* * *

She’s right on time, he thought as he heard a sharp rap on the front door.

Chantel Rosenberg was punctual. He liked that about her.

Actually, he was starting to obsess about everything related to the intensely serious, gray-eyed woman he’d run into only days earlier.

He made his way down the large staircase and over to the door.

Opening it, his breath was once again taken away by her. Her raven hair had been left out today, fluttering around her shoulders. With legs displayed in black shorts, she was wearing a red blouse with short sleeves that cupped around her upper arms, leaving her neck and shoulders bare. He was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and stroke his finger across her naked collarbone. Her skin was incandescent.

“Right on time,” he said, dismissing his need to touch her.

“Well, you did tell me 10 a.m. Uncle Beau made sure I arrived on time.”

He smiled, moving aside. When she remained where she was standing, he berated himself silently. There were so many things he did unconsciously without realizing that she was not able to see him or understand his meaning. Luckily, this also meant that when he made these mistakes, he could quietly fix them.

“Will you come inside?” he asked, waiting as she moved the cane out in front of her.

Once she was happy, knowing the path was clear, she made her way to move by him. When she was directly beside him, she stopped and turned.

He didn’t know why, but he found himself holding his breath.

Those compelling eyes locked onto his face, and he wondered if she could see anything at all. He wanted desperately to ask her, but he had no idea if that was considered rude. So, he stood there, frozen.

She took in a deep breath and then let it out gently. “I like the way you smell.”

He grinned at her strange, soft confession as she took another deep breath. He leaned in, so his mouth was by her ear. “I like the way you look.” He blew a hot breath gently against her. “And the way you smell.”

She turned her head, so they were nose to nose. She breathed out, and he could taste her on his lips and tongue.

“You’re going to destroy me,” he admitted with a sigh.

“You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I?” he responded, watching her pulse beat at the base of her throat.

She was nervous but excited, and he was ensnared.

Taking a small step back, she continued past him. He swallowed and closed his eyes as she stopped in the center of the foyer. He shut the door and carefully moved around, standing beside her.

She turned in his direction. “How old are you?”

Her hearing seemed to be extra sensitive. No matter where he was in the room, she moved in that direction, appearing to somehow sense him.

“Does it matter?” he asked, knowing that he wasn’t really being fair.

He could see her, so he knew her approximate age. She, on the other hand, had no idea what he looked like or how old he might be. He got the impression that she liked it when he treated her as he would anyone else, so that was exactly what he planned to do.

“Well, no, I guess it doesn’t.” She paused, thinking about it. “Actually, yes. Yes, it does matter.”

He stepped closer to her. Reaching out, he moved to touch the ends of her hair, but he thought better of it, not wanting to startle her. “May I touch you?”

He watched closely as a smile tugged at her lips.

“You may…if you tell me how old you are.”

Hesitantly, he stroked the pads of his fingers across her naked collarbone. She took a swift breath.

“How old are you?” she asked again.

“I’m thirty-two. How old are you, Chantel?” he questioned, looking down to see her sightless eyes focused on his face. He knew instantly that if she could, she would be looking right at him.

“I’m twenty-six.”

Running his fingers along the bare skin across her shoulder, he inquired softly, “Am I too old for you?”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “No.”

“No?”

“No, you’re not too old,” she confirmed.

Stepping back, he dropped his hand and immediately missed touching her. “Why did it matter?”

Tilting her head to the side, she pursed her red lips as though she was about to answer him. However, at the last minute, she lowered her head.

She’s shy.

Placing a finger under her chin, he told her softly, “I feel it, too.”

Her mouth parted as she blinked up at him. “You do?”

Silently, he nodded and then realized she couldn’t see him. “Yes. I feel you.”

A smile lit up her face. It was so radiant that it looked like it had burst from her soul. He couldn’t help but think that he was looking at an angel because she sure as shit didn’t seem to be real.

“What did you want to show me?” she asked, smile still in place.

“Are you okay to go up some stairs?”

Nodding, she stepped forward, closer to him. “Once I know my surroundings in a room, I don’t even need my cane. I use it just to get from point A to point B and, of course, to guide me through unfamiliar territory.”

“Well then, we’ll have to work on getting you familiar, won’t we?”

She shied away, and for the moment, he let her.

“Okay, come with me.” He urged her, leading her up the stairs.

* * *

He stops.

I look up at him from my notepad. “Why did you stop?”

Phillipe glances over at me as he asks a completely random question. “Is that your natural hair color? That honey blonde? It almost looks like you streaked the brown through it.”

Taken off-guard, I raise one eyebrow as I straighten my back. “You want to know if I streak my hair?”

He picks up the glass of water sitting beside him and takes a sip. “Well?”

“I really don’t think that has any relevance. Do you?”

Standing, he makes his way toward me. All of a sudden, I start to think that maybe I should have just answered his question. He leans down until we are eye to eye.

“Actually, it holds a lot of relevance. Why are people so offended when asked such a simple question about appearance?”

Straightening back up, he walks by me and makes his way over to the window.

“Looking at someone’s appearance is a privilege we take for granted, Gemma. Describing yourself to a person who cannot see you is difficult to say the least.”

He turns back to face me, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. Leaning back against the window frame, he crosses one leg over the other.

My eyes roam from his long legs up to the white button-up shirt he’s wearing. Phillipe is right. Seeing is something I take for granted, and I have to admit that it’s an absolute pleasure to see him. He seems to know my thoughts because he grimaces. He pushes himself away from the wall, turning to look back out the window.

“I racked my brain for days, trying to think of a way to let her see me, so she could know me. I even looked it up online, and finally, I came up with an idea.”

I sit silently, waiting for him to tell me. Please tell me, I internally plead.

He looks back at me over his shoulder. “She’ll tell you what she saw,” he informs in a cool tone as he makes his way past me toward the door. Just before he reaches it, he explains, “I think I’m done for the morning. Maybe we can meet again tonight? Let’s say eight?”

I nod before I realize that he’s not even looking at me. “Eight sounds good.”

Without another word, he continues out the door.

I quickly grab the journal and flick through it. I see there are several pages before the next stopping point, so I pick it up and move over to his soft chair in the corner. Curling into it, I can still feel the body heat he left behind. I snuggle back and open the book, eager to discover what Chantel saw.

Chapter Three ~ Vision

Vision ~

Today, I saw Phillipe.

That sounds so crazy, but it’s true.

When I arrived at the chateau today, I had no idea what it was he wanted to show me. In all honesty, I couldn’t even imagine what Phillipe could show me.

So, when he finally explained—well I’ll just type it here.

After leading me up a staircase with fifteen broad steps curving around a wall—which my uncle now tells me is a turret—through a part of the building on the west side of the house, Phillipe guided me by the hand, always gently, into a room off to the left.

Immediately, I was hit with smells that were foreign to me. The scent was strong, almost alcoholic in nature. It wasn’t drinking alcohol. It smelled more like rubbing alcohol.

We stopped walking, and that was when I asked, “Where are we?”

I felt him brush by me, walking farther into the room.

“My art studio.”

He’s an artist. How did I not know this about him? Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I had just assumed he ran the vineyard. From then on, I was very hungry for answers. “What do you paint?”