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’s easily 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 his blunt nails.
“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. Hethen takes a moment to slide his hands into his perfectly tailored pants as he looks out.
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 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 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. As he takes 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 ask, “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.
“It’s a journal. You’ll need that for any ofthisto make sense.”
He doesn’t seem to want to say more, so I nod while I move to open it.
