Blind Obsession (7 page)

He sits there silently as he waits for the final question.

“Would you say they were right? Were you obsessed with Chantel Rosenberg?”

Phillipe lets the question linger in the air while her foot begins to tap nervously. She starts to flick her pen against the notepad. Finally, he uncrosses his legs and stands, making his way over to the window.

“Do you know why I love this window so much?” he asks as he looks over his shoulder.

“No,” she immediately replies.

“This is where I first saw her,” he explains, turning back to face the woman who is watching him with intense, smart eyes—the same eyes that saw too much this morning. “This was the window that I looked out of when my life changed.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he closes his eyes and tells her what she wants to know.

“Obsession, as defined by the dictionary, means
the domination of one’s thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire.
” Phillipe opens his eyes and focuses intently on Gemma, who now has a crease between her brows as she frowns at him in concentration. “What do you think? Do you think Chantel dominated my thoughts and feelings?”

She swallows once, and boldly, she tells him, “Yes.” As she chews her bottom lip more in thought than from nerves, she blinks slowly. “You painted several images of her. You dedicated a whole
collection
to her. If that isn’t obsession or persistent desire, I don’t know what is.”

Pushing away from the window, Phillipe walks over and stops by her desk. He reaches out and fingers the journal that is sitting there.

Gemma turns, glancing down at his hand, before she looks back up to face him.

“A lot of people talk about
my
obsession—my unhealthy need for Chantel. Everyone focuses on the images, the haunting beauty, and the eroticism behind my obsession.”

Picking up the journal, he holds it out to her. She flinches back at the unexpected move, and then she reaches out slowly to take it from him. As her fingers grip the leather, he leans down until they are eye to eye.

With firm resolution, he explains, “No one knows that the obsession went both ways. What would they do if they read pages of journal entries where each entry was dedicated in precise detail to a moment in time—
our
moments in time?”

Standing up straight, he releases the book and makes his way to the studio door. “If there was obsession here—a dominant persistent desire—then it was the desire to lose ourselves in one another. The only problem is that one person is now lost, and the other is trapped.”

Taking one last look at the now silent Gemma, he turns and walks out. As he leaves, he softly mutters, “Good night.”

***

I sit in the silence he left behind, shaking slightly, as I hold the journal he just relinquished. He is right, of course. No one knows that Chantel Rosenberg wrote a journal. No one knows that she was just as hungry to know Phillipe as he obviously was to know her.

What must it be like to be craved that way? To return that feeling with such ferocity?

Letting out a sigh, I put the notepad on the desk. I wonder if a time would come when he wouldn’t leave after spending thirty minutes in a room with me, but I know it isn’t me he is running from. It is
her
.

I look at the empty page that is mocking me. I haven’t written down a single thing from this evening’s session. In all honesty, I turned on my small recorder because I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to function as I sat here and stared at him. After this morning, I can’t help from seeing him that way—naked and hard. So, I came prepared, knowing I would be frozen.

Good thing too because this evening’s episode was intense. Turning off the lamp, I make my way over to his side table, and I can’t help myself from reaching out to stroke the chair he was sitting in. He seemed so lost, yet at times, he was also so present and angry.

Is he what people say he is? Did his obsession ruin a perfect relationship?

I have no clue, but I want to find out. Although he is intense and sometimes frightening in his fierce and passionate nature, I don’t fear for my safety.

No, if anything
, I muse as I make my way to my room and into bed,
I fear for his
.

***

Cravings ~

I want Phillipe. There—I typed it.

Why can’t I stop thinking about him? And why don’t I want to?

Every minute I’m away from him, I find myself counting down the hours until we’re together. I need to be near him again, so I can find a way to somehow touch him. I need to touch his soft but strong skin that is so warm under my fingers. I find myself wanting to stroke those muscles and trace them with my tongue.

I don’t want it to be just fantasies anymore.

I want the flesh.

I’m starting to crave it.

He told me yesterday that he wants to paint me in some kind of series. He also told me it would be something so beautiful that the world would weep. He told me it would be perfect—perfect like I am.
Ha!
I laughed at that. I’m not perfect, not in any way.

When I pointed out that I am greatly flawed, he insisted that I was crazy and that was only one of the things that made me beautiful.

So, I agreed with the condition that he called his series
Beautifully Flawed
and not some cheesy, sad
Beauty Is Skin Deep
garbage. Again, he just laughed, and I knew whatever he ended up naming it, would fit perfectly.

I told him that I want to show him something tomorrow. He acted like a petulant child all day, trying to get me to spill my secret, but I told him that he must wait.

Tomorrow, I’m going to introduce him to my best friend, Diva.

He seemed worried. He shouldn’t be.

In fact, I think he’s going to love her.

***

Closing the journal, I lean over and place it gently on the bedside table. Switching off the lamp, I lie there in silence and try to picture the playful and pouty man Chantel describes. While Phillipe is not rude or mean, he certainly doesn’t laugh or joke in the way she portrays him.

I guess that’s something that belongs to just you, Miss Rosenberg. That is yours alone, along with his flawed heart.

I find myself also wondering about Chantel.

With every journal entry, she is becoming increasingly intoxicated by Phillipe. The more time she spends with him, the more she seems to be falling under his spell. Just like me, she can’t seem to explain why.

I close my eyes, and once again, I picture Phillipe naked and hard, violently trying to pleasure himself. Reaching under the covers, I cup my sex and roll over, squeezing my thighs tight.

No.
I will not fall prey to a second session of confusing fantasies that involve Phillipe Tibideau and the woman who is his dark obsession.

Chapter Five ~ Revelations

Day Five

I have been instructed to meet Phillipe down at the arbor this morning.

This is a part of the chateau that I have yet to visit. As I walk down the pebbled path, I find myself instantly enchanted by the birds I hear singing.
This place really is a slice of paradise.
It seems so untouched, yet at the same time, it has footprints—footprints of the past—all over it.

As I reach the end of the path, I find a bench nestled up against one of the large trees. Its branches are leaning over to cover the sitting area. I make my way over to the stone bench and notice there’s a passage engraved on it. When I’m finally close enough to read it, I notice it’s in English.

Love looks not with the eyes

but with the mind,

and, therefore, is winged cupid painted blind.

My heart clenches as the meaning and impact of the words hit me. Chateau Tibideau is full of Chantel. It’s bursting at the seams with the imprints and images of a woman who is no longer here.

I look up into the branches and spot several little yellowhammer birds hopping around from branch to branch. I catch myself smiling as they twitter and jump back and forth. The sun is shining down and filtering through the leaves, warming me as I take a seat on the bench. I don’t know what to expect today, but I do know one thing for certain. I need to make Phillipe understand that for me to write this story—
his
story—he needs to trust me, and that means not leaving every time things get difficult, or in his case, personal.

The crunch of the gravel alerts me to look down the path where I see him striding toward me. He has his usual wool slacks on today. This time, they’re navy in color, and he’s matched it with a cream knit pullover. The combination is quite easily the most attractive outfit I’ve seen on a man, yet it’s so simple. So, perhaps it’s not the outfit but the man himself.

As he gets closer, he slides his large hands into his pants pockets. I have noticed that this is a habit of his, revealing when he seems uncomfortable or doesn’t want to be somewhere. In this instance, he doesn’t seem to want to be here with me.

When he stops in front of me, I stand, but he shakes his head gently, indicating that I should stay seated. I settle back down on the bench as he moves to the opposite side of the shaded area.

The air has a nice cool bite to it this morning, but the sun is warm enough, so the wind doesn’t chill to the bone. This time of the year seems to be perfect here.

“You found your way down here alright?” he asks with an arched brow.

I cross my leg, one over the other. “Yes, thank you. I just asked Penelope.”

Looking right at me, he asks without preamble, “Are you ready to start?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you in a hurry?”

His whole body stiffens as he straightens. “No. No hurry, Gemma. I’d just rather get this over with.”

I think about that for a moment as I stand. Placing the notepad on the bench, I clasp my hands in front of myself. “Well, doesn’t that defeat the whole point of this?” I ask, starting to get a little bit annoyed by his attitude.

I understand his reluctance to talk to reporters. I’m aware of the delicate nature of the issues we are covering, but this man asked me—
me
—to come here and report the story. It’s a little bit hard to do that if he doesn’t want to tell me any of it.

“Doesn’t what defeat the purpose, Miss Harris?”

There he goes again, referring back to my surname, trying to get a rise out of me. Taking one step forward, I gather my courage. “Isn’t the purpose of me staying here and living under
your
roof for me to interview you? To ask what happened in your life? To learn what happened in hers?”

At the mere mention of
her,
his shoulders become even more impossibly stiff.

“I can’t tell your story with any kind of accuracy if you do not trust me,” I tell him, raising my chin.

When he moves, his eyes narrow on me. Like an experienced predator, he slowly prowls across the pebbled space. With each step, the stones crunch beneath his booted feet, and I have to admit that I find it difficult not to retreat.

I’m not one who is usually shy or withdrawn. I’m by no means prudish by nature or inexperienced. Yet I feel a shiver of apprehension slide up my spine while I stand in front of this man, watching his sensual green eyes look me over from my black flats and slacks to my blue cowl-neck sweater that dips down between my breasts.

Stopping before me, he reaches out a hand toward my face. I swallow and hold my breath as his large fingers brush against my cheek. He hasn’t done more than trace his fingers along my skin, but I can feel my breathing deepen as my nipples harden.

I want him.

I want him with such an unexpected ferocity that I barely stop myself from begging him to rip off my clothes and fuck me right where we stand.

What the hell is the matter with me?

I clench my jaw, tilting my face up to look him in the eye.

“You want me to trust you, you say?” he asks.

That deep melodic voice slides inside of me and travels down to the aroused flesh between my thighs.

I swallow again. “Yes.” Then, with a little more force, I tell him, “Yes, I want you to trust me. That’s the only way this will work.”

His eyes scrutinize my face in a way that makes me think he’s memorizing every little thing about me. Suddenly, I’m worried that he might find me lacking. I’m frightened that he is comparing me to her, and I might inevitably come up short.

***

Phillipe traces his fingers down Gemma’s cheek, along her jawline, and finally, he slides the back of his fingers down her throat. When he reaches the neck of her sweater, he slips a finger inside and touches along the curve where it dips down low, leaving the material to hang loosely between her breasts. Suddenly, he wants to see those breasts naked.

Gemma ceases talking. She is standing so still that he can barely tell she’s breathing as she lets her eyes drop to his mouth. He can tell she’s curious but oh so cautious
.
Her eyes can’t lie though. Her eyes are telling him that she wants to fuck, and she wants to fuck hard.

Well, I can accommodate her
, Phillipe thinks as he slides his hand around behind her neck, pulling her forward.

She stumbles and places her hands up on his chest. He can feel her nails as she flexes her fingers for better purchase.

“You want my trust?” he demands.

This time, he slides his free hand down between their bodies to cup her sex. He watches her mouth part on a needy moan, and instead of answering, she nods.

“I don’t trust journalists,” he tells her, grinding his palm against her hot covered pussy.

“Then, how—”

“Shh, Gemma.”

She immediately complies.