Blind Obsession (4 page)

“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 in the painting?

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, waiting for me to react. His lips part ever so slightly, and I feel my heart start to flutter as his right palm traces 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 stroke your hand over her 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 had done 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 had been 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
Thaïs
. Phillipe closes his eyes, picturing her.

***

Méditation
from
Thaïs ~ Massenet

Link:
http://blindobsessionbook.com/thais-meditation/

“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
Thaïs
haunts his very soul.

***

When I arrive at the studio at 10 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 from 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.”

As I cross one leg over the other, his eyes drop down to my legs. I have to remind myself that now is not the time.
He is not an option.
He is a job—an intimidating and intriguing job.

“Okay, so tell me. What did you show her the day she came back to the chateau?”

This is the first time I get a full-on wouldn’t-you-like-to-know smirk as he settles back in his chair.

“Would you like to rephrase that question and be a little more specific?” he questions, shutting his eyes.

I take the opportunity to watch his throat and mouth as he explains further.

“There were plenty of things I showed Chantel in the chateau, Gemma. So, depending on where you want to be, you need to be much more specific.” His tongue comes out to moistens his full bottom lip. “Then again, perhaps that’s exactly where you want to be after your indecision last night on the stairs, hmm…between Chantel and me?”

As my heart starts a rapid tattoo rhythm in my chest, I allow my eyes to move up to his face. I find he has one eye open, watching me.

He closes it and queries again. “No?”

Clearing my throat, I think quickly and rephrase my question. “Chantel writes that she is coming to see you the next day because you want to show her something. So, what did you show her when she arrived?”

***

She’s right on time
, he thought as he heard a sharp rap on the front door.

Chantel Rosenberg was punctual. He liked that about her.

Actually, he was starting to obsess about everything related to the intensely serious, gray-eyed woman he’d run into only days earlier.

He made his way down the large staircase and over to the door.

Opening it, his breath was once again taken away by her. Her raven hair had been left out today, fluttering around her shoulders. With legs displayed in black shorts, she was wearing a red blouse with short sleeves that cupped around her upper arms, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. He was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and stroke his finger across her naked collarbone. Her skin was incandescent.

“Right on time,” he said, dismissing his need to touch her.

“Well, you did tell me 10 a.m. Uncle Beau made sure I arrived on time.”

He smiled, moving aside. When she remained where she was standing, he berated himself silently. There were so many things he did unconsciously without realizing that she was not able to see him or understand his meaning. Luckily, this also meant that when he made these mistakes, he could quietly fix them.

“Will you come inside?” he asked, waiting as she moved the cane out in front of her.

Once she was happy, knowing the path was clear, she made her way to move by him. When she was directly beside him, she stopped and turned.

He didn’t know why, but he found himself holding his breath.

Those compelling eyes locked onto his face, and he wondered if she could see anything at all. He wanted desperately to ask her, but he had no idea if that was considered rude. So, he stood there, frozen.

She took in a deep breath and then let it out gently. “I like the way you smell.”

He grinned at her strange, soft confession as she took another deep breath. He leaned in, so his mouth was by her ear. “I like the way you look.” He blew a hot breath gently against her. “And the way you smell.”

She turned her head, so they were nose to nose. She breathed out, and he could taste her on his lips and tongue.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he admitted with a sigh.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I?” he responded, watching her pulse beat at the base of her throat.

She was nervous but excited, and he was ensnared.

Taking a small step back, she continued past him. He swallowed and closed his eyes as she stopped in the center of the foyer. He shut the door and carefully moved around, standing beside her.

She turned in his direction. “How old are you?”

Her hearing seemed to be extra sensitive. No matter where he was in the room, she moved in that direction, appearing to somehow sense him.

“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that he wasn’t really being fair.

He could
see
her, so he knew her approximate age. She, on the other hand, had no idea what he looked like or how old he might be. He got the impression that she liked it when he treated her as he would anyone else, so that was exactly what he planned to do.

“Well, no, I guess it doesn’t.” She paused, thinking about it. “Actually, yes. Yes, it does matter.”

He stepped closer to her. Reaching out, he moved to touch the ends of her hair, but he thought better of it, not wanting to startle her. “May I touch you?”

He watched closely as a smile tugged at her lips.

“You may…
if
you tell me how old you are.”

Hesitantly, he stroked the pads of his fingers across her naked collarbone. She took a swift breath.

“How old are you?” she asked again.

“I’m thirty-two. How old are you, Chantel?” he questioned, looking down to see her sightless eyes focused on his face. He knew instantly that if she could, she would be looking right at him.

“I’m twenty-six.”

Running his fingers along the bare skin across her shoulder, he inquired softly, “Am I too old for you?”