Blind Obsession (20 page)

Things have changed.
Phillipe
has changed, and for the first time in his presence, I feel frightened. Up until now, I have been wary, suspicious, and careful around him, but I have never felt the overwhelming need to protect myself from him as I had that night.
Right on the cusp of that fear is also the sharp jagged edge of persistent desire.

It’s been days, and I know he’s avoiding me. Still, I can feel my body starting to throb at the thought of him.

Annoyed at myself and my traitorous body that seems to be continually betraying me, I turn on my laptop and lean back against the headboard, settling in to do something I told myself I would not do while I was here. I search the name
Phillipe Tibideau.

***

He came and got me several minutes later, just like he had said he would. Once again though, he was silent. I hated the silence because, like anyone else, I couldn’t see his face to gauge his mood.

He took my hand as we were about to head downstairs.

“Phillipe, talk to me,” I insisted.

He stopped, and I could feel him turn to face me.

“What do you want me to say, Chantel?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but not talking to me isn’t going to fix things,” I explained, trying to get through to him.

“I can’t explain how I feel,” he softly told me.

I stepped closer to where I knew he was standing, and I raised my hand. He took my palm and placed it on his cheek.

“Tell me?” I whispered.

“No, Chantel. I’m okay,” he assured me, his voice strained.

“You’re not. You’re hurting. Tell me why. Is it because of my parents? I already told you—”

“No,” he replied, placing a finger to my lips. “No, it’s not your parents. It’s me.”

“I don’t understand,” I responded, moving my hand slowly.

That was when I felt both of his hands on my face, cupping my cheeks. As he leaned down and placed his mouth by my ear, I could feel his breath on my face.

He exhaled a soft gust of air. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You are scaring me. You’re not talking to me. You aren’t painting. You’ve pulled away.”

“No,” he sighed, his lips still against my ear. “No, Chantel, it’s the other way around.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand what it is I feel for you, and I’m scared to tell you. I’m scared it will make you run far away and never come back,” he confessed, placing one of his hands on my chest.

“Nothing could make me leave,” I stressed, turning my head to where his mouth had been by my ear.

“Nothing?” he asked.

Somehow, I knew his eyes were on me.

“Nothing,” I reaffirmed.

“I can’t stop the ache in my chest, Chantel.” He paused for a moment.

I made a move to speak, but he continued before I could utter a single sound.

“When your parents said they want you to think about moving back to America, I felt like someone had pulled my heart out of my chest.”

“But—”

“Literally, it felt like someone reached in and ripped my heart out of my chest. I shouldn’t feel this possessive of someone. I know that in here,” he explains, tapping my head. “But, here in my heart and in my soul…Chantel, I don’t know what’s happened to me. I’m all twisted and consumed in my need with these fucked-up thoughts. If you leave, I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I’m not leaving you.” I tried to get through to him, but he wasn’t in the frame of mind to listen.

“Hearing them talk about you returning in several months made me crazy. I can’t let you go. You know that, right? I need you here.”

“I want and need to be here, Phillipe. Please,” I pleaded, “listen to what I’m telling you. Come back to me. Be strong with me. Trust me.”

“My heart aches for you,” he confessed, his voice dropping down, quiet and low. “I would die for you, and that terrifies me.”

I felt a shiver slide over my spine as I cradled his face in my palms. I had no words.

I was his.

***

Opening one of the articles my search revealed, I try not to flinch as the headline glares at me in accusation.

Tragic Accident or Tragic Betrayal?

By Michael London

I skim through the story and find myself cringing at certain questions from the journalist.

As my eyes continue down through the article, I see that it only gets worse. Words such as
tragic, horrifying
, and
deceptive
are littered throughout the whole piece.

Disgusted and annoyed at myself, I snap the laptop shut and push it away from my lap.

What am I doing?
I have been here long enough to know that if he wanted to hurt me, he would have. Right?

Even though Phillipe is warning me to leave and my brain is agreeing, for some reason, I know that I won’t. On the tail end of that realization is a startling one—
I can’t.

Not only am I determined to stay here to get this story and get it right, but I am also held here because of Phillipe and Chantel themselves.

Separately, they are fascinating individuals, both artistic in nature and both passionate about the other. Together, however, they are an irresistible force.

If it isn’t her written words, pulling me deeper into their relationship, it is his melodic retelling of their times together, hypnotizing me and inviting me into their lives.

Her music haunts me whenever I allow myself to play it. Before I came here, I made sure I was familiar with Chantel Rosenberg but not like this. Now, it feels as though she is a part of me.

It’s his paintings that move me more than everything else. They evoke a sensual side in me that I don’t yet fully understand. All I know is that when I look at them I feel things that I’ve never felt before.
He
makes me feel things I’ve never felt before.
What is it about Chateau Tibideau?
It’s like I arrived one way, and I know deep down in my soul that I will leave another.

As I get up from the bed, determined to go and find Phillipe, I am left wondering if that is how Chantel felt as well.

***

When he arrives at the studio, Phillipe is more than a little shocked to see that Gemma is already there. She is standing where she was at their last meeting several days before, but this time, she is holding a towel around her body.

It is immediately obvious to Phillipe that her mood is different. He isn’t surprised, considering the previous turn of events. He knows that he shouldn’t have pushed her the way he did the other night. The further she delved into Chantel’s journal, and by default his own life, the more he felt himself slipping. He is being dragged into his own desolate abyss, and he knows if she stays, he is going to pull her in, too.

So, the best thing he can do for Gemma is warn her and make her want to leave. Maybe then, they can just forget about this whole asinine idea.

What he doesn’t expect is to find her up here this morning, already disrobed, save for the towel, watching him as he walks into the room.

“Morning,” he tells her.

Her eyes follow his every move. She doesn’t say a word. She just keeps her gaze focused and her shoulders straight.

Ahh, so that’s how we are going to play today.

She’s annoyed with him and more than a little wary, but she isn’t giving an inch. She has decided to show up and give him strength.

“So, you’re not talking to me, Gemma? That’s not very mature, especially since I haven’t seen you for three days,” he muses.

Her green eyes narrow.

“Fair enough. Silence, it is,” Phillipe concedes, stepping behind the easel. “The violin is in the case.”

He tracks her movements as she walks over and unsnaps the case with one hand. Her aggravation only increases as she clutches the towel between her breasts while reaching in to lift the violin.

“You’re angry at me.”

With no response to his statement, he contemplates her honey-toned back as she makes her way to the spot illuminated by the soft light. After she situates herself, she removes the towel, revealing her smooth curvaceous breasts and hips. She has also pulled her hair into a high bun, wrapped with a red ribbon.

The loud color against her light hair is erotically sensual. It stands out like a warning sign.
One that I should heed myself
, he thinks. He has a feeling that Gemma is the final act in this life, which he’s already labeled a tragedy.

As she lowers herself into position, raising the violin to the same pose from only days before, Phillipe decides to leave her in her silence. If she wants to work that way, so be it, but he has to wonder if she knows just how loud that silence can actually be.

***

I didn’t come to the studio today with the intention of not talking to him. It just happened. When I arrived, I noticed he wasn’t up here yet. So, I got a towel and stripped off my clothes, determined to have the upper hand this time.

Too many times, this man has caught me off-guard, and I have to believe that is why I am allowing him to mess with my mind.

Maybe if I am the one to call the shots, if
I
am the one who holds the control, I won’t feel like I am constantly treading water around him. As it stands now though, I always feel like I am trying to keep my head above the inevitable force of the crashing waves, and it feels hopeless. He is dragging me under, just as he said he would, and I am letting him.
Not today though. Today, I want to watch and study him for a change.

There’s more to this story, and I will
not
let him drive me away until I get what I came for.

“So, you aren’t talking to me? Maybe I should just talk then, hmm?” he queries across the empty space.

I close my eyes as his low chuckle fills the tense silence, and I hate that my nipples peak and harden at his voice.

“Your nipples just got hard, Gemma. What are you thinking about?”

Refusing to rise to the bait, I grip the violin, siting as still as humanly possible.

“Well, maybe I should guess,” he continues.

I find vindication when I discover that he can’t seem to stand the silence. I feel as though I’m making him slightly uncomfortable, and I find that I like it.

“Maybe you’re thinking about the other night?” he questions.

I open my eyes, turning to lock them with his. I refuse to look away first.

At this moment, all I can see of him are his green eyes peering at me over the canvas. He’s sitting on a stool, so his hair is also visible, but I can’t see below his nose. Although it’s somewhat intimidating to be looked at like an object, I realize that I don’t mind being the object of
his
intense perusal.

“Is that it?” he queries in the absence of an answer. He raises a questioning brow. “So, I’m right? I’d love to know what
you
think happened up here that night. You want to know what I think happened?”

Closing my eyes and turning back to face the wall, I block out his all-knowing stare from my vision and let his voice drift over me.

“I think you woke up.”

My head turns, and my eyes snap open at that.
Damn him.

He lowers his eyes. “I think you finally saw me. Didn’t you, Gemma?”

Staring over to where he’s sitting focused on the painting in front of him, I will him to raise his eyes to mine, and he does.

“What did you do? Run upstairs afterward and look up every article ever written on me? If that’s the case, I wouldn’t talk to me either.” He stands and places his paintbrush down. “Well, you’ve seen me, Gemma. Maybe it’s time you saw her.”

I feel my eyes widen when I wonder what he means. I’m curious, so I finally speak. “How?”

He turns his head to face me. “Ahh, so now you speak?”

Heedless of my nudity, I stand and move to place the violin back in its case. It’s obvious he’s finished for the moment. Turning to him, I cross my arms over my chest, responding more from a natural reaction than one to cover myself.

“How?” I repeat, refusing to rise to his bait.

Realizing I am not going to answer his last question, he tilts his head to the side and steps out from behind the easel. Today, he’s wearing jeans with a rip at the knee and a black fitted, long-sleeved sweater. He looks dark and sinful, and I can’t help but find him sexy.

He walks over to me slowly. “Do you want to see
Armor
?”

I blink and lick my lips, giving myself time to think. I’ve seen
Armor
many times, but I have a feeling he means something more.
Maybe the original?
I can’t help it. I’m just as curious as he expects me to be.

Somehow, he knows how I feel about her. He’s worked it out. He knows I’m just as intrigued by Chantel as he was. So, I give him the only possible answer there could be.

“Yes.”

***

Wrapping the towel around myself, I follow him out of the studio and down the stairs. I steal a quick peek at the hanging picture and keep walking because he is moving fast.

In fact, he is walking so quickly that I almost miss the fact that he makes a sharp right at the end of the hall to the left of the stairs. Making my way down in the direction he headed, I look at the walls and catch sight of several paintings I have not yet seen. I want to stop and look at them, but I find that am more intrigued about what is at the end of the hall.

I haven’t been down to this end of the chateau. Usually, the large wooden door is closed, locking it off from the rest of the occupants. My mind suddenly catches up.
This is where his bedroom is.
I was standing outside of this part of the house that morning I saw him through his open window.