Blind Obsession (43 page)

His voice, soft and firm, he commands, “Turn around, Gemma.”

Licking my lips, I wonder about what he’s going to do.
Undress me? Take me on the floor in this very room, like he did that day weeks ago?
I can feel the heat from his body as he steps up close behind me. He wraps a large arm around my waist, smoothing his warm palm against my abdomen in a slow stroke.

Pulling me back against him until my shoulders connect with his chest, I sigh as his mouth moves to my ear.

In that deep smooth voice of his, he explains, “
Méditation
from
Thaïs
.”

I try to decipher what he’s saying as his warmth radiates through me. I lean my head back, now resting on his shoulder, as I turn to see him looking at me intently.

“This song use to haunt me every time I heard it. It reminded me of her.”

His eyes move to the paintings in front of us, and I follow his gaze to the images on display.

“The song seems very sad,” I acknowledge softly.

“It used to be…” He confirms and pauses. “Until you. Everything is changing, yet it’s still the same…because of you.”

His arm loosens from around my waist, and his warmth leaves me. I look over my shoulder to see him standing a step away from me. Turning, I move to him, but he takes another step back.

Stopping, I tilt my head. “Phillipe?”

His jaw clenches as his eyes glance behind me to the wall. He is staring at
her
. This time, I’m not upset by it. This time, I know what he’s doing. He’s seeking permission. He’s trying to decide if being with me will somehow betray her, and he’s doing that because he cares. My heart swells right along with the melody as I reach out. This time, he takes my hand in his.

“Phillipe?” I plead, trying to get through to him. I try to make him understand.

His eyes come back to me as I pull him forward. Slowly, he moves, eyes locked with mine.

I place my palm to his cheek. “It’s okay,” I tell him. Moving forward, I kiss his lips. “I love her, too.”

With that whispered confession, his binds seem to break. His large hands grip my waist as he tugs me that final inch closer. I mold my body to his as his hands run up my back. The eyes that now look down at me are full of anguish and agony as I run my hand across his cheek to his hair. Threading my fingers through the silky strands, I feel a shiver rack his body as his eyes slide close.

“Phillipe,” I call to him again, keeping him in the moment. “Stay with me. Look at me.”

Something in my words break through because those eyes I love open. They focus, and I can’t help myself from saying exactly what I’m feeling.

“I love you.”

Shaking his head, he clenches his jaw. Those full lips pull into a tight scowl, and for the first time since I met him, he looks unsure and defeated. Bringing up the hand resting on his shoulder, I touch my index finger to the lips he’s pulled tight.

“Does that scare you?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares down at me, his hands tight on my waist. I tighten my hand in his hair and pull. Those wicked eyes of his finally appear and narrow as his lips part on a ragged breath of air. Suddenly, I know. I’ve hit it. I’ve been tiptoeing around the issue, and now, I know that as soon as my foot falls on the landmine, he is going to explode.

“Are you afraid because I love you?”

His eyes run over my hair, my eyes, and finally my mouth.

Licking my lips, I take the final leap. “Or because you love me, too?”

That’s when his fingers dig into my waist, and his mouth crashes down onto mine. Strong lips collide with mine. He kisses me in a way designed to punish, but I know it isn’t me he’s punishing. Grasping his hair, I pull his head forward and rise up on my toes to get as close to him as I can. I hear an anguished groan rumble up through his chest, and I take the painful cry into my mouth.

Closing my eyes, I feel him shaking against me as I grip his shoulder tight. I rub my body up against him, begging him to take what he needs from me.

Hands firm and strong move up the curve of my back to the zipper resting between my shoulder blades. I tremble as he slowly lowers it down my spine. Lifting his mouth from my swollen lips, he keeps his gaze locked with mine. His warm palm slips inside the dress and parts the fabric away from my skin. Without a word, he nudges it gently, so the straps fall from my shoulders. Releasing my hold from him, I take a step back, lowering my arms. Turning around, I present him with my back, waiting for him to pull the dress off of me.

Closing my eyes, I feel the moisture pooling between my thighs. My body shakes in anticipation of his hands on me, but as I stand there staring up at Chantel, I hear footsteps and then the loud crash of a door slamming shut.

That’s when the full weight of truth falls over me. As I wrap my arms around my waist in an effort not to shatter into a million pieces, I am left standing in the showroom with the only other woman in the world who lost her heart to Phillipe Tibideau.

Final  Impressions

It has been a little more than seven months since I left the chateau. It’s been a little more than seven months since I have seen or heard from the man I left behind.

When I returned to the States, I was given a deadline of two months. I had two months to somehow make sense of everything I had learned while staying in Bordeaux, France.

At first, I found it extremely difficult to sit down and write a tale of two people so obviously in love, knowing where the story would eventually lead. However, in the end, I discovered that in writing it down and telling the world, I once again found myself that much closer and connected to them both.

It’s Friday night and has just turned 6 p.m., I stand in my room, slipping into a golden cocktail gown I purchased for the evening. As I turn my back to the full-length mirror, I look over my shoulder and let my eyes trail down my spine to my most recent addition. There, on the lower curve of my back, are two perfect F-holes, stark in their inky boldness against my pale skin.

Every Friday evening, I now go out to the local theater to watch the city’s orchestra. I have developed quite an intense obsession with classical music. As soon as I returned home from France, I purchased season tickets to the local symphony.

Hiding my secret away from the rest of the world, I zip up the gown. I slip my heels on and make my way to the front door. I reach out and open it to find a short, stocky man standing there with a large rectangular box, resting against the wall.

He glances down at a clipboard he has in his hand and then looks back at me. “Are you Gemma Harris?”

Nodding, I frown and tilt my head. “How can I help you?”

“I was told to deliver this to you,” he informs me, holding out the clipboard.

Once again, I find myself looking over to the box marked
Fragile
.

“I didn’t order anything,” I explain, looking at the work order. Nothing on the page gives me any clue as to what is inside the package.

“Oh, I know, ma’am. This was shipped in late last night from a gallery over in France. We were told to go ahead and deliver it to you as soon as it arrived, no matter the charge.” He chuckles. “Looks like someone bought you a very nice gift. Do you want me to bring it inside for you?”

Moving aside, I tell him softly, “You can just put it in here by the door.”

Leaning down, he picks up the piece and shuffles it into the foyer. After he places it against my living room wall, he smiles and tips his cap at me. Returning his friendly grin with one of my own, I close the door, locking it tight. Leaning my back up against it, I stare at the rectangular box that is now leaning against the wall inside my small apartment.

A gallery in France?
It has to be from him. Of course, it is.
Who else do I know that lives in France that would send me—well, send me what? A painting?

Forgetting all about the symphony, I kneel down in front of the box and run my hand over the brown surface. When I realize I need scissors, I stand and run into the kitchen. After returning to the mysterious box, I cut through the binding and slice through the tape.

When I finally rip apart the cardboard, I’m greeted with a lot of bubble wrap. Untangling and unwrapping, I tear through the padding at record speed. When I finally get to the framed image, I’m almost relieved that it’s facing the wrong way.

I kneel back down in front of the painting as my heart races a million miles an hour.
What am I going to see when I turn it around?
Is it a painting of
her
? Maybe it’s one of the prints. A copy of one of the six?
I have no clue.

As I reach out to turn it, I notice a small envelope down in the left corner. It’s taped to the back of the frame. Scrawled across the smooth white paper is my name in the same handwriting painted on the plaque by his house.

I take the envelope and open it. Pulling out the small card inside, I flip it over. I find I’m holding my breath as I stare down at the words printed so eloquently in black pen.

For the lady we never let go of.

Blind Obsession

You are both mine.

P.

Biting my bottom lip, I can feel the tears threatening to spill over my eyes as I sit reading those words over and over. Leaving that day so many months ago was something that would stay with me for as long as I lived. Pulling the card close to my heart, I let myself think back to that final day at Chateau Tibideau.

***

The sun was shining, and the day was perfect.

I remember standing outside the chateau on the gravel drive, waiting for Phillipe to come and say good-bye to me.

I was still raw from the night before when he had walked away from me.

As I look back now, I can understand why he did what he did.

He didn’t want to make things harder than they already were. Although how that could have been possible, I wasn’t sure. As soon as I felt him move up beside me, my heart cracked and splintered just a fraction more. I looked up at him as he stood there beside me. He was dressed in black wool slacks and a hunter green sweater. His profile was one that I would never forget. Just over his shoulder, I saw the plaque that I had seen on my very first day here. Reaching over, I dared to touch his arm one last time.

He turned his head, looking down at me. His green eyes were distant and devoid of any emotion. The man once again locked himself away, and there was nothing I could do to help him.

Instead, I asked softly, “What does that mean?”

He looked over his shoulder before turning back to me. “Les vrais paradis sont les paradis qu’on a perdus.” His voice was so smooth and deep.

I realized in that moment just how much I would miss it. I nodded at him as he turned to look back out at the vineyards.

“It means,
The
true paradises are paradises we have lost
.”

Staring up at him, I willed him to look at me one more time, but he did not. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, and I felt the dismissal and distance more than I ever had before.

Moving down the steps, I made my way to the small red Toyota that I had rented and climbed inside. I refused to cry in front of him, but as I pulled away, I wiped tears that had finally escaped from my eyes.

As I drove farther down the gravel path, I looked in my rearview mirror to see a haunted man staring back at me and as my gaze moved to the top window, I could have sworn that I once again saw the curtain move. I knew I was leaving him where his heart was—in the chateau that was slowly crumbling into the ground but rested only miles from the place where he’d lost his soul many months before.

I left him there with her.

***

I place the card down on the carpet beside me and reach out a trembling hand. Pulling the picture out of the box, I move to grip the other side and turn it to face me. Sitting back on my heels, I stare silently at the image looking back at me.

There, seated on the soft chair that he sat in up in his studio, is me. He painted
me
in the dress I had worn that final night. I had my legs crossed, and I was sitting opposite a mirror.

I move in closer to trace over the image he so patiently and, as far as I can see, lovingly created. That’s when I notice the image in the mirror. He painted me looking away from the distorted reflection, but as my eyes zoom in to look at every tiny detail, I notice the hair is darker. In fact, it is black, and the face is slightly different as well. He managed to capture me and
her
in one painting with Diva resting by my feet.

I am entranced, and as my eyes become misty, I grip my hands in my lap and let the tears stream down my cheeks. I cry for everything I learned during my months with him, and as I stare at the painting before me—painted by a man I can tell is so obviously in love—I cry for everything we cannot be.

Wiping the tears from my face, I blink twice, clearing my vision. That’s when I see, down in the bottom right corner, one of the most famous signatures in the world scrawled beneath two simple lines.

Love looks not with the eyes

but with the mind.

The very words
she
gave to him. As I sit there alone in my apartment, I let my mind drift a million miles away to the place where I left my heart.

Into the empty room I’m left kneeling in, I whisper, “I love you, too.”

BLIND OBSESSION