He doesn’t answer. Instead, he stares down at me. I tighten my hand in his hair and pull. His wicked eyes narrow. Suddenly, I know. I’ve hit it. I’ve been tiptoeing around the issue, and now I know that as soon as my foot falls on the landmine, he is going to explode.
“Are you afraid because I love you?” Licking my lips, I take the final leap. “Or because you love me too?”
That’s when his fingers dig into my waist, and his mouth crashes down onto mine. He kisses me in a way designed to punish, but I know it isn’t me he’s punishing. I pull his head forward and rise on my toes to get as close to him as I can. I hearan anguished groan rumble up through his chest, and I take the painful cry into my mouth.
Closing my eyes, I feel him shaking against me. I rub my body against him, begging him to take what he needs from me.
Hands, firm and strong, move up the curve of my back to the zipper resting between my shoulder blades. I tremble as he slowly lowers it down my spine. Lifting his mouth from my swollen lips, he keeps his gaze locked with mine. He slips his hand inside the dress and parts the fabric from my skin, then nudges it gently so the straps fall from my shoulders. Releasing my hold from him, I take a step back, lowering my arms. Turning around, I present him with my back, waiting for him to pull the dress off me.
Closing my eyes, I feel the moisture pooling between my thighs, shaking in anticipation of his hands on me, but as I stand there staring up at Chantel, I hear footsteps and then the loud crash of a door slamming shut.
That’s when the full weight of truth falls over me. As I wrap my arms around my waist in an effort not to shatter into a million pieces, I am left standing in the showroom with the only other woman in the world who lost her heart to Phillipe Tibideau.
Final Impressions
IT HAS BEEN a little more than seven months since I left the chateau. It’s been a little more than seven months since I have seen or heard from the man I left behind.
When I returned to the States, I was given a deadline of two months. I had two months to somehow make sense of everything I had learned while staying in Bordeaux.
At first, I found it extremely difficult to sit down and write a tale of two people so obviously in love, knowing where the story would eventually lead. However, in the end, I discovered that in writing it down and telling the world, I once again found myself that much closer and connected to them both.
It’s Friday night and has just turned six p.m. I stand in my room, slipping into a golden cocktail gown I purchased for the evening. As I turn my back to the full-length mirror, I look over my shoulder and down my spine to my most recent addition. There, on the lower curve of my back, are two perfect F-holes, stark in their inky boldness against my pale skin.
Every Friday evening, I go out to the local theater to watch the city’s orchestra. I have developed quite an intense obsession with classical music. As soon as I returned from France, I purchased season tickets to the local symphony.
Hiding my secret away from the rest of the world, I zip up the gown, then slip my heels on and make my way to the front door. I open it to find a short, stocky man standing there and a large rectangular box resting against the wall.
He glances down at a clipboard and then back at me. “Are you Gemma Harris?”
I frown and tilt my head. “How can I help you?”
“I was told to deliver this to you,” he informs me, holding out the clipboard.
Again, I find myself looking at the box markedFragile.
“I didn’t order anything,” I say, looking at the work order. Nothing on the page gives me any clue as to what is inside the package.
“Oh, I know, ma’am. This was shipped in late last night from a gallery over in France. We were told to go ahead and deliver it to you as soon as it arrived, no matter the charge.” He chuckles. “Looks like someone bought you a very nice gift. Do you want me to bring it inside for you?”
Moving aside, I tell him, “You can just put it in here by the door.”
He picks up the piece and shuffles it into the foyer. After he places it against my living room wall, he smiles and tips his cap at me. After returning his friendly grin, I close the door, locking it tight, then stare at the box leaning against the wall of my small apartment.
A gallery in France?It has to be fromhim. Of course it is.Who else do I know that lives in France that would send me— Well, send me what? A painting?
Forgetting all about the symphony, I kneel in front of the box and run my hand over the brown surface. When I realize I need scissors, I stand and run into the kitchen. After returning to the mysterious box, I cut through the binding and slice through the tape.
When I finally rip apart the cardboard, I’m greeted with a lot of bubble wrap. I tear through the padding at record speed. When I finally get to the framed image, I’m almost relieved that it’s facing the wrong way.
I kneel back down in front of the painting as my heart races a million miles an hour. What am I going to see when I turn it around? Is it a painting ofher? Maybe it’s one of the prints. A copy of one of the six?I have no clue.
As I move to turn it, I notice a small envelope down in the left corner. It’s taped to the back of the frame. Scrawled across the smooth white paper is my name in the same handwriting painted on the plaque byhishouse.
I take the envelope and open it, then flip over the small card inside. I hold my breath as I stare down at the words printed so eloquently in black pen.
For the lady we never let go of.
Blind Obsession
