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.
“Thank you for allowing me to do this.”
“Thank you for accepting my terms. Not everyone would have packed up their lives and moved to France for a couple of months.”
I laugh to hide my first-day nerves. With a smile, I tell him, “Really? Well, those people are crazy. This is a wonderful opportunity. France is beautiful. It will give me an authentic feel for your story and your life. After all, it did take place here, didn’t it?”
He forms a steeple with his hands in front of his nose, and I watch as those serious green eyes move to mine.
“It did happen here, yes.” Closing his eyes, he leans his head back on the chair. “The important parts anyway.”
Regarding him carefully, I probe. “When would you like to begin? Tonight or in the morning?”
His eyes open as he raises his head. I can feel the full impact of that penetrating stare.
“Tonight. Let’s start now,” he replies.
Clearing my throat, I grab the notepad and pen from my bag. When I look back at him, he is leaning forward, holding out a bound leather book to me. Glancing down, I reach forward and take it as he settles back in the chair. He tries to appear calm, but he doesn’t succeed. Instead, he just looks uncomfortable.
“What is this?” I ask the obvious question.
“It’s a journal. You’ll need that for any of this to make sense.”
He doesn’t seem to want to say more, so I nod while I move to open it.
“No, not yet,” he instructs.
I find it hard not to flip it open just for a peek, but I’m here to listen. I want to learn about his paintings and what really happened that night, but since he says not to look at it yet, I place the bound journal on the desk.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning.”
He takes a deep breath, and for some reason, I hold mine before he finally blows his out.
“Go ahead.”
Shifting in my seat, I begin. “What inspired you to paint your critically acclaimed series?”
He lifts a hand to stroke the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, and then he replies so softly that I almost miss it.
“Beauty.” There’s a pregnant pause before he repeats himself louder. “Beauty inspired me.”
Scribbling this down, I ask my next question without looking up. “Beauty of the world?”
Not missing a beat, he replies, “No, beauty of a woman. One woman.”
Looking up at him, I instantly know he means her, and I swallow deeply. I now understand the reason for his focus on every intense stroke of the painting that hangs center stage on the wall by the staircase, lit up as though it is the pride and joy of the house. That painting is beauty, and she is the one woman. She is the woman that has captured the attention of the entire world, bringing probing questions to this man’s door.
Urging my brain to catch up, I remind myself to be professional, to ask only what I need to, and to build up to the parts of the story I so desperately want to know from this very private man. Instead of following my own directions, I blurt out, “What moves you?”