His rage is absolutely palpable. I can feel it rolling off him in waves. He’s still so very angry over what took place all those months ago. I feel as though he is reliving it right before my eyes.
As quietly as possible, I move back a step, not seeing any means of escape at this moment. I’m not really sure what I should do, so I revert to my questions.
“What was she supposed to do?”
Turning swiftly, he pins me with angry eyes. “She was supposed to tell him to fuck off. She wassupposedto tell him that she was mine, just like I told Susanna!”
In my mind, I flip through the many articles that I read, trying to catch up. I need to remember all the details.
Coming up short, I ask, “Susanna?”
Shaking his head, he starts to laugh malevolently. I frown, not understanding the rapid shift in his mood.
“Yes, Susanna, the tall blonde the press splashed all over the goddamn place. She was much like you, Gemma. She was the fuckable blonde thathetold her I was fucking.”
I let the details, as confusing as they are, seep into my mind. “He told Chantel you were sleeping with Susanna?”
Slowly, Phillipe starts to make his way toward me. I take another step away, and my back meets the wall. Beside my shoulder, I feel the frame of the painting, and I know I am trapped. I am trapped between him and her.
When he’s finally toe to toe with me, he leans down so our noses almost touch. “The good ambassador told Chantel that I had been fucking Susanna for months. He then went on to describe in detail what she looked like, where we went, and how often we did so.”
I swallow slowly before I ask a question that I’m not sure I want the answer to. “Were you?”
His angry eyes skewer me before he moves to the left, placing his mouth by my ear. “The only blonde I have fucked in the last three years is standing with me now, pinned to the wall, and probably getting wet.”
He bites down on my lobe as I take another deep breath. I’m embarrassed that he is right. I am wet. His rage is beautiful. It terrifies me. It impassions me.
“Shelethimtouch her,” he says angrily.
I turn my head against the wall, connecting my eyes with his. We are so close that I can see the flecks of gold and brown around his irises.
“I can’t imagine that she would let anyone touch her after you,” I say, knowing that I’m going to have the same problem.
“It wasn’t her body that he touched, Gemma.”
I blink and focus back on his hypnotic stare.
“It was her mind.”
My breathing accelerates. Any notion I had about wanting to get away has now been replaced with lust.I want him.I want to reach out and stroke him to ease his pain, but his eyes are wild. I’m almost afraid of the wrath I might unleash if I make the slightest misstep.
“Let me tell you what she wrote inthatjournal entry,” he says. His left hand rises to cup my right breast. I arch into his grasp. “She typed about how we arrived at the gala. She typed that Ilefther. She said I left her standing in a room full of people, and she felt more alone than she ever had.”
While he’s talking, his fingers slide inside my blouse, and he shifts back to look down at me. Bringing up his right hand, he grabs the other side of my blouse as his angry eyes start to heat up.
“She wrote that she had never felt more disconnected from me than inthatfucking room.”
As the curse leaves his lips, he rips my blouse apart. The buttons pop away from the fabric, falling around us as he places his right palm flat on my chest, over my heart.
“Your heart is beating fast, Gemma,” he informs me, moving in. He’s so close that I have to lean my head back on the wall to look up at him. “Are you turned on? Scared? Or both?”
Swallowing deeply, I open my mouth and ask, “Why did you leave her?”
Calculating eyes meet mine and narrow. He reaches down and starts to undo my pants.
“I want to fuck you,” he tells me.
I know what he’s doing, and I’m determined to make him talk. “Why did you leave her, Phillipe?”
