Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

“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. He then takes a moment to slide his hands into his perfectly tailored pants as he looks out of them.

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 back 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 rumored 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. Taking 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 probe. “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 the obvious question.

“It’s a journal. You’ll need that for any of this to make sense.”

He doesn’t seem to want to say more, so I nod while I move to open it.

“No, not yet,” he instructs.

I find it hard not to flip it open just for a peek, but I’m here to listen. I want to learn about his paintings and what really happened that night, but since he says not to look at it yet, I place the bound journal on the desk.

“Okay, let’s start at the beginning.”

He takes a deep breath, and for some reason, I hold mine before he finally blows his out.

“Go ahead.”

Shifting in my seat, I begin. “What inspired you to paint your critically acclaimed series?”

He lifts a hand to stroke the stubble lining his cheeks and chin, and then he replies so softly that I almost miss it.

“Beauty.” There’s a pregnant pause before he repeats himself louder. “Beauty inspired me.”

Scribbling this down, I ask my next question without looking up. “Beauty of the world?”

Not missing a beat, he replies, “No, beauty of a woman. One woman.”

Looking up at him, I instantly know he means her, and I swallow deeply. I now understand the reason for his focus on every intense stroke of the painting that hangs center stage on the wall by the staircase, lit up as though it is the pride and joy of the house. That painting is beauty, and she is the one woman. She is the woman that has captured the attention of the entire world, bringing probing questions to this man’s door.

Urging my brain to catch up, I remind myself to be professional, to ask only what I need to, and to build up to the parts of the story I so desperately want to know from this very private man. Instead of following my own directions, I blurt out, “What moves you?”

He seems to think about this question longer than I expect him to before he deflects with one of his own. “You don’t want to ask me the most obvious question first, Miss Harris?”

Immediately, I know what question he means, but I’m not ready to ask that yet. I’m here to learn about the vision behind the images and his side of this terrible nightmare. So, no, I don’t want to ask him the obvious…yet.

“I thought we decided on you calling me Gemma,” I point out, trying to keep our conversation light.

Narrowing his eyes, he tilts his head in a mock bow. That’s my signal to continue.

“What moves you?” I ask again.

For some reason, I anticipate him having an answer ready. Instead, he sits there in thought while I picture the woman in the painting, knowing he is thinking of her.

“What moves me?” he repeats my question.

I nod and wait, gripping the edge of my seat, and this is only my second question.

“The answer to that is the same to your first question, Gemma. Beauty moves me.”

After scribbling that down, I bring my eyes back to his. “And beauty is one woman?” I clarify just to be sure.

His eyes remain steadfast on mine, and without a shred of doubt, he tells me, “Beauty is Chantel.”

Finally, the woman in the painting, Chantel, has been invited into the room.

Day Two

First Sight ~

I need to type something, and I need to type it now.

Something happened to me—a moment, I believe.

I’ve always held on to the idea that moments happen to shape who we are and who we will become, and I’m almost one-hundred percent positive that I had a moment of clarity today.

In wine country in Bordeaux, France, I met a man.

Yes, today out in wine country, I met a man, and something about that man moved me.

Something about that man changed me.

Closing the journal, I look out the window to the sun that’s now shining brightly, casting a beautiful morning glow over the vineyard.

Phillipe instructed me to read no further than the natural end of each journal entry. Every page is a time capsule of precisely inked words typed meticulously letter by letter, old-school style. All of the words have been methodically tapped out by the hands of a very unique individual. It’s obvious by the way he had the pages bound together that they mean the world to him and now he is entrusting it to me.

Honestly, I know there’s no way Phillipe would ever know one way or another, but I can’t stop remembering the firm tone in his voice and the steely determination in his eyes when he handed me the journal with strict instructions and a request that I meet him this morning.

Looking at the clock, I watch the hand as it slowly moves to nine, and then I turn and head up to the studio to wait for Mr. Tibideau.

Today is going to be painful, like opening an old wound.

Phillipe stands in the drafty kitchen with a cup of coffee, listening to Penelope, his housekeeper, hum as she bustles about making pastries.

Today, he’s going to allow himself to look back, remembering a time he’d rather lock away and keep to himself. He knows that if he doesn’t tell the story the way he wants it to be told, he’ll forever be judged. He’ll never be left to live his life in peace—well, at least be left to live it alone. Peace is just a selfish illusion now.

He notices it is 9 a.m. Turning on his heel, he brushes a kiss on Penelope’s cheek, and then he makes his way up to his studio.

When he arrives, he sees the assiduous Gemma Harris sitting at her desk with her notepad open.