“So, answer me,” I press. My eyes stay focused on him, even though he is now extremely close, so keeping focus is becoming difficult.
He strokes one hand down the side of my neck, lowering it into the top of my robe. He pushes it aside, and looks down at what he’s revealed. I’m wearing a sheer pastel-pink camisole and little silk boxers that match.
“You expect answers when you’re dressed like that?” he asks.
I find myself smiling slightly. I remind him, “You came to my room. Don’t try and change the topic. What made you needy that morning?”
His eyes come back up to focus on me. He drops his hands to my waist, pushing me back until I’m up against the door. Stepping in close to me, he places his palms on both sides of my head, caging me in.
“What makes any man needy, Gemma? A hot woman? Perhaps a naked one? Or maybe a woman dressed in pink silky pajamas?”
I shake my head against the door. “No. This felt different. You seemed like you wanted to prove something to her. You made her crazy.”
“I didn’t make her anything,” he says in a cold tone.
It’s so different from anything I have ever heard that I actually flinch away from him.
“What was that?” he questions me quickly.
“What was what?”
“You just flinched as though I was going to hurt you,” he tells me slowly as he lowers his hands from the door.
I watch as his face goes from smoldering and sexy to cool and detached. Instantly, I want to apologize. I want to tell him that I didn’t mean it. He can trust me, and I can trust him. I know I can trust him, don’t I?
Closely, I watch him as he slips his hands into his pockets. He takes a step away from me, now averting his eyes from my body. Sighing, I reach down and wrap my robe around myself. I want to scream and tell him that I didn’t mean it, but it’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Can you please move away from the door?” he asks in a surly, gruff tone.
I can feel the distance already starting to spread between us. All the trust and all the moments leading up to this are gone in the blink of an eye.
“Can we talk about this for a minute? I still have questions.” I try to appeal to his professional nature.
“Get the fuck out of the way, Gemma!” he yells at me.
Instantly, I move away from the door.
When he reaches it, he grips the handle. Turning his head to me, angry green eyes lock with mine.
“Things changed that morning because I spoke to Beau. He told me her parents were coming to visit. He explained how they wanted to meet me. They didn’t trust me and didn’t trust my intentions. They were coming to visit, and I knew they wanted to take her away.” His voice sounds as though he is feeling it all over again. He sounds destroyed. “I wanted to make sure she didn’t want to leave. I needed to make sure she believed in us, trusted us. So, I made sure she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.”
“She stayed, didn’t she?” I ask quickly, knowing he’s about to leave because he’s still pissed.
“She stayed…until she left,” he replies cryptically.
Opening the door, he exits and leaves me standing in my room, wondering how the hell I can fix the trust I just broke.
Chapter Ten ~ Armor
I make my way up to the studio after lunch.
He didn’t tell me to meet him there. He didn’t invite me to come. But, after what happened this morning, I now have a burning compulsion to see him to set things straight.
As I get the door of the familiar studio, I can hear music floating through the air. The violin definitely holds a new fascination for me, and I can see I am not alone. It is obvious it also pulls at Phillipe in a way that I still don’t quite comprehend.
Stepping across the threshold, I look around the room and spot him sitting on a stool behind the large canvas that is propped in its usual spot, up on the easel over by the window.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I’m careful not to make any noise as I make my way farther into the room that is dappled by the sun’s rays.
I can see his feet resting on the floor. He’s taken off his shoes from this morning, and he’s rolled up the bottom of his jeans. His hair looks rumpled and disturbed, and his mouth is pulled into a serious line that makes his entire face look different. He appears annoyed, frustrated, and maybe even a little bit sad.
I know that I ruined whatever trust I had gained when I let my preconceived ideas and opinions of him take hold of me for just a millisecond this morning. Now, as I stand here, watching him move his brush across the smooth surface with his focus aimed intently on what he is doing, I can’t help but be disappointed in myself.
I am always objective in my job. I have never been one to let other people’s opinions influence the way I interview or talk to a potential witness or subject of a story. This morning, though when I had let previously reported stories feed my moment of doubt , I did, and in turn, I lost his trust. It’s now imperative that I regain it.
“I know you’re standing there, Gemma.” His somber voice floats across the silence.
Clasping my hands in front of myself, I make my way farther into the room. I stop behind the canvas, directly in his eye line.
For some reason, I feel the need to whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
He stops his brush stroke as his annoyed green eyes rise to meet mine over the top of the painting he is working on. “Well, you have.”
I grimace for a moment, telling myself not to let him intimidate me. I’m here to do a job. I can’t let an argument of a personal nature come between us. Us? Is there an us now?
Well, there is certainly a professional us. The other day there was a personal moment, but I cannot not let one, slight misunderstanding ruin my chance to tell this story. To take away my opportunity to know what happened, and to let the world know there was more to this tragedy than what we’d all been told. Or, at least, that is what I am hoping to discover.
“Well, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to come and see when you next want to work on the piece.”
His eyes leave mine to focus back on what is in front of him.
“What are you working on?” I ask, trying to get him to talk to me. It becomes immediately obvious though that I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Nothing of importance.” He dismisses me coolly, placing the brush on the table beside him. “You want to ask me questions, Gemma? Sit and ask. I’m here, you’re here, and that’s all that’s required, correct?”
I clench my jaw, annoyed at his terse words. I make my way to the small desk I’ve been working at and pull out the chair. I turn it and sit, facing him. The canvas is between us. I’m frustrated at the obstruction, but I know he wouldn’t move it, even if I ask.
“What was the decision behind the name of the second painting in the series, Armor?”
I fall silent as the soft sounds of the violin fill the air. I almost ask him to turn it off. Isn’t this hard enough as it is without her playing in the background? I know deep down in the pit of my stomach that it is she who is currently providing the somber soundtrack.
“Not where I thought you were going to go,” he tells me, shifting his eyes to the painting between us.
I settle back in the chair at his words, and I lift my pen to the pad. “Oh? And what exactly were you expecting?”
As I sit there, waiting for his response, I’m not really sure what I’m even expecting at this stage. I know I’m not going to have to wait long when Phillipe stands and moves around the easel, walking across the space toward me.