Chapter 13
Thirteen
MéNAGE à TROIS
HE STOOD IN water, hip deep, as rain hit the back of his neck where his wet shirt clung to him. All he felt was numb.
“Wake up,” he pleaded. “Come on. It’s time to wake up.”
Eyes of gray opened. Eyes that held his soul focused as a small smile touched lips of red.
As I follow Phillipe one step at a time down the dark stone stairwell, I can’t help but wonder at my sanity. I can feel my hand as it trembles in his.
Again, I ask, “What’s down here, Phillipe?”
He stops halfway down the stairs and turns to look back at me. “I told you.”
I want to scream at him, I know Chantel is not down there. So what the fuck are you talking about? Instead, I remain quiet and continue following him.
When we reach the landing, I can feel him turn to face me in the dark.
“Wait here,” he instructs me.
I stand exactly where he has left me, not knowing what I might run into if I move.
It’s cold down here, I think as I look around, trying to make out what I can.
Obviously, we have gone downstairs, which in turn means we are underground.
As quickly as that thought enters my head, it is chased out by the fear of something horrific happening to me, which I stupidly pushed aside earlier.
I’m about to say his name when suddenly the room is illuminated.
I squint as my eyes adjust to the change, and as they do, a wide, empty space comes into focus. Immediately, I’m aware of several large white boards. Each cut into rectangular lengths, they are mounted all around the walls at different heights. Blank canvases?
“Acoustic room.” His explanation drifts across the expansive area.
Silence follows as my brain catches up.
“This was her music room,” he adds.
I look up to the ceiling and see the strange placement of the white boards there.
The room is bare. There is nothing down here, just the panels on the wall and a shelf holding a sound system.
The thick carpet beneath my feet—which I assume is also for sound absorption—paired with the boards on the walls make the room look odd.
As I step farther into the space, I feel as though she is calling out to me, almost as if the echo of her is here in the room, bouncing off the walls.
Before I knew what was down here, I feared him. Now that I know what’s down here, I fear myself.
“Why didn’t you just tell me about this? Why did you try to frighten me?”
That’s when he moves. He is in front of me before I can say another word, gripping my naked shoulders.
“Don’t you see, Gemma? You let them scare you.”
I try to understand what he is telling me. Them. There’s that word again.
“Who is them?” I ask, determined to get an answer this time.
His eyes narrow as he drops his hands. “Everyone else,” he mumbles as he turns away.
I watch him as he moves across the bright white space. As Phillipe disappears through a door on the other side, I’m left wondering if I am supposed to follow.
Making my way across the firm carpet, I reach the small door where he exited.
Stepping through, I notice right away that this room is different.
It’s just as large. I assume that these rooms used to be the wine cellars.
Phillipe must have converted a different space for that, though.
As I move farther into the room, stepping onto hardwood floor, my eyes are drawn to the paintings hanging up on the far brick wall.
There, directly in front of me, are what I can only assume are the originals from Phillipe’s series. The six pieces he painted of Chantel are displayed at the opposite end of the dimly lit room. Each is larger than life, and each is illuminated with a picture light.
They are resplendent, and I am enraptured.
Phillipe watches Gemma from the far-right corner of the space. He purposely left the room in shadows so he could gauge her reaction unnoticed, wanting to witness the moment she first looks upon the collection.
He knows that seeing it in person for the first time is a shock to the system. Many have described it as breathtaking, and now, it is revered as haunting.
To him, though, it will always be Beauty.
Six portraits, each thirty-six by twenty-four, line the far brick wall in silent repose. Each is lit by a light secured above the frame, and each holds him ensnared whenever he comes down to look upon them.
Right now, however, Phillipe finds himself intrigued by a petite blonde shrouded in a white towel. She hasn’t seen him since she stepped into the room. As she makes her way closer to the paintings, he can sense her fascination with what is before her.
“It hurts to look at her, doesn’t it?” he asks as she turns to look at him over her shoulder. He pushes himself away from the wall and makes his way toward her. “She would play her violin in the room next door, and I would come down here to sketch.”
Gemma turns her head to stare at the paintings. “These are simply magnificent, Phillipe,” she whispers in awe. She takes a step closer before asking, “May I?”
Phillipe nods once and remains where he is. He tries to remind himself that there is no reason he should feel guilty about being bound by one woman who is becoming entranced by another.
“Guilty?” Her voice seeped into his mind. “What are you guilty of?”
“Everything,” he confessed as he stroked her cheek.
“Do you see the lights over there?” she asked.
He closed his eyes, blocking out what she was telling him. “You don’t see lights over there, Chantel. You can’t see anything,” he told her gently.
“Just like you can’t be guilty,” she whispered.
He watched her wet lips part on a soft sigh.
“Don’t let them make a villain out of you. Don’t let them break you.”
Leaning down, he pressed his lips to hers, knowing what she was trying to tell him, but the truth was that the lights were there.
He raised his mouth from hers and looked into her sightless eyes. “You can’t break a man that’s already broken.”
I can’t believe that I am standing in a room with the original six pieces from the Blind Vision Collection. I move as close as I dare then turn to look over my shoulder at the artist—a man so complicated that I am starting to realize I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.
He’s watching me as I look at her, and I find that I like it. He glances over my naked shoulders and frowns before quietly turning to walk away.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Take your time,” he says as he exits out into the music room.
Left alone with Chantel, I turn back to face the paintings. I move in front of Armor, the same image I have been posing for. It’s easy to see that Phillipe was fascinated with her by the way he made the light fall upon her, creating shadows along each sensuous curve of her body.
Each stroke was executed with such care and love that I feel as if I am witnessing it being painted.
He’s captured the luminescence of her skin with such perfection that I can’t help but move closer.
Once again drawn to her in a way I’ve yet to understand or make sense of, I run my fingers down her arm.
From the slope of her breasts down to her tight, hard nipples, her skin almost glows, making her appear ethereal in nature, but it’s also the darkness he’s captured in the pose that’s so eloquent in its meaning.
It’s as though you can’t tell where she ends and the shadows begin.
You can only see what he has decided to show you.
She appears strong and brave as she holds the one thing that makes her formidable in her own right, and that’s the Stradivarius.
I don’t realize how caught up in the painting I’ve become until I hear a thud behind me. Snatching my hand back as if I were just burned, I turn to see that Phillipe is back, and he’s carrying a wooden chair. He places it on a small, plush rug, the only covering on the wooden floors.
“What do you think?” he asks, sitting.
I find I have no words for him. How do you tell someone that his creations are the most painful and beautiful objects you have ever looked upon?
Instead of talking, I stand motionless in my towel and wait for him to do something, anything.
“Come here, Gemma,” he says quietly.
I don’t know what I’m feeling at this moment. As I look at him sitting there in the low lights with his slightly spread, jean-clad legs and his dark hair brushing the collar of his sweater, I find myself moving toward him. I want to touch him, and I want him to touch me.
Slowly, I walk to where he is sitting, facing Armor. I stop before him as his eyes move up the white towel, over my breasts, and finally rest on my face.
Once again, he raises his hand, and in a gesture that is now familiar, he crooks his finger. “Come closer, Gemma.”
Like in a dream, I find I have no choice.
As Gemma stands before him, Phillipe can see her behind Gemma, and that’s all it takes for his desire to magnify.
Raising his eyes to Gemma, who is staring down at him, he brings his legs together. “Sit with me.”
He watches as her eyes fall to his lap, and then she looks back at his face. He places his hand on his thigh. “Turn around and sit here on my lap. Tell me what you see.”
He isn’t sure if she will do as he asks.
She licks her lips and pivots on her heel.
He lets out a deep breath as she sits down on his lap, her towel-covered ass firmly seated on his thighs.
He places his hands on her waist and pulls her back against him until her sweet curves are molded to his front.
Lowering his chin to her shoulder, he looks at Armor and repeats, “Tell me what you see when you look at her.”
She takes in a breath before releasing it softly and wriggling a little closer.
He reaches across her waist with his left hand. “Sit still and tell me what you see.”
“I see Chantel,” she finally replies.
“Yes, so do I. What else do you see?”
“I see her violin. I see Diva.”
Phillipe feels a small grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He takes the side of the towel in his fingers and pulls it away, leaving her body on full display.