I reach for the thin material and bend to push it down, realizing he has a perfect view of my naked ass—an ass he commented on only yesterday.
“Reach behind yourself with your left arm, Gemma.”
Slowly, I do as requested. Knowing he is going to place the violin in my hands, I’m nervous because I know how much this instrument is worth, not only in the monetary sense but in the emotional one as well.
When I feel the wood, cool against my palm, I clutch it gently around the neck.
All of a sudden, his mouth is by my ear again. “Very good. There’s just one more thing.”
As he walks away from me, my eyes are trained on the easel and the covered piece of artwork still sitting on the opposite side of the room.
“What is that?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the easel.
Instead of answering my question, he replies, “This.”
I feel the cool slide of paint on the left side of my lower back. I’m not sure if he’s intentionally avoiding my question or if he really doesn’t understand me, but right now, I know he is adding F-holes to my skin. After the first one is complete, he switches to the right side, and I can feel the cool bristles of the brush as he paints the matching symbol.
“There.”
I look over my shoulder. “But there are no F-holes in this painting.”
“No, but there were on the model that posed for me. Now, you’re perfect.”
“But not her.”
“No, you are definitely nother.” He pauses and licks his lower lip. “Eyes forward, Gemma.”
Silently, I do as I’m told.
Phillipe stands behind his easel and looks over to the woman once again standing in the middle of his studio, gently holding Diva across her lovely left ass cheek.
The night down by the river was painful. There is no other way to describe it. In fact, he was ready to tell Gemma that the deal was off, so she should just go home. Taking her down there and telling her only parts of the story was so emotionally crippling that he can’t imagine how he’ll ever tell her the whole sordid tale.
When she arrived in his studio this morning and he turned to see her stepping through the door, something about her pulled at him. Maybe it was the expression on her face.
Yes, she looks tired—she probably didn’t get much more sleep than he did—but the sheer determination and look of understanding in her eyes makes him realize that if anyone can tell this story the way it needs to be told, then it’s going to be Gemma Harris.
“You look lovely like this,” he told Chantel.
From the middle of her spine, he ran a finger up her back to just below her hairline. As she dropped her head forward, he smiled slowly to himself.
“You’ve been standing here for a little over an hour.” He squeezed her shoulders, massaging away some of the tension. “Maybe we should take a break.”
Chantel turned, and he connected with gray eyes that saw nothing, but that didn’t stop a sensuous smile from touching her lips. “Maybe we should.”
Reaching for her left hand, he took the violin that had been covering her round bottom. “Let me have this.”
He leaned to the side, placing it in the case lying open on the small desk, and then he was back. She still had her back to him, and her head was now tipped forward, leaving her elegant neck bare. Moving in close behind her, he wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Let me relax you.”
Chantel let out a deep breath. “Yes.”
As he stands there now, looking at Gemma waiting before him nude and in pose, he wonders what she is thinking about while he focuses on someone else.
“What made you decide to paint her this way? Why did you name itRhapsody?”
Well, there’s his answer. Ever the professional, Gemma’s always thinking of new things to ask him.
