“I’m trying to decide what I want to ask you today.”
“Ah, I see. I thought you might be sitting over there plotting a way to leave my evil clutches.”
When she turns her head to face him over her shoulder, he glances at her over the top of the easel. Her eyes are covered, but he can almost guess that they are narrowed on him. Phillipe has to admit that he enjoys the slight annoyance he can sense in her posture.It’s almost a shame this isn’t a frontal pose.
“Who said anything about leaving?”
“No one. I see there’s no answer about my evil clutches, though, hmm?”
She harrumphs softly, but he hears it as she turns back to face the wall.
“Did you enjoy our afternoon together, Gemma?” he finds himself asking her, seemingly out of nowhere. He strokes the paintbrush down the canvas, creating the curve of both her back and hip, making them appear seamless.
“I think you know I did,” she whispers so faintly that he almost doesn’t catch it.
“Then why are you acting so ashamed?”
He dips the brush into the color before bringing it back to the material. He isn’t here to create a masterpiece. He is using this time to show Gemma how Chantel felt as she sat there.
“I’m not ashamed, and I’m not here to answer your questions. You’re here to answer mine.”
Phillipe finds himself holding back a smile at her pretentiousness. “Well, maybe you should ask me some.”
He turns and puts the paintbrush down on the table beside him, watching as she shifts slightly in her position.Is she uncomfortable or aroused?
Either way, he takes selfish delight in telling her, “Try not to move, please.”
She blows out a deep breath. “When did you ask Chantel to move into the chateau with you?”
Phillipe was waiting for a question, but somehow, he didn’t expect it to be that one.
“Why would you just assumeIasked her? Unless you already know better.”
Silence, thick and tense, stretches out between them.
“Well, with the way you talk about her and the way she writes about you, it automatically makes me thinkyouaskedher.”
Phillipe steps around the easel. He walks over to the perceptive Gemma and crouches behind her. He must have been quieter than he thought, because she flinches when he runs the back of his finger down her naked spine.
Without moving so much as an inch, he confesses, “I didn’t ask. I begged.” He stands, walks over to the journal, and taps the cover. “But this, you already knew.”
Tonight, when I arrived at the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux, my uncle led me down to the dressing rooms, and I was greeted by the conductor who would be up front tonight.
I was nervous about playing this evening. It was not because there would be an audience but becausehewas going to be there. Tonight, Phillipe was going to watch me play with the local orchestra, and I wanted it to be perfect for him.
I was led to the stage door to start the warmup. One of the other violinists I was going to be playing alongside told me, “I’m so excited to play with you tonight. I think you’re amazing. To be able to play in such a way and be completely…” She paused as I smiled in her direction. She too was American.
“Blind? It’s okay. You can say it.”
“I’m sorry. It’s not very polite for me to point out something so obvious. I’m sure you get sick of it. When they told us who was going to be playing here tonight, I was thrilled. I know all about you. You inspired me to play.” The girl giggled. “Sorry. I went a little crazy there, didn’t I? I’m Jessica. I’ll be playing second chair violin.”
I liked Jessica immediately. She showed me to my seat, and I began warming up.
Running through the usual warmup exercises, I felt the music as it flowed through my fingers and vibrated through my ear. It made its way into my heart, and as silly as it sounds, it touched me deep down into my soul.
Thirty minutes later, the orchestra was introduced, and I heard my name along with Jessica’s and two others. We each stood, and applause filled the room as we made our way—me with the assistance of Jessica—to the center of the stage.
The audience hushed and waited in complete silence.
