PHANTOM IN TIME (15 page)

“Yes,
you poor darling,” she commiserated, patting his hand. “What choice do you have
but to fall over on your back and surrender?”

His
expression grew briefly sheepish, then sober. “But don't you understand? You
are different,
ma belle.
I like the idea of wooing you, Bella, and
especially of taking you in my arms and soothing your fears.”

Bella
could barely speak, so unnerved was she by his words. “What fears?”

“Oh,
Bella.” He shook his head. “Look into my eyes and tell me you're not afraid.”

She
tried, and quickly became blinded by the intensity and insight she spotted
there. Humiliated, she glanced away.

“See
what I mean?”

Bella
twisted her napkin with her fingers. Oh, how could he be such a rascal, but
also so perceptive? “And you're not afraid of anything?”

“No,
of nothing.”

Something
electric seemed to sizzle in the air between them as her outrage gave her the
strength to meet his gaze. “Not even of death, Jacques?”

He
shrugged a shoulder. “Why should I fear something I cannot control?”

Bella's
heart was beating frantically. She sensed she was venturing into dangerous
territory, but could not seem to stop herself. “What if you could control
it?”  

“But
I cannot,” he insisted. “Even if I could, why would I want to?”

She
waved a crust of bread in frustration. “So you just go on, blithely searching
for the woman of your destiny—”

“I'm
not blithe about it.”

“You're
not? And what about all the hearts you break along the way, all the
misunderstandings and jealousies you may cause with your reckless behavior?”

He
whistled.
“Mon Dieu,
am I so depraved, just to want to find the right
woman?”

Unsteadily,
she asked, “Assuming you ever find her, what will you do with her?”

He
eyed her burningly. “I will devour her. I will love her every minute of every
day. And then we will travel the world together, filling it with glorious song.
We will become like Maurice and Andrea Bloom.”

Even
though Jacques's passionate descriptions left her mouth dry, Bella laughed
cynically. “Maurice and Andrea Bloom? You know, I read about them in the paper
this morning. If you want my opinion, they'll be no little more than
one-note-wonders.”

“One
note . . .?” Frowning in perplexity, he asked, “Why do you say such odd
things?”

“Never
mind, it's not important.” Bucking up her courage, she faced him down. “And I
can give you your answer now, Jacques. I am definitely
not
the woman of
your destiny, so don't even think about 'sampling' me. Never will I travel the
world with any man, filling it with glorious song.”

“You
are so sure?” he asked.

“I
am positive. My parents took that route—and it led them straight to
destruction.”

“You
sound very bitter.”

“’Enlightened’
might be a better word.” She lifted her chin. “So you don't have to audition
me, after all. You don't have to kiss me.”

Jacques
only grinned and reached across the table to take her hand. His thumb stroked
her palm in a most titillating manner. “Ah, but there you are wrong. I
do
have to kiss you, Bella.”

Chapter Fourteen

Back
to Contents

The promise
of that kiss tantalized Bella for the remainder of dinner. She and Jacques had
a wonderful time. The Creole food was divine and the wine flowed freely. They
talked about their favorite operas and exchanged anecdotes about their
experiences in the theater. Jacques was the soul of charm, and never missed an
opportunity to excite Bella with a double entendre or a clever remark.

By
the time they walked out of Antoine's together, she was feeling lighthearted
and slightly tipsy. In the balmy night air, they waited on the banquette for
Jacques's carriage to appear. Feeling enthralled by him, she did not object
when he took her hand.

An
old-time automobile clattered past in the street, its engine noisily throbbing.
The conveyance appeared little more than an antique buggy on large wheels, with
twin front lanterns gleaming brightly. Inside sat a couple in evening clothes.

“Look!”
she cried. “Is that what you call a horseless carriage?”

“The
spawn of the devil,” Jacques replied, grimacing at the acrid odor the vehicle's
engine had left in the air. “Noisy and smelly, a nuisance to mankind.”

“Then
you don't like technology,” she commented.

“Technology?”

“You
know, the industrial revolution.”

He
grinned. “I think the best industry is made by men and women in bed together in
the middle of the night.”

“You
would.” Rather giddily, she laughed.

Jacques's
driver halted the carriage in front of Antoine's. The young coachman hopped
down from the driver's seat and opened the shiny black door for the couple.

“Thank
you, Luis,” said Jacques, helping Bella inside.

“Yes,
sir,” the man replied softly.

Jacques
spoke with Luis for a moment, then climbed inside and sat across from Bella. As
the conveyance rattled off, he eyed her ardently. “You look adorable,
ma
belle,
slightly flushed and mellow, a young lady who is definitely enjoying
her evening out with a certain gentleman.”

“You
flatter yourself,” she retorted, but with a telltale flutter in her voice.

“Do
I? Let's test your theory. Come over here and kiss me.”

“I
think not,” Bella demurred, despite a suddenly galloping heart. “You are cocky
and presumptuous, and besides, you warned me you wouldn't stop.”

“You
wouldn't want me to stop,” he drawled wickedly.

Feeling
rather reckless, she countered, “How would I know that? You haven't kissed me.”

He
leaned toward her, his eyes glittering devilishly. “Oh, Bella. Now you are
tempting me. Take care, or I'll grab your bait.”

He
might never know how tempted
she
was, so irresistible did he look,
seducing her with his sexy words and hot glances. Oh, she was so enjoying the
tantalizing, dangerous game they were playing. Yet her goal was to help him,
not get herself into more trouble. She shouldn't have imbibed so much.

“Jacques,
you're a little drunk, and I really think we should call it a night,” she
pleaded unsteadily.

He
sighed dramatically. “And you, my dear, obviously need to relax and fully enjoy
the pleasures of this night.”

Bella
wondered at his words as they continued through the Quarter, the clip-clop of
the horses' hooves on the cobbled street a lulling backdrop to Jacques's
wooing. At last the carriage halted and he helped her out. But instead of being
at Helene's, Bella found herself facing a large iron gate on the shuttered
facade of a pale yellow town house. Glancing toward the corner, she spotted a
sign, outlined by gaslight, that read “Chartres Street.”

She
whirled on him, further maddened by his innocent expression. “Wait a minute!
You were supposed to take me home.”

“But
I haven't shown you my grandmother's piano,” he protested.

“You
didn't ask my permission!”

“But
of course I did,
chérie,
while we were sampling hors d'oeuvres,” he
replied patiently. “And you consented.”

For
a moment, Bella was rendered speechless. Jacques confidently grasped her hand and
led her through the gate and into a cozy courtyard surrounded by the town house
walls and redolent with the scents of moist earth and blossoms. She gaped at a
fountain whose centerpiece, a bronze statue of a naked sea nymph, spurted
cascades of water; nearby, dew-kissed gardenias and velvety roses emitted their
delicate perfumes.

She
realized Jacques had spoken the truth. She had agreed to come see his
grandmother's piano—although they had definitely not set a date or a time.

He
tugged her on toward some French doors through whose curtains soft light
gleamed; he opened them and pulled her inside.

“Here
we are,” he said, grinning.

“Why,
it's lovely.”

Despite
herself, Bella was entranced by the drawing room, which was long and narrow,
stylish and masculine, its focal point a leather settee and handsome wing
chairs arranged around the fireplace. Scanning the rest of the room, she
admired the lines of a Duncan Phyfe mahogany secretary, the graceful curves of
an Art Nouveau curio cabinet, the novelty of the acorn clock perched on a
Renaissance Revival pedestal table, and the ornate splendor of a
brass-and-crystal, Rococo Revival chandelier that gleamed with electric light.
The room was beautifully kept, and Bella mused that Jacques must have servants
around somewhere—though they were probably in bed by now.

She
smiled as she spotted a bust of Mozart on a marble stand, an expected fixture
in a musician's home. Then her gaze settled on the carved rosewood piano at the
far end of the room. With a cry of delight, she rushed over to it. Never had
she seen a more magnificent instrument. A cabinet grand with silver pedals, a
delicately woven music rack, and mother-of-pearl keys, the piano sported legs
that appeared like ornate columns, with their high-relief carvings of urns,
flowers, and scrollwork.

“Oh,
Jacques!” she exclaimed. “It's breathtaking.”

He
joined her, grinning. “It's a Nunns and Clark, patterned after one that won a
prize at the Crystal Palace exhibition in London in 1851.”

“How
amazing.”

Jacques
proudly ran his fingertips over the keys. “It's been a treasured heirloom in my
family for three generations. If you think it looks beautiful, wait until you
hear its tone.”

As
she watched in fascination, he sat down and launched into a refrain from
Foster's “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming,” Emotion flowed through his fingers
into the keys. Bella felt tempted to sing, so sweetly did his music stir her
soul!

“You
play beautifully,” she murmured. “And you're right. I've never heard a piano
with a more magnificent tone.”

He
glanced up at her. “Sing for me, Bella.”

A
chill swept Bella at hearing Jacques whisper the same words his ghost had used
to seduce her. At once she felt deeply touched and almost unhinged. Had he read
her mind? Did he know that sometimes a song welled up in her, a song she could
not seem to express? She felt so moved by the music, even more stirred by him .
. . She watched his beautiful long fingers drift over the piano keys, imagined
those hands touching
her.

Still
she was afraid. “I—I can't,” she replied miserably.

“Why
not?” he asked. “Etienne says you have a splendid voice—but it lacks
conviction.”

Bella
glanced away. “He's right. I've suffered from stage fright most of my life.”

Concluding
a refrain, he stood, stepped close to her and touched her cheek. “
Pauvre
petite.
Why are you so frightened?”

Her
face burning at his touch, she avoided his probing stare. “I—I think because my
parents coerced me to take the stage at an early age. I froze, and have been
haunted by stage fright ever since.”

“Ah,”
he murmured. “Such a shame. Your parents pushed you onto the stage. Mine could
not drag me away from it.”

She
lifted her chin. “It appears we have little in common.”

“But
you are wrong, Bella,” he insisted. “We both appreciate beautiful music, no?
You love opera, don't you?”

“Yes,
I enjoy the music, but not performing it publicly as you do. There we're
opposites.”

A
husky note filtered into his voice. “But even opposites can complement each
other—like velvet and steel, fire and ice. I know I can be good for you. I know
I can help you overcome your fear.”

Captivated
by his words, she eyed him in terrible uncertainty. “And you've
never
been
afraid?”

“Never,”
he replied emphatically. “Not of anything. And certainly never of singing.” An expression
of remembered pleasure lit his eyes. “Three years ago, our company toured
Europe. When we performed at Covent Garden, I serenaded Queen Victoria
herself—she broke with her tradition of mourning that once and came out to hear
us. I did three choruses of 'Then You'll Remember Me' just for her. Ah, it was
glorious. They say the old Queen never expresses emotion, but she wiped away
tears that night—tears for her beloved Albert, I am certain. The next day, the
Prince of Wales invited us all to appear at court, where we sang again. What
great fun.”

Bella
laughed ruefully. “For you, I'd imagine it was. I would have been petrified.”

Sadly,
he shook his head. “Singing is my life, Bella. Why should life itself frighten
me? Why should it frighten you?”

She
turned, strolling toward the center of the room. “Sometimes fear can be a
healthy thing.”

She
felt his hand on her shoulder. “Not if it keeps you from your heart's desire.”

She
turned to him, arrested by his words.

“You
are Italian, Bella,” he whispered. “You have a heritage to live up to. You
cannot divorce yourself from the opera in your soul.”

“Perhaps,”
she conceded sadly. “But it's not that simple for some of us.”

“Then
you won't sing for me?”

She
almost relented, for he looked so disappointed. “Maybe another time.”

He
smiled tenderly, running a fingertip along her jaw. “That's a beginning,
chérie.
A little bit of willingness, and soon the door will open fully.”

Bella
gasped, wondering if he was still referring to singing. Her floundering senses
as well as his ardent look made her suspect otherwise. She decided it was best
not to comment.

He
flashed her a grin. “Now, since you will not grace me with your lovely voice, I
think we must dance,
ma belle.”