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.