PHANTOM IN TIME (38 page)
Authors: Eugenia Riley
Bella
blushed to the roots of her hair at the scandalous suggestion. “I—I don't think
I can.”
Jacques's
finger trailed between her thighs in blatant suggestion; she squirmed as hot
strands of arousal penetrated her, probing deep. “Of course you
can. I'll make you so glad you did.”
Even
his words set her own juices stirring. Her face crimson, Bella spread her
thighs and placed the fruit as provocatively as he had wanted, while he watched
in unabashed fascination. She winced as she felt the coldness, the rough texture,
against her delicate flesh. She stared up into his eyes and glimpsed a fierce
passion that make her heart skid wildly.
His
voice was rough. “Spread your legs wide, Bella.”
Her
trembling thighs eagerly did his bidding, almost as if of their own volition.
Then she felt Jacques hot, wet mouth and searching tongue touch her as he
grasped the fruit. The sensation was salacious—hot, cold, rough, soft,
electrifying. Her hips arched off the bed, and his forearms pressed her firmly
back into place. She writhed in incredible ecstasy as he devoured her and the
fruit. His mouth plied her, cool and sweet with juices.
Frantically,
Bella tried to wriggle away from sensations she could not bear. But Jacques
held her fast, heedless of her tortured cries, until she succumbed to frantic
bliss. At last his impassioned visage loomed over her, his eyes almost black
with yearning, meeting hers, bright with love and glory. She felt his
shaft—thick, hard, and hot—probing her again. The touch of him made her mouth
go dry; she reached down, eagerly stroking him.
“My
God, you are so aroused,” she breathed.
He
smiled. “Ah, my love, you inspire me to such passion.”
“Give
me all of it,” she urged.
He
groaned, surging into her so deeply, she cried out. He tensed. “It hurts?”
“No!”
she cried, flinging her arms around his neck. “It feels good, so good! Give me
more!”
“Your
wish is my command,
chérie,”
he whispered, crushing her closer.
“Oh,
Jacques, Jacques!” Bella was towed away on a wave of ecstasy, clenching her
fists in frustration and delight. Jacques tortured her with incredibly slow,
thorough strokes, until she was clawing at his chest in her desperation to know
release.
Yet
through the haze of rapture, poignant emotion swelled in her heart. She loved
Jacques so much and was so scared of losing him—so scared. Nothing could ease
her fears like this shattering intimacy. No matter what, she would have these
incredible memories of their love, his thrilling nearness.
His
mouth claimed hers. “Easy,
ma belle,”
he soothed. “Feel your pleasure
now.”
She
clung to him, melting into his hungry thrusts, trembling with the force of a
climax that left them both replete . . .
***
Hours
later, Jacques stood by the bed, watching Bella sleep, seeing her beautiful
features by candlelight, remembering the taste of her, the way her mouth had
melted into his, how hot, tight, and velvety she had felt when he had buried
himself inside her. Would all of this be lost to him in mere days?
In his
hands he again held the “Xerox” she claimed she had brought back from the
present. Over the past twenty-four hours, he had reread the newspaper article
so many times, the words felt emblazoned across his memory. Had he truly only
days left to live, fleeting hours to spend with darling Bella?
All
his life Jacques had assumed his destiny was to sing his heart out with the
woman he loved. He had found that woman in a manner that could only be called
miraculous. But now it seemed fate had a decreed a different path for him, a
road that might soon end in tragedy. This reality left him heartsick for
Bella's sake rather than for his own.
Again
he wondered if there was any way he could forestall the coming calamity. What
if he grabbed Bella and ran to the ends of the earth—
Could
they outrun fate? Glancing again at the article, he sadly shook his head. At
least, if he was destined to die, he could thank God he had already found
Bella. In that sense, he could leave this life at peace. With her he had
already glimpsed heaven, and he knew now that life could offer no greater joy
than loving Bella . . .
Chapter Thirty-five
Bella
awakened to see Jacques looming over her, smiling, his handsome features
outlined by the morning light. “How are your knees,
ma belle?”
Beneath
the covers, Bella moved her legs, then grimaced. “Stiff.”
“I
am sorry,” he murmured, stroking her cheek. “Do you need a doctor?”
“Of
course not,” she replied with a laugh. “I probably just need to get up and move
around.”
He
frowned. “You are certain? There's no rehearsal today, and I did want us to
spend the time together, but I would think with such an injury you should
rest—”
“Good
try,” she replied, curling her arms around his neck. “But resting will only
make me stiffer—and, knowing you, our staying in bed together will make
you
stiffer as well.”
He
chuckled. “Doubtless so.”
“Why
don't we breakfast at the Cafe du Monde, then walk around and feed the
pigeons?”
Jacques
flipped back the covers and frowned at the ugly bruises on Bella's knees. “You
are certain you are ready for this?”
“Of
course,” she replied, then demonstrated by getting out of bed.
As
she took her first awkward steps, a little wince escaped her. Glancing at
Jacques, she found he appeared to be in more pain than she was. He clambered
out of bed to assist her, but she shook her head.
True
to her prediction, Bella felt much better once she had moved around for a few
minutes. She and Jacques dressed and left the town house. Luis drove them to
Bella's apartment, where Jacques chatted with Helene and Tommy while she bathed
and changed into a cool summer frock of white lawn striped with pale yellow.
Bella
grabbed a parasol, and she and Jacques emerged onto St. Ann Street amid an
overcast day. They strolled over to the Cafe du Monde, breakfasting on beignets
and cafe au lait
,
while in the streets beyond them, New Orleans's
hodgepodge of humanity trooped about their daily tasks. Around them in the
open-air cafe, happy diners chatted away in a mish-mash of English and French.
Bella
eyed Jacques in amusement as he scowled over a newspaper, although she felt
sobered when she read the date—July 31
st
. Jacques did very much
appear the respectable citizen, dressed in a fashionable brown suit, a gold
vest and bow tie, his beaver hat placed on the table. She wasn't accustomed to
seeing him thus, sedate and serious. The two of them looked very much like a
settled married couple, she with her coffee, he with his newspaper. Yet the
fact that they might never really share such a gloriously normal existence
filled her with sadness.
“Amazing,”
he murmured after a moment, glancing up at her.
“What's
amazing?” she asked, sipping her cafe au lait
.
He rustled
the pages. “This says they're going to open an underground railroad in Boston
next year.”
Bella
chuckled. “You've got your terms skewed, Jacques. The underground railroad is
what helped slaves escape to the North and Canada during the Civil War. What
they're building in Boston would be a subway.”
“Subway?”
he repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Why, I've never heard such an outlandish
term.”
Bella
shook her head. “Well, subways can be outlandish at times. I rode them when I
performed at the Met in New York.”
“The
Met?” he repeated in bewilderment. “You mean the Metropolitan Opera House?”
Bella
smiled. Yes, there had been a Metropolitan Opera House as early as the 1880's,
she recalled. “Yes indeed.”
He
returned his attention to the paper. “Hmm,” he murmured after a moment, “it
appears William Jennings Bryan has cinched presidential nominations from both
the Democrats and the Populists.”
Bella
whistled. “Jacques LeFevre taking an interest in politics?”
He
flashed her a forbearing look. “It's not a matter I'd ordinarily discuss with
my ladylove, but I do read the papers as often as the next man, and I rather
like Bryan. Once, after our company performed on tour in Chicago, he came
backstage to congratulate me on my singing. Quite a charming fellow.”
“Well,
despite his silvery tongue,” Bella replied, “Bryan will lose the election, and
McKinley will win.”
“Nonsense!”
retorted Jacques.
Ignoring
his outburst, Bella calmly forged on. “President McKinley will then have to
contend with the Spanish American War, in which Teddy Roosevelt will so
distinguish himself at San Juan Hill that he'll later become our president.”
Jacques
appeared less skeptical. “You really believe all this claptrap you are
spouting?”
“And
you don't?”
He
laughed dryly. “To tell you the truth, I'm beginning to, though it's not easy.”
“Well,
I'm absolutely certain of my facts,” she retorted, defiantly wrinkling her nose
at him. “Just read any history book . . .” She paused, laughing. “In the
twentieth century, that is.”
Eyeing
her askance, Jacques returned his attention to the paper. “Ah, here's a nice
announcement about the Bloom couple making their guest appearance at our opera
house on August 8
th
. According to the article, the performance is
already sold out.”
“I'm
sure Etienne and Claude are thrilled.”
Jacques
winked at her solemnly. “Etienne will be far happier if you allow him to
announce our betrothal at the soiree afterward.”
“
He'll
be happy?”
Jacques
grinned. “I'll be ecstatic.”
Bella
sighed. “Jacques, unless you start listening to me, you're not even going to be
alive on August 8
th
.”
Jacques
was frowning, preparing to comment, when the waiter passed by and deposited on
their table a plate with two additional beignets. In the distance, thunder
rumbled.
“Another
doughnut, love?” Jacques inquired.
Bella
set down her coffee cup. “I doubt I can finish another. Though I wish I could
take these to Gran—she loves them so—but then, she's a hundred years away.”
Jacques
regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and perplexity. “Come on,
chérie
,
let's take the remaining beignets and stroll along the levee, before it starts
raining again. What we cannot eat we'll feed to the pigeons in the square.”
Jacques
paid the bill and they left the café. After reaching the levee, they strolled
along, watching stevedores load or unload barrels, bags, and crates; surveying
boats, ships, and barges floating down the river; observing seagulls swooping
about as lightning flashed in the gray skies. Distantly, Bella could hear “Pop
Goes the Weasel” being played on a steamboat's calliope, the whimsical melody
reminding her of calliope concerts she'd heard at the levee back in the
present.
A
few minutes later, they headed toward the square and sat together on a park bench,
before the stately statue of Andrew Jackson. They fed the remnants of their
beignet
s
to a group of eager pigeons.
Jacques
wrapped an arm around Bella's shoulders. “You appear rather abstracted, my
love. Do your knees hurt?”
She
slanted him a smile. “No, the walk helped.”
“Then
why the puckered brow?”
“Actually,
I was just observing the square.” She nodded toward the north. “There's
something almost eerie about sitting here with you. I feel as if I'm caught in
a time warp. With that derelict sleeping on the park bench over there, the
statue of Jackson in front of us, and the cathedral, the Cabildo, and the
Presbytère looming in the distance, I can almost imagine I'm still in the year
1996.” She sighed. “They had old-time carriages on the square there, too, you
know—to give rides to the tourists.”
He
was silent for a moment, his expression abstracted. “Do you want to go back?”
She
raised an eyebrow in astonishment. “Meaning you actually believe me, Jacques?”
He
sighed. “Last night while you slept, I reread the article you brought back with
you. Each time I read the piece, each time you speak with such conviction about
having lived in another time, it becomes a little harder to doubt you.” He
smiled at her. “Although, of course, it all still seems quite bizarre.”
“I
don't care if you think it’s weird,” she replied vehemently, “as long as you
start taking me seriously.”
He
toyed with a strand of her hair. “Tell me more about this world from which you
say you hail.”
Grateful
he was giving more credence to her claims, Bella drew a deep breath. “You'd
find it hard to believe, Jacques.” She glanced at an antique automobile
clattering past on St. Ann Street. “Of course, some of the technologies we all
took for granted in the late twentieth century had their origins here, in the
Gilded Age. The automobile, electricity, the telephone. Only cars became much
more advanced, much faster and sleeker. Jet aircraft zoomed across the skies,
buildings everywhere were electrically cooled and lighted, and the entire world
became connected by an information superhighway.”
“Superhighway?”
he questioned.
She
nodded. “An interconnection of telephones, computers, television.” At his
confused scowl, she explained, “Computers and television are composed of images
flashing information or pictures across a screen.”
He
snapped his fingers. “You mean moving pictures? Like Edison's 'vitascope' that
made its debut in New York this past April?”
Bella
chuckled. “Something like that, but in my day, such images became much more
sophisticated, as did everything else—science, technology, medicine, even
warfare.” She sighed. “There were two great world wars and a number of smaller
conflicts during the twentieth century, and weapons were developed that could
one day obliterate mankind. We even sent rockets—and men—to the moon.”
