Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

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.

Just as I get to the end of the hall, he appears from around the corner. I stop immediately, slightly shocked because I didn’t expect him to come back from where he went.

“It’s down here,” he tells me.

All of a sudden, every single fear I have determinedly pushed aside into the little you-are-crazy box comes flooding back.

“Down where?” I ask hesitantly.

Smiling so slow and iniquitous, he lifts a hand, crooking a finger at me.

“Come with me, Gemma,” he invites.

His tone is so seductive he’s managed to make me forget I’m apprehensive and the fact that I’m standing in just a towel. I feel as though he’s hypnotizing me.

“What’s down there?” I probe, cursing the fact that my voice is trembling.

Nothing prepares me for the answer he gives.

“Chantel.”

* * *

Phillipe can tell by the look on her face that she’s about to flee.

Gemma’s eyes have widened, and her breathing has picked up to rapid pants.

“I don’t understand,” she tells him, clutching the towel to her breasts.

He takes a step toward her and holds out his hand. “You don’t have to. Come with me, Gemma.”

Her eyes move from his hand to his face. Considering all the tumultuous emotions that are currently running through him, Phillipe makes sure that his expression gives nothing away. When she reaches out and places her shaking palm into his, he’s shocked by the trust she is now extending to him.

He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes them. When he tugs her toward him, she is hesitant, but she moves forward.

He lowers his mouth down to her ear, teasing her softly. “You want to see this, Gemma. I know you do.”

She turns her head, so their eyes meet, and he can see the curiosity burning there.

“How do you know?” she questions, seeming desperate in her need for an answer.

“Because, like me, you find her fascinating. You’re consumed by her, aren’t you? I can see it every time I talk about her.” He pauses, moving his head so their lips are now touching. “It’s okay, Gemma. I did whatever I had to, just to be near her. I wanted her with every breath I took.”

* * *

I can’t breathe. My heart is pumping and my head is roaring from the rapid blood flow. As he stands there, whispering dark seductive words against my lips, I feel like I will pass out from the lack of oxygen.

That’s when I am offered a reprieve.

Phillipe removes his lips from mine and takes a small step back, still holding my hand. He pulls me forward with each backward step he takes. He stops at the large wooden door, much like the one blocking this part of the house, and he reaches back to twist the knob.

I wait as it slowly swings open, and he is moving again. He turns, keeping my hand in his own, as he walks through the entryway.

Where the hell is he taking me? The thought is screaming in my mind.

As I cross the threshold, I watch as he descends down a dark staircase, and immediately, I have visions of words from articles—tragic, horrifying, deceptive. Instead of doing the smart thing and leaving, I follow him blindly down into the darkness.

He stood in water, hip deep, as rain hit the back of his neck where his wet shirt clung to him. All he felt was numb.

“Wake up,” he pleaded. “Come on. It’s time to wake up.”

Eyes of gray opened. Eyes that held his soul focused as a small smile touched lips of red.

* * *

As I follow Phillipe one step at a time down the dark stone stairwell, I can’t help but wonder at my sanity. I can feel my hand as it trembles in his.

Again, I ask, “What’s down here, Phillipe?”

He stops halfway down the stairs and turns to look back at me. “I told you.”