. “Let me sleep
here with you, then.”

Shivering
with longing, Bella bit her lip. “That's out of the question.”

He
laughed. “Oh, Bella, Bella, how you resist me! But you're only making me all
the more determined to have you, you know.”

“That's
your problem.”

His
hand moved up and down her bare arm. “So you are still angry about the girls
tonight? Can I help it if they drag me out on the dance floor?”

She
turned to eye him mutinously. “And paw and kiss you.”

“I'll
kiss and caress you all night, love.”

His
eyes said he
really
meant it. Oh, she was so tempted to take him up on
the delicious offer. But what then? Would sleeping with him help save his life?
Would it help her figure out why she was trapped in the year 1896, or how to
get back to the present? Would satisfying her lusts ultimately bring her anything
but heartache?

“And
who will you kiss tomorrow, Jacques?” she challenged. “You know, Toby warned me
about you.”

“Did
he?”

Saucily,
she informed him, “He says you're just like Georgie Porgie, kissing all the
girls and making them cry.”

Instead
of being amused, Jacques became utterly serious. “I'll never make you cry,
Bella, unless it's with joy as we become one. I'll never make you cry . . . but
I will make you sing, for such is your destiny.”

How
he could slay her with words! Bella stared at him for a long moment, arrested
by his obvious sincerity. “My destiny,” she repeated sadly. “You know, that's
what Gran always said—that my destiny is the opera. But I can't agree with
either of you.”

He
frowned in perplexity. “Who is Gran?”

“My
grandmother. She lives . . . far away.”

“In
San Francisco?”

Realizing
she'd told him more than she'd intended, Bella muttered, “It's difficult to
explain where she is.”

He
chose not to pursue her odd comment. “Do you love her?”

The
unexpected query made Bella's eyes sting. “Yes. Very much.”

“Good.
Then we'll hope you won't be able to fight both of us and you'll soon embrace
the life you are meant to live.”

Heaving
a sigh of frustration, Bella moved toward the door, then turned to face him.
“Jacques, how many times must I say this? You're looking for something inside
me that just isn't there.”

“But,
Bella—”

She
flung open the door. “Mr. LeFevre, you've been given your brandy and your
company. It's time for you to go home.”

Stubborn
to the end, he grinned. “Not without a kiss, Bella.”

She
eyed him rebelliously, and he raised a dark brow. She moved closer and lifted
her face to his. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her slowly, thoroughly.
She shivered helplessly against him.

“Come
home with me, Bella,” he rasped. “Last chance.”

Gathering
all her fortitude, she shook her head. “Good night, Jacques.”

Flashing
her a look of keen disappointment that tore at her resolve, he left. Bella
curled up on the settee, her belly tight with unfulfilled longing.

***

In the
darkness of his carriage, Jacques sipped whiskey from a flask. Bella was
inspiring in him all sorts of decadent urges.

She
mystified and intrigued him. He knew he had aroused her tonight, especially at
the bordello. When she had claimed him on the dance floor, his pride, his joy,
his desire, had known no bounds. Waltzing with her incredible softness in his
arms, his mouth locked on hers, had thrilled him to his soul. Indeed, she had
been so out of control, so vulnerable, so consumed by passion that he had
almost taken pity on her—although not enough to banish thoughts of having her!

But
why had she pulled away afterward? Indeed, he would have refused Julie's
invitation to sing except for Bella's withdrawal, her saying she didn't mind if
he performed.

Then
she had turned so sullen and angry after they left Julie's. Was she merely
jealous because of the other girls? He chuckled—she was a nervy chit, pushing
him to perform, then going into a pout when the other ladies had demonstrated
their pleasure over his serenade.

Was
she playing games with him, deliberately running hot, then cold? Or was she, as
he still strongly suspected, afraid of her own sensuality, of the natural and
inevitable urges that, when indulged, could make her life so much more
fulfilled, and could release the pent-up song inside her?

Jacques
strongly suspected the latter, and he was determined to bring his pretty little
rosebud into full bloom. Ah, she had captivated him so. She was sweet, sexy,
beautiful, vulnerable . . . but also very strong. This rose would not wilt
beneath his fire, but would blossom in his very soul.

Chapter Twenty-two

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Bella’s
days became filled with song. Every time she heard Jacques LeFevre sing, she
felt he sang only for her.

Following
the electrifying night when he had taken her to the bordello, she found it
increasingly difficult to resist him. With each day that passed, her defenses
weakened considerably. As he continued to woo her both inside and outside the
theater, she realized he indeed stirred her very soul. Jacques, music, and
passion had become inexorably enmeshed inside her, growing and blossoming like
a glorious bud too vibrant to contain, and all were demanding complete
expression, total consummation. Her life, her feelings, seemed beyond her own
control. Bella found herself singing more and more when she was alone, even
fantasizing about performing duets onstage with Jacques.

And
she found herself accepting that she might remain permanently in the nineteenth
century. Of course she still worried about Gran, longed to see her again, and
hungered to tie up the loose ends she'd left behind in the present. Yet
Jacques's safety also loomed prominently in her mind.
Kaleidoscope
would
premiere before long, and she was no closer to finding the person who would
kill him. She often debated whether or not she should come right out and tell
him about the danger, tell him about her journey through time. Instinct still
held her back—especially since she doubted he would believe her.

And
she realized she still had some time. Although
Kaleidoscope
would make
its debut on July 25
^th
, the article she'd read in the present had
stated that Jacques was murdered in August. How she wished she'd looked up the
exact date of his death before leaving the present—surely it wouldn't have been
that difficult to find—but of course she'd never envisioned being in a
situation where she'd need to know precisely when he would be killed.

But
knowing he would likely be safe until August did give her some measure of
comfort. She could even save her trump card until after the premiere. Perhaps
if she laid all her cards on the table then, she might scare Jacques into
leaving the opera and saving himself. In the meantime, she might still discover
who intended to kill him.

Sometimes
she feared that, regardless of her actions, this little tragedy would play
itself out and she would be powerless to change the dire denouement. Yet she
knew she must see her own operatic melodrama through to its climax and resolution.

In
the meantime, music and Jacques consumed her . . .

One
afternoon, Bella was alone in the dressing room when the urge to sing surged
within her again. She raised her voice in “After the Ball,” pulling out all the
stops as she filled the room with song. She was on the final chorus when she
heard the door fly open behind her. At once she stopped singing and whirled—

Helene
and Maria Fortune stood there, both women appearing as if they had just seen a
ghost.

“My
God, Bella, was that you singing?” asked Maria, her voice the merest whisper.

“Yes,”
Bella answered guardedly.

The
woman stepped forward to take Bella's hand. Bella could feel Maria's fingers
trembling on her own, and could see the fervor burning in her hazel eyes.

“My
dear, you have a gift,” declared Maria. “You are clearly destined to become the
next Andrea Bloom. Why do you sing in the chorus? You should be performing lead
soprano.”

“I'm
afraid that's impossible,” said Bella.

“Why?”

“Bella
suffers from stage fright,” explained Helene.

Maria's
features twisted with sympathy and she patted Bella's hand. “But why would you
fear sharing your talents with the world, my dear? You are perfectly lovely.”

“Thank
you,” replied Bella awkwardly. “I'm afraid it's—well, it’s a long story.” She
forced a smile. “But I must say I could never hope to compete with your talent,
madame.”

Maria's
lips twisted into a half smile. “You are too kind, Bella. Please, do consider
my advice.”

“I
will, madame. And thank you.”

With
a nod at Bella, Maria left. Her expression still stunned, Helene stepped closer
to Bella. “My God, Bella I had no idea you were that good! I've heard you sing
a bit around the apartment, but never with the brilliance you demonstrated just
now.”

“Jacques
seems to bring out the passion in my singing,” Bella admitted ruefully. “It's
scary, but sometimes I almost can't control it.”

“You
shouldn't,” Helene declared. “Maria was right that you are clearly meant to
become a diva.”

Bella
bit her lip. “Perhaps.”

“I
know
I'm
right,” insisted Helene. She stepped a bit closer and spoke
behind her hand. “And if you want Jacques LeFevre to think of you as something
more than a conquest, you should sing for him.”

Bella
fell silent, Helene's words troubling her more than she cared to admit. Would
she gain Jacques's respect, his love, if she sang for him? If so, wouldn't she
always wonder whether it was her he truly wanted, or her voice? And wouldn't
overcoming her fear and giving full rein to her talent only commit her to a
life she knew would ultimately destroy her? And how could she risk validating
the course Jacques had chosen with his life when she knew he was destined to be
murdered in this very theater?

Yet
if she never became a diva, how could she hope to please Gran, assuming she
made her way back to the present? She felt as if she were trapped in a maze,
with every turn leading her to a dead end.

Later,
these tormenting questions were still on Bella's mind as she wandered out to
take a seat in the auditorium. She watched Jacques and Maria rehearse their duet
of “After the Ball.” Listening carefully to the soprano's competent though
pedestrian performance, she realized Maria's rendition of the song could not
compare with her own earlier. Was that why the diva had turned sheet-white on
hearing her? Maria had been surprisingly gracious to Bella under the
circumstances, when so many prima donnas would have flown into a fit of
jealousy to have such a potential rival in the chorus.

Should
she, not Maria, be singing with Jacques now? Could she? She knew she wanted to,
wanted to so badly. And she yearned to sing for Gran, despite all her fear, her
confusion . . .