Элла Франк - Blind Obsession

“Well, maybe I should guess,” he continues.

I find vindication when I discover that he can’t seem to stand the silence. I feel as though I’m making him slightly uncomfortable, and I find that I like it.

“Maybe you’re thinking about the other night?” he questions.

I open my eyes, turning to lock them with his. I refuse to look away first.

At this moment, all I can see of him are his green eyes peering at me over the canvas. He’s sitting on a stool, so his hair is also visible, but I can’t see below his nose. Although it’s somewhat intimidating to be looked at like an object, I realize that I don’t mind being the object of his intense perusal.

“Is that it?” he queries in the absence of an answer. He raises a questioning brow. “So, I’m right? I’d love to know what you think happened up here that night. You want to know what I think happened?”

Closing my eyes and turning back to face the wall, I block out his all-knowing stare from my vision and let his voice drift over me.

“I think you woke up.”

My head turns, and my eyes snap open at that. Damn him.

He lowers his eyes. “I think you finally saw me. Didn’t you, Gemma?”

Staring over to where he’s sitting focused on the painting in front of him, I will him to raise his eyes to mine, and he does.

“What did you do? Run upstairs afterward and look up every article ever written on me? If that’s the case, I wouldn’t talk to me either.” He stands and places his paintbrush down. “Well, you’ve seen me, Gemma. Maybe it’s time you saw her.”

I feel my eyes widen when I wonder what he means. I’m curious, so I finally speak. “How?”

He turns his head to face me. “Ahh, so now you speak?”

Heedless of my nudity, I stand and move to place the violin back in its case. It’s obvious he’s finished for the moment. Turning to him, I cross my arms over my chest, responding more from a natural reaction than one to cover myself.

“How?” I repeat, refusing to rise to his bait.

Realizing I am not going to answer his last question, he tilts his head to the side and steps out from behind the easel. Today, he’s wearing jeans with a rip at the knee and a black fitted, long-sleeved sweater. He looks dark and sinful, and I can’t help but find him sexy.

He walks over to me slowly. “Do you want to see Armor?”

I blink and lick my lips, giving myself time to think. I’ve seen Armor many times, but I have a feeling he means something more. Maybe the original? I can’t help it. I’m just as curious as he expects me to be.

Somehow, he knows how I feel about her. He’s worked it out. He knows I’m just as intrigued by Chantel as he was. So, I give him the only possible answer there could be.

“Yes.”

* * *

Wrapping the towel around myself, I follow him out of the studio and down the stairs. I steal a quick peek at the hanging picture and keep walking because he is moving fast.

In fact, he is walking so quickly that I almost miss the fact that he makes a sharp right at the end of the hall to the left of the stairs. Making my way down in the direction he headed, I look at the walls and catch sight of several paintings I have not yet seen. I want to stop and look at them, but I find that am more intrigued about what is at the end of the hall.

I haven’t been down to this end of the chateau. Usually, the large wooden door is closed, locking it off from the rest of the occupants. My mind suddenly catches up. This is where his bedroom is. I was standing outside of this part of the house that morning I saw him through his open window.

Just as I get to the end of the hall, he appears from around the corner. I stop immediately, slightly shocked because I didn’t expect him to come back from where he went.

“It’s down here,” he tells me.

All of a sudden, every single fear I have determinedly pushed aside into the little you-are-crazy box comes flooding back.

“Down where?” I ask hesitantly.

Smiling so slow and iniquitous, he lifts a hand, crooking a finger at me.

“Come with me, Gemma,” he invites.

His tone is so seductive he’s managed to make me forget I’m apprehensive and the fact that I’m standing in just a towel. I feel as though he’s hypnotizing me.

“What’s down there?” I probe, cursing the fact that my voice is trembling.

Nothing prepares me for the answer he gives.

“Chantel.”

* * *

Phillipe can tell by the look on her face that she’s about to flee.

Gemma’s eyes have widened, and her breathing has picked up to rapid pants.

“I don’t understand,” she tells him, clutching the towel to her breasts.

He takes a step toward her and holds out his hand. “You don’t have to. Come with me, Gemma.”

Her eyes move from his hand to his face. Considering all the tumultuous emotions that are currently running through him, Phillipe makes sure that his expression gives nothing away. When she reaches out and places her shaking palm into his, he’s shocked by the trust she is now extending to him.

He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes them. When he tugs her toward him, she is hesitant, but she moves forward.

He lowers his mouth down to her ear, teasing her softly. “You want to see this, Gemma. I know you do.”

She turns her head, so their eyes meet, and he can see the curiosity burning there.

“How do you know?” she questions, seeming desperate in her need for an answer.

“Because, like me, you find her fascinating. You’re consumed by her, aren’t you? I can see it every time I talk about her.” He pauses, moving his head so their lips are now touching. “It’s okay, Gemma. I did whatever I had to, just to be near her. I wanted her with every breath I took.”

* * *

I can’t breathe. My heart is pumping and my head is roaring from the rapid blood flow. As he stands there, whispering dark seductive words against my lips, I feel like I will pass out from the lack of oxygen.

That’s when I am offered a reprieve.

Phillipe removes his lips from mine and takes a small step back, still holding my hand. He pulls me forward with each backward step he takes. He stops at the large wooden door, much like the one blocking this part of the house, and he reaches back to twist the knob.

I wait as it slowly swings open, and he is moving again. He turns, keeping my hand in his own, as he walks through the entryway.

Where the hell is he taking me? The thought is screaming in my mind.

As I cross the threshold, I watch as he descends down a dark staircase, and immediately, I have visions of words from articles—tragic, horrifying, deceptive. Instead of doing the smart thing and leaving, I follow him blindly down into the darkness.

He stood in water, hip deep, as rain hit the back of his neck where his wet shirt clung to him. All he felt was numb.

“Wake up,” he pleaded. “Come on. It’s time to wake up.”

Eyes of gray opened. Eyes that held his soul focused as a small smile touched lips of red.

* * *

As I follow Phillipe one step at a time down the dark stone stairwell, I can’t help but wonder at my sanity. I can feel my hand as it trembles in his.

Again, I ask, “What’s down here, Phillipe?”

He stops halfway down the stairs and turns to look back at me. “I told you.”

I want to scream at him, I know Chantel is not down there. So, what the fuck are you talking about? Instead, I remain quiet and continue following him.

When we reach the landing, I can feel him turn to face me in the dark.

“Wait here,” he instructs.

I stand exactly where he has left me, not knowing what I might run into if I happen to move.

It’s cold down here, I think as I look around, trying to make out what I can. Obviously, we have gone downstairs, which in turn means we are underground. As quickly as that thought enters my head, it is chased by the fear of something horrific happening to me, that I stupidly pushed aside earlier.

I’m about to say his name when suddenly the room is illuminated.

My eyes squint as they adjust to the change, and as they do, a wide, empty space comes into focus. Immediately, I’m aware of several large white boards. Each cut into rectangular lengths, they are mounted all around the walls at different heights. Blank canvases?

“Acoustic room, Gemma.” His explanation drifts across the expansive room.

After that announcement, silence follows as my brain catches up.

“This was her music room,” he adds.

I let my eyes look up to the ceiling, and I see the strange placement of white boards placed there. The room is bare. There is nothing down here, just the panels on the wall and a shelf holding a sound system with what looks like CDs.  The thick carpet beneath my feet, which I assume is also for sound absorption, paired with the boards on the walls make the room look odd. As I step farther into the space, I feel as though she is calling out to me, almost as if the echo of her is here in the room, bouncing off of the walls.

Before I knew what was down here, I feared him. Now that I know what’s down here, I fear myself.

Bringing my eyes back to his, I ask, “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why did you try and frighten me?”

That’s when he moves. He is in front of me before I can say another word. Gripping my naked shoulders in his palms, his green eyes roam all over my face.