Chapter 2
Two
CURIOSITY
AS I MAKE my way down to the main dining room later that night, I find myself stopping in front of the painting by the stairs.
Again, I discover that I want to reach out to run my fingers along her round curves.
This time, I actually make the move toward the image, and just as I raise my arm, I hear the sound of a throat clearing from the landing below.
Almost as though I’m being pulled from a dream, I turn and find Phillipe standing at the foot of the stairs. Unflinchingly, his eyes lock with mine. This is the first time that I’ve seen him since he left me this morning. That’s how it felt. He left me. What an odd way to feel.
“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” he asks.
I have no idea how to answer him. I’m so entranced, and at the same time, I’m shocked by the image because I never expected to feel so many emotions from observing the female form.
He saves me from having to answer him by making a move.
He grips the wooden banister and takes each step one at a time, slowly ascending to where I am paralyzed.
When he finally reaches me, he moves into the space between the railing and my body.
At this stage, I’m sure I should feel uncomfortable, but all I feel is anticipation.
Anticipation of what, I’m not sure.
“It’s her skin.” His smooth voice wraps around me. “She’s so fair and so plump.”
I’m not sure that’s it. Just as I’m about to ask what he means, I feel him shift, and a shiver races up my spine as he proceeds to answer my unasked question.
“It’s the way she seems to be lit from the inside out. She looks like God gave her skin that glows.” He pauses for a moment before whispering my unspoken thoughts out loud. “So, it’s completely natural that you’d want to touch her.”
As his intoxicating description ends, I move to turn and face him, but I feel two large palms come up to rest on my shoulders.
I swallow deeply as he pushes me gently, urging me to take a step forward, closer to the artwork we are both facing.
When we’re only a couple of feet away from the painting, he halts our movement, squeezing my shoulders.
I feel his breath against my ear as he asks the number one question I can’t seem to answer for myself.
“You want to touch her, don’t you?”
Do I? I don’t know. I am definitely intrigued by her. Is it the painting I want to stroke or the woman portrayed?
He assures me, “It’s okay to say yes.”
His lips are so close to my ear that they are now brushing up against it.
Turning my head to the left, I’m shocked when he doesn’t move away.
Instead, his sage-green eyes are focused intently on me as he waits for me to react.
His lips part ever so slightly, and I feel my heart start to flutter as he traces his right palm over my shoulder, coming up to cup my neck.
For a moment, I feel as if I should be frightened. In recent months, this man has been described as a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but like a silly rabbit, I stay inert, enraptured by the predator before me. My eyes start to feel heavy while desire pools in my stomach.
What is he doing to me?
“So? Do you, Gemma? Do you want to feel how smooth her skin is?”
Sighing softly, I let myself finally give in to his spell, falling prey to the perfect seduction. “Yes,” I confess, not even understanding everything that I’m feeling.
All I know is his hot palm is sliding down my neck, stopping at the base of my throat right above my heaving breasts. His eyes are still focused on mine, and his sensual mouth is only inches from my own.
“So did I. I would have done anything, anything, to touch her,” he admits as his eyes leave mine.
The spell is broken as his gaze drifts to the painting on the wall.
With complete reverence, he tells me, “So I did.” Dropping his hands from my shoulders, breaking the last of the provocative web he has spun, he says, “Dinner’s ready. I’ll meet you in the dining room.”
Confession ~
I know I haven’t typed much over the last few days, but I have so much to say.
I need to confess something.
I’m stalking Phillipe Tibideau.
I’m not sure if it’s really stalking when he keeps insisting that I return, but whenever I’m away from him, I feel an anxious need to go to him, to be near him, to hear his voice.
So, I went back to the chateau today, just like I did yesterday and the day before that.
There’s something about him that speaks to me. As insane and unreal as it sounds, I feel like I can hear him before he makes a sound. I don’t understand it, but that’s exactly how it feels.
He told me yesterday that he would show me something if I came to him today.
I questioned his choice of words because most people slip at one point or another when they talk to me, but he just laughed and repeated that he wanted to show me something.
Should I be scared of the way I’m feeling? Probably.
Am I? No.
I find I’m eager and absolutely impatient to see what he feels he can show a blind person.
I shut the journal as I lie in bed the following morning, resenting the silent command I find myself now following. He really is bossy in a quiet, insistent way. I wonder for a moment if Chantel felt that way about him, too.
As I think back to last night, I’m surprised that I don’t feel at all uncomfortable about what occurred on the stairs.
I actually feel the opposite. All of a sudden, I feel like I know so much more than I did the day before, but in actuality, I know nothing more than I already did.
It’s public knowledge that Phillipe was involved with the woman in the paintings, but having it confirmed makes me feel more—
What do I feel? More accepting of the fact that she brought out so many emotions in me?
Maybe. Maybe it is natural to feel desire when you look at a moment in time that has been captured by someone who was full of that same emotion while painting his masterpiece.
Is that the definition of good art? Creating a piece that makes you feel exactly the way the artist wants you to feel?
In any case, the episode on the stairs has not made me uncomfortable by any means. Instead, it has intrigued the journalist in me.
Who is Phillipe Tibideau? Is he just a misunderstood, sad artist who now hides himself away? Or is he something much darker than that?
I desperately want to know.
Almost like Chantel in her journal, I find that I want to know more about him. He seems to have that effect on people in general, considering the tabloids and magazines that have featured him since he was discovered in that little French art gallery where he first sold his work.
From the moment his picture was taken, sold, and then splashed all over the front pages for the world to see, women have been romanticizing him, and men have been speculating about the enigma that is Phillipe Tibideau.
As of right now, though, I have another burning question that is chasing on the heels of all of that. What did he show Chantel?
Phillipe moves around his studio quietly.
He wasn’t able to sleep last night. Dreams and nightmares plagued him equally. It didn’t matter which way the dream took him. Inevitably, when he awoke, one fact remained. She is gone.
Making his way over to the shelves that housed his stereo, he reaches out and hits play. Suddenly, the room is filled with the haunting and melancholic rhythm of a violinist playing “Méditation” from Tha?s. Phillipe closes his eyes, picturing her…
“I want you to play for me,” he told her as he passed the violin back.
Her elegant fingers gripped the neck of her Stradivarius as she gently pulled it up and rested it on her left shoulder. She turned her chin so it sat perfectly in the chin rest at the base of the lower bout.
“What would you like me to play?” she asked, closing her eyes.
“Something you want me to hear.”
Her eyes opened but focused on nothing. “That’s not very specific.”
Moving around behind her, he encouraged her, whispering softly against her right ear, “Okay, how about something that will haunt me?”
He listened closely as she took a deep breath.
“That I can do.”
To this day, “Méditation” from Tha?s haunts his very soul.
When I arrive at the studio at ten a.m., I detect the distinct smell that comes from oil-based paints.
He must have been working this morning, I surmise as I make my way into the sun-filled room.
There’s no sign of him yet, so I go ahead and sit down in my chair.
I pull my notebook out and wait for him to appear.
I don’t have to wait long. Not even five minutes later, he enters with two cups in his hand. His eyes hold mine as he makes his way toward me. I find I can’t smile or do anything but stare until he finally stops in front of me, offering me one of the porcelain mugs.
“Tea?”
Finally, I muster a half-smile, reaching out to take it.
He seems different this morning, agitated in some way. I wonder if he’s feeling uncomfortable after last evening’s encounter on the stairs. Just as I’m about to ask if he’s okay, he sits down and explains.
“I didn’t sleep very well last night. I suppose I should apologize in advance for any—what should we call it—asshole episodes I might have.”
Shaking my head, I consider that before I take a sip of tea and then place the mug on the desk beside me. “Do you have them often?”
Finally, I get a somewhat hesitant smile from him as his eyes narrow and his mouth shifts. Truly, the man’s face is not like any I have seen before. While it’s rugged and masculine in its own way, he is so intensely alluring in other ways that it’s hard to tear your eyes from him.
“Do I have what often?”
Cautiously, I remind him of his own words. “Asshole episodes?”
Arching a brow, he seems to think it over for a second. “I’m not sure. You’ll have to tell me.”
“We could just start later.”
He shakes his head. “No, no. Let’s start now.”