Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

Welcome to Blind Obsession, my first erotic novel.

Not only is the novel my first erotica, it is also the first time I have linked a book to music and pictures in the hopes of creating an enhanced experience for you, the reader.

My goal is to immerse you in this book by giving you the opportunity to view the images and hear the music that is discussed.

I have included a web link at the top of specific chapters. These links take you directly to the Blind Obsession Interactive Companion Site and to a site that has paintings, music and links to purchase each piece, insights into each of the characters and a look behind the Chateau and the book itself.

If you are able to, I urge you to listen to each musical composition, so you can experience the full effect of what Blind Obsession has to offer. Or if you prefer please feel free to log in and see the site at the end of the book at; http://blindobsessionbook.com/

 At its core, this novel is about the amazing power of the senses that we, as humans, possess. Sight and sound are the two I hope to bring to you. So, without further ado, I bring you Blind Obsession. I hope you enjoy.

XX,

Ella

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word marks mentioned in this work of fiction; William Shakespeare ~ A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Helen Keller. Thais:Meditation ~ Massenet, Canon In D Major ~ Pachelbel, Adagio for Strings ~ Samuel Barber, Air ~ Johann Sebastian Bach, Lux Aeterna ~ Clint Mansell, Winter (The Four Seasons) ~ Vivaldi

This book is dedicated to one of the most supportive partners-in-crime I have ever had while writing a book. She does so much to assist and support, that I truly cannot believe I have only known her for such a short amount of time. You know who you are and I appreciate every, read through, picture choosing, music playing, dirty word discussion we have had. Without you, this book would still be in my head and nowhere close to finished.

And as always, for my husband. There are no words to express what you mean to me. I love you.

Xx Ella

Arrival

Chateau Tibideau. I’ve heard so much about this place and the man who lives here.

Nestled against rows of lush, plump grapevines, the sprawling old manor is slowly crumbling into the ground a little more each day. As the sun begins to dip below the hills of Bordeaux, France, a stunning golden hue sweeps across the skyline, highlighting the magnificence of the chateau in all its fading glory.

It’s fading because the owner has closed the gates. He’s stopped producing the wine that was once exported from here, and he’s refused visitors ever since—well, ever since his world exploded all over the media front.

Standing beside my little rented Toyota with my laptop bag slung over my shoulder, I look up at the second story window of the main house. I notice a heavy black curtain shift and move almost as if someone has taken a step away from peering out of it.

Taking a calming breath, I remind myself, I was invited here. He reached out to me.

He is a man so private and so isolated from the outside world that no one has seen or heard from him in months, ever since he was hounded relentlessly about his involvement in the tragic events that had unfolded here. That, of course, all came on the heels of the acclaim he had received over his artwork, which had catapulted him into the public eye in the first place.

His artwork includes a series of paintings that have been revered as, and I quote, “an alluring mixture of dark eroticism enhanced now by its devastatingly haunting sadness,” end quote. With all of that praise, one would think that the artist would be available and forthcoming for interviews, but Mr. Phillipe Tibideau has disappeared. He’s vanished from the spotlight.

It’s easy to understand why. Rumors have swirled about the man whenever he is in a room. They have even surfaced when he is nowhere in sight. Peace seems to be a very distant friend for this man who was once one of the most public and famous faces in the world.

Gathering up my courage, I walk forward and knock twice on the large wooden door. Taking a step back, I wait patiently for someone to answer. I glance over to the left where a black plaque is mounted on the wall with a quote written in intricate gold paint.

It reads, Les vrais paradis sont les paradis qu’on a perdus.

My French is certainly nowhere near good enough to translate that, so I pull out the little notepad from my overstuffed laptop bag and write down, Ask about plaque. Just as I put the notepad away, the old door opens, and a small white-haired lady steps forward with a smile.

“Mademoiselle Harris?” she questions.

My American last name sounds so foreign with the French accent.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here to meet with Mr. Tibideau,” I inform her.

She stands aside, ushering me in. Taking a step forward into the large foyer, the first thing I see is the grand staircase to my left. It wraps up the curved wall, which is what I presume is the turret I could see from outside.

What an amazing place to live, is my initial thought. As my eyes glance around the room, they take in several pieces of artwork hanging from every wall. They are so stunningly breathtaking that I start to feel as though I’m in a museum.

Waiting for me to finish my obvious admiration of the place she calls home, the little lady beside me clears her throat, regaining my attention.

Gesturing up the stairs I was just admiring, she informs me in her strongly accented voice, “Mr. Tibideau is waiting for you upstairs in his studio.”

She turns and walks away in the opposite direction, leaving me to look around the room again as I make my way to the staircase.

Reaching out, I place my hand on the old worn banister, tracing the cracks in the wood, as I slowly take the steps one at a time. On the wall closest to me is a painting I’ve seen before but only in prints. As I stand before what I believe is a life-size replica or perhaps the original, I am instantly compelled by it. Although the room I am standing in is completely silent, there’s something about the image that screams out to me. In fact, the only thing I can consciously hear is my breathing and the slight creak of the floorboards every time I take a step.

The painting is absolutely captivating. I can’t even begin to describe how the artist has managed to make each brushstroke feel as though you are actually touching the woman in pose. Instantly, you’re aware that the person who painted her so lovingly had stroked his hands over the naked flesh he so beautifully captured.

Shifting my feet a little, I find myself almost uncomfortable to be standing in someone’s house—no, not someone’s house, his house—staring at this image, and feeling so moved and completely mesmerized by it.

Slowly looking over the painting, I tear my eyes away from the supple perfection of her nude posterior, stopping at the curve of her right cheek where it meets her thigh. Reaching out, I move to trace it with my fingers, but at the last minute, I pull my hand back. Admonishing myself, I turn on the step, determined to be on my way, although I can’t help but take one more quick look at the painting. I wonder about the violin that is being held by the woman to cover a portion of herself. I know it is hers, but what message is the artist trying to convey?

Pulling out my notepad, I write that question down, too. Does the violin represent more than just a violin? Putting the pad back, I make my way up the final steps. I look around and notice the door to the left is open. Taking a deep breath while I move toward it, I step inside and find a room shrouded in darkness. Narrowing my eyes, I search the space.

When my eyes finally focus, they are drawn to a man sitting in a small chair in the corner of the room. It isn’t easy to spot him right off, and I understand why.

From what I can make out, he’s dressed from head to toe in dark clothing. One of his long legs is bent, with his ankle propped up on the knee of his other leg. Stepping into what I have now determined is his studio, my eyes squint as he flicks on a lamp sitting on the table beside him.

While my eyes adjust to the soft glow of the light, I’m suddenly face to face with a man the world dubbed nearly a year ago as the most beautiful man. That headline, however, has been replaced with ones that read along the lines of, Beautiful? Or Beautifully Terrifying?

“Mademoiselle Harris?” he inquires.

His voice heats me like the burn of smooth whiskey.

I watch carefully as he unfolds his large body from the plush-looking chair. As he moves toward me, I track him crossing the studio space. Instantly, I forget my own name.

It isn’t hard to know why. He moves with such elegance for a tall man. He easily tops six-foot which places him perhaps at around six-foot-four.

When he stops in front of me, he holds out his hand. This is a natural introduction for two people about to begin a business relationship. So, why am I holding my breath? Reaching out, I slide my hand into his, marveling at the paint flecked on his fingers and embedded under the blunt nails on his hands.

“Yes, Mr. Tibideau, but you can call me Gemma,” I reply.

A small smile barely touches his lips as he nods.

For a moment, I try to push aside all I have heard, and I look at him objectively. The man has the most sensual eyes I’ve ever seen. They have a come-to-my-bedroom quality all on their own. Once you add in the full, pouty lips and sexy little dimple on his chin—not to mention, the dark brown hair that falls haphazardly like he has run his hands through it—then you have the most beautiful man in the world. Or, if you believe the other stories, you have a beautiful monster.

“Well, in that case, Gemma, I insist you call me Phillipe. After all, you are about to know me very well, no?”

Heat rises in my cheeks as I try not to act embarrassed. I remind myself, I’m a professional.

“I suppose you are right,” I manage to say, unable to think of anything else at the moment.

He lets go of my hand and turns silently, walking over to the only window in the studio. I’m left standing in the doorway, feeling oddly bereft.

The window with the French provincial shutters is closed and I watch intently as he unlatches and pushes them open. He then takes a moment to slide his hands into his perfectly tailored pants as he looks out of them.

Looking around, I spot a small table and chair over to the left. “Should I set up over here then?”

Turning, he looks to where I’m standing. “Yes. I had the table brought up here for you. I figured this room is probably the best place to conduct these sessions.” He pauses as he turns back to look out at the now darkened sky. “This is where I am most comfortable.”

Walking over to the small desk, I place my bag down and remove my laptop from its case. Turning back around, I see he still has his back to me. I try to control my erratic heartbeat as it thumps nervously in my chest. I need to calm down. This man can either make or break my career. As I stare at him, trying to forget all the things other people have warned me about, I can’t seem to stop my heart from racing.

For several months now, journalists from every form of media have been trying—and failing—to get Mr. Tibideau to tell his side of the rumored story as well as share the inspiration behind each of his paintings. Somehow, I, Gemma Harris, have been chosen.

I finish setting up my things as he finally turns back to face me, moving to the chair that’s situated under the soft lamplight. Taking a seat silently, his eyes never waver from mine. He’s intimidating as hell, but instead of making me nervous, it makes me more determined. I’m determined to get the story I came looking for.

Looking away from him, I pull out the chair he’s provided, turn it to face him, and sit down.