Chapter Eight #2
Phillipe steps around the easel. He walks over to the perceptive Gemma and crouches behind her. He must have been quieter than he thought, because she flinches when he runs the back of his finger down her naked spine.
Without moving so much as an inch, he confesses, “I didn’t ask. I begged.” He stands, walks over to the journal, and taps the cover. “But this, you already knew.”
Tonight, when I arrived at the Grand Théatre de Bordeaux, my uncle led me down to the dressing rooms, and I was greeted by the conductor who would be up front tonight.
I was nervous about playing this evening. It was not because there would be an audience but because he was going to be there. Tonight, Phillipe was going to watch me play with the local orchestra, and I wanted it to be perfect for him.
I was led to the stage door to start the warmup.
One of the other violinists I was going to be playing alongside told me, “I’m so excited to play with you tonight.
I think you’re amazing. To be able to play in such a way and be completely…
” She paused as I smiled in her direction. She too was American.
“Blind? It’s okay. You can say it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not very polite for me to point out something so obvious.
I’m sure you get sick of it. When they told us who was going to be playing here tonight, I was thrilled.
I know all about you. You inspired me to play.
” The girl giggled. “Sorry. I went a little crazy there, didn’t I?
I’m Jessica. I’ll be playing second chair violin. ”
I liked Jessica immediately. She showed me to my seat, and I began warming up.
Running through the usual warmup exercises, I felt the music as it flowed through my fingers and vibrated through my ear. It made its way into my heart, and as silly as it sounds, it touched me deep down into my soul.
Thirty minutes later, the orchestra was introduced, and I heard my name along with Jessica’s and two others. We each stood, and applause filled the room as we made our way—me with the assistance of Jessica—to the center of the stage.
The audience hushed and waited in complete silence.
I felt the warmth of the spotlight as it moved to focus on the four of us. This evening, we were going to be playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and lifted Diva to my shoulder.
That was when it happened. I felt him.
Somehow, I knew exactly where he was in relation to me. Like a compass being pulled north, I found myself pivoting to the left, and I opened my eyes. I knew that was where he was. I knew he was sitting up there.
Closing my eyes once again, I listened as the basso continuo started, and I swayed slightly as I let the wave crash down over me.
“So, you asked her the night you went to see her play?” I say, knowing he has moved back behind the easel.
He seems further away each time he speaks.
“Yes. What can I say? The moment I went and saw her play, I knew.”
His voice fades out toward the end of his thought, but I’m not letting him get away with it that easily. I need to know exactly what he means.
“You knew what?” I press, finding courage in the darkness I now inhabit.
Not having to face him when asking such personal and probing questions makes me bolder.
It makes it easier to dig deeper into the heart of a man I know is wounded.
It makes me ruthless in my pursuit of his story.
This story is so provocative that it has captured the attention of the whole world.
That’s when I hear him confirm what I already suspected.
“I knew I had to keep her.”
She is mesmerizing, he thought as he watched the spotlight move in and focus on the four musicians at the front of the orchestra.
After she told him she was playing tonight, she invited him to come, and he bought a box seat. There was no way he was going to miss out on this.
So, here he was. For some reason, he held his breath when she stood and closed her eyes. She raised her beloved Diva to her left shoulder, and that was when it happened. She opened her eyes, turned her head, and looked right at him.
Phillipe felt his breath leave his body on a sigh while his chest ached and tightened with the knowledge that she somehow knew. She felt him inside her very being, proving that theirs was a connection he couldn’t explain to anyone.
She smiled slightly before closing her eyes once more, and he found himself blocking out the other three people standing by her, along with the fifty orchestra members.
All he saw was Chantel standing center stage, playing the most beautiful and spellbinding rendition of one of the most famous pieces ever written.
He had known the minute he saw her out in his vineyard that first morning that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to know her. Just as he knew, right this second, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.
“So, after the show, you…what? Went back to the dressing room? To the chateau?” I stop and sigh.
“Why are you being so difficult about this part of the story? If you didn’t want to talk to me about it, then you should have let me finish reading her journal.
” I pause before muttering, “At least she answers my questions.”
“You seem frustrated.”
“I am frustrated. I want to know what happened, Phillipe.”
Pausing, I realize I am still sitting on the floor naked, and he seems to have moved his position. He sounds as though he’s sitting in the chair in the other corner of the room. Reaching up, I remove the blindfold, twisting around to see that my suspicions were correct.
“Why didn’t you tell me you stopped for the evening?”
His eyes travel over my hair, which has fallen across the shoulder that is twisted toward him. “Because I was enjoying looking at you.”
Completely annoyed at this stage, I reach for the clothes strewn across the floor. “Well, isn’t that nice?” I mutter while I tug my sweater over my head.
“I thought so.”
Bending down, I pick up my panties. “I can’t believe you. Well, I’m not going to sit here just for you to look at.”
“Well, this view is working pretty well, too.”
Looking at him over my shoulder, I turn and attempt to cover myself with the pants and panties bunched in my hands. He stands and slowly walks closer. All the while, he’s twirling a paintbrush in his fingers, a habit that seems second nature to him.
Standing my ground, I look up at him when he stops inches from me.
“I keep catching you without your pants on today,” he muses. He looks down to where I’m clutching the two items in front of me.
“Both times, need I remind you, are due to no fault of my own,” I point out with as much dignity as I can find.
He takes hold of the material in my hand and tugs gently. I don’t want to let it go because I know that if I give in, he’s going to do something. Something that will make me forget why I’m annoyed. Something that will turn me into a person I don’t quite understand.
“Let go, Gemma.”
Reluctantly, I obey, and he drops the clothing on the floor, leaving me in just my sweater.
“I stopped talking because she tells it much better, which you will discover when you read it.”
I shiver at the mention of her and swallow as he brings his hand still holding the paintbrush up.
“And I stopped painting because I realized you are missing something important.”
My heart almost stops at the thought that this man finds me lacking in any way. As ridiculous as it seems, I now want him to want me, no matter how wrong it is.
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way.” I stand there, staring up into eyes that are daring me to run.
I try not to flinch when he reaches down with the paintbrush, running the soft bristles across my vulnerable mound, still naked and on display for him.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from moaning as he raises a brow and moves his hand lower, letting the bristles tickle and flirt their way down between my thighs.
Looking down our bodies, I find myself transfixed by the scene I’m witnessing. With his big fingers wrapped around the paintbrush, he gently continues to stroke it against my clit. I can’t help but reach up to grip his inactive arm, steadying myself.
Widening my stance, I raise my eyes to his as he leans down and licks my bottom lip with his tongue.
“Gemma.” He sighs against my mouth.
“Yes?”
“You like this? The soft tickle of the brush against your clit?”
I don’t know what he expects from me at this stage, because I seem to have lost the ability to speak. All thought disappears as the brush dips lower and he slides it through my arousal. I wonder if he’s going to do what I think. Will he take it there?
Panting heavily, I part my lips against his and can’t help myself from taking a bite of his full bottom lip. That’s when I feel his depraved smile appear. He shifts his hand, and the brush disappears deep inside of me.
Gripping his arm tight, I know I’m going to leave nail marks. I moan and open my eyes to stare into green ones filled with decadence and desire. His desire is so hot that it’s burning me, melting me from the inside out.
“Now, this is much more fun. Don’t you think, Gemma?”
I blink at him, my breathing accelerating. He starts to slowly pull the paintbrush from my body, the bristles tickling me on their way out.
“This is the way I think I should always paint you—with a size twenty-four round brush in my hand as you coat the bristles.” Leaning down beside my ear, he asks, “What do you think, Gemma? Do you like being painted this way?”
All I can think is that being painted by him feels a lot like being fucked by him, but he already knows that.
“Phillipe…”
He thrusts the brush back up inside me, and my hips start to flex against his sinful hand. I turn my head so our mouths are almost touching. I feel myself getting impossibly wetter, and he licks his lips as his hand shifts again.
“This is wrong,” I say, panting.
He grins demonically, nibbling my lip. “All the best things are,” he agrees. He drags the brush out from my confused and needy body and then pushes it back inside. “Now, close your eyes and go with it. Who cares if it’s wrong? How does it feel?”
I have no words for him as I grind down on the brush that is now deep inside of me. All I can do is what he told me—feel.
He starts to thrust it in and out of me, quicker with each movement, and that’s when I hear him softly humming Pachelbel’s Canon in D in my ear. Everything about the situation is fucked up.
What he’s doing and how I’m responding is beyond fucked up, but there’s not one thing I can do when he bites my ear. I shout out my shockingly intense and inappropriate climax. Once again, I find myself unsure and ashamed of how I’m left feeling.
Phillipe took me back to the chateau after my performance and told me how moved he was watching me play. I could tell by the way he spoke to me that something was different.
He was touching me and talking to me as though he had never seen me before. Maybe he hadn’t.
My mother always told me that I came alive when I was on stage. Maybe that’s what he saw.
“I knew you’d be amazing tonight, but Chantel, I have no words.” He sighed. “You were simply breathtaking.”
I kissed him softly. “Well, I don’t want you to stop breathing.”
His lips covered mine in an almost desperate kiss. When he pulled away, he ran a hand down my cheek. “I don’t plan to, not for a very long time, and neither will you.”
He kissed me again and, almost as though he couldn’t stand to be still, lifted me off the ground, twirling me around as I laughed. He slowly lowered me down his body. “Will you come and stay with me, Chantel?”
Automatically, I started to say yes, but he kissed me before I could even make a sound.
“Don’t say no, please. Tell me you’ll move in with me? Let me see you when you wake. Let me be inspired every time I turn a corner, and you’re there.”
Laughing at his eagerness, I stroked his impossibly high cheekbone. “My parents and Beau wouldn’t understand why I would choose to stay here in France or why I would move in with you, a man I have just barely met.”
He kissed my mouth, and I felt myself sliding under the waves again.
I asked him, “Is this wrong? Are we crazy?”
This time, his lips pressed against my forehead. “Probably. But who cares? How does it make you feel?”
My answer was simple. It made me feel complete.
The next day, I moved into the chateau.