I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Like she wrote, Phillipe Tibideau’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding dark looks made him a solid favorite when it came to magazine sales. One minute, no one heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.

He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist, who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man who every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wants her.

It all begins and consequently ends with Chantel Rosenberg.

* * *

The gala was at 7:30 p.m.

I was sitting up in the studio, waiting on him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready while I had done the same.

I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He’d told me that my complexion and my dark hair reminded him of Snow White.

It was ironic because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.

Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.

For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.

* * *

I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room. I move over to the light switch I saw him turn on the other day. The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls. This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, feeling it stronger than before.

Making my way over to the sound system, I look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different: CR-Canon in D, CR-Requiem for a Dream (Lux Aeterna), CR-Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Winter). This is her collection. This is her.

I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye. Pulling it out, I read the label, CR-Air. I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious. That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius. The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.

Putting the CD in the player, I hit play and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.

Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice now surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it is her.

“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.” Her voice filters through the speakers.

Reaching up, I clutch my throat. My very own breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.

“Come and get it.”

“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”

“Yes, but now, I want you to come here.”

“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”

Straining with every fiber of my being, I listen to every single second of this intimate moment caught in time. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet in this particular moment caught in time, it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.

“Play for me.”

She starts playing.

The room fills with one of the most famous melodies in the world. With absolute clarity, the piece permeates the air so smoothly that there isn’t one part that feels rushed or mechanical. As each rise ebbs and flows seamlessly, it is almost surreal that I find myself likening it to the tides of water flowing downstream.

Chantel plays the piece with such passion that I can only sum it up as this: If the notion of sublime were to take musical form, this is what you would hear.

* * *

Air ~ Johann Sebastian Bach

Link: http://blindobsessionbook.com/air-johann-sebastian-bach/

Phillipe has been gone all afternoon. After Gemma left, he decided that he wanted some time to think. Things are not going as planned. Originally, he wanted Gemma to come to the chateau, read the journal, ask her questions, and write her story.

However, like the way everything else seems to be turning out for him as of late, it is not going according to plan. Instead, he’s finding Gemma extremely hard to resist, especially when she’s imitating or replicating Chantel. In his mind, it’s becoming more and more difficult to differentiate between the two. Both women seem to be merging into one, and it’s now almost impossible for him to stay away.

This evening, he makes the decision to go to her. He knows that Gemma has gone back down to study the paintings, and he has a feeling that he will find her there.

As he makes his way down the stairs, he can hear music playing. Air, he thinks immediately. Stopping two steps from the bottom, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes, remembering that day. He knows that, at the beginning of the recording, he captured her for a moment.

When she first left him, he sat down in the showroom with that particular piece playing on a continuous loop. But now?

He remembers he hid it away because it’s been months since he’s heard her play this.

Taking the last two steps, he expects to see Gemma standing in the empty space, but she’s nowhere to be found. Obviously, she left the music playing before moving to the showroom.

Deciding to leave it on, he makes his way across the room to the door leading to the dimly lit area. When he steps through, he sees Gemma standing directly in front of the painting labeled Sacred.

She has her hands behind her back, and he can see the journal between her fingers. He must have made some kind of noise because she turns to face him.

“Gemma.” He nods in acknowledgment.

She responds in kind with a slight nod and serious eyes. “Phillipe.”

“How was your afternoon?” he inquires as he moves closer.

“I spent it down in the arbor reading.”

His eyes move to the journal before looking back to hers.

“Oh? What did you learn today?”

“So far, not much. She’s writing about the night she went to the gala with you.” Gemma hesitates. When he doesn’t make any move to respond, she foolishly continues. “Isn’t that the night the press first wrote about her?”

Keeping his eyes trained on her, he nods again. “Yes, it was. Do you remember what they said, Gemma?”

A frown forms as she thinks about that question for a moment. In stark detail, he witnesses as each emotion crosses her delicate features when they enter her mind.

“Yes.”

He narrows his eyes, knowing he just put her on guard. “You do, don’t you? What is it they said?” he asks.

His voice is deceptively calm, but his eyes are giving him away. There’s a storm brewing inside of him, and he knows that she can sense it.

* * *

Licking my lips nervously, I square my shoulders as though I am heading into battle. “They said that you broke the ambassador’s nose and ribs in a jealous fit of rage.”

He moves abruptly, looming down directly in front of me. Gripping my shoulders tight, he hauls me up against him, and the journal falls from my hands.

“I was jealous, Gemma. I should have fucking killed him that night.” He growls out, his tone sinister.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can’t look away. He’s so magnificent in his rage that I can’t help but stare up at him as I see the truth of his words in his eyes.

“Do you know why I didn’t?” he questions quietly.

At this stage, I know my eyes have to be as wide as saucers. I stand mute, not having the ability to voice the question that I am dying to ask, but it doesn’t matter. He’s going to tell me anyway.

“Because I was afraid I’d hurt her as well,” he explains harshly. He pushes back from me and turns, pacing across the space. “She just fucking stood there, Gemma!”

His rage is absolutely palpable. I can feel it rolling off of him in waves. He’s still so very angry over what took place all those months ago. I feel as though he is reliving it right before my eyes.

As quietly as possible, I move back a step, not seeing any means of escape at this moment. I’m not really sure what I should do, so I revert back to my questions.

“What was she supposed to do?”

Turning swiftly, he pins me with angry eyes. “She was supposed to tell him to fuck off. She was supposed to tell him that she was mine, just like I told Susanna!”

Quickly, in my mind, I flip through the many articles that I had read, trying to catch up. I need to remember all the details.

Coming up short, I question, “Susanna?”

Shaking his head, he starts to laugh malevolently. I frown, not understanding the rapid shift in his mood.

“Yes, Susanna, the tall blonde the press splashed all over the goddamn place. She was much like you, Gemma. She was the fuckable blonde that he told her I was fucking.”

I let the details, as confusing as they were, seep into my mind. “He told Chantel you were sleeping with Susanna?”

Slowly, Phillipe starts to make his way toward me. I take another step back, and my back meets the wall. Beside my shoulder, I feel the frame of the painting, and I know I am trapped. I am trapped between him and her. When he’s finally toe to toe with me, he leans down, so our noses almost touch.

“The good ambassador told Chantel that I had been fucking Susanna for months. He then went on to describe in detail what she looked like, where we went, and how often we did so.”

I swallow slowly, before I ask a question that I’m not sure I want the reaction to. “Were you?”

His angry green eyes skewer me before he moves to the left, placing his mouth by my ear. “The only blonde I have fucked in the last three years, Gemma, is standing with me now, pinned to the wall, and probably getting wet.”

His teeth bite down on my lobe as I take another deep breath. I’m embarrassed that he is right. I am wet. His rage is beautiful. It terrifies me. It impassions me.

“She let him touch her,” he says, emphasizing each word angrily.

Turning my head against the wall, my eyes connect with his. We are so close that I can see the flecks of gold and brown around his irises.

“I can’t imagine that she would let anyone touch her after you,” I confess, knowing that I’m going to have the same problem.

“It wasn’t her body that he touched, Gemma.”

I blink once and focus back on his hypnotic stare.

“It was her mind.”

My breathing accelerates. Any notion I had about wanting to get away has now been replaced with lust. I want him. I want to reach out and stroke him to ease his pain, but his eyes are wild. I’m almost afraid of the wrath I might unleash if I make the slightest misstep.

“Let me tell you what she wrote in that journal entry, Gemma,” he explains. His left hand rises to cup my right breast. I arch into his grasp when he leans in to me, whispering so harshly that his mouth burns against my ear. “She typed about how we arrived at the gala.”

Squeezing my breast, his hand moves a little, so his fingers are at the buttons running down the center of my chest.

“She typed that I left her. She said I left her standing in a room full of people, and she felt more alone than she ever had.”

While he’s talking, his talented fingers slide inside my blouse, and he shifts back to look down at me. Bringing up his right hand, he grabs the other side of my blouse as his angry eyes start to heat.

“She wrote that she had never felt more disconnected from me than in that fucking room.”

As the curse leaves his lips, he rips my blouse apart. The buttons pop away from the fabric, falling around us as he places his right palm flat on my chest over my heart.

“Your heart is beating fast, Gemma,” he informs me, moving in close.

He’s so close that I have to lean my head back on the wall to look up at him.

“Are you turned on? Scared? Or both?”