Shaking her head back and forth, she lifted her hips, trying to get his mouth back into action.

“No?” he questioned. He pressed the tip of his finger on her hot little rosette.

“No, I just wanted to—” She panted.

“You wanted to get up my ass?” he asked as he licked her hot center again.

“Phillipe!” she screamed.

“Ahh, there’s the ecstatic enthusiasm. Hmm, pure rhapsody.”

Suddenly, her knees tightened around his ears, and her hips bucked up as he sucked her clit hard between his lips while pushing his finger deep into her tight, hot ass. She screamed his name so loudly as she came that his ears were actually ringing.

As the somber violins continued to play well after the ringing had subsided, Philippe knew exactly what he was going to call this painting of her—Rhapsody.

* * *

“Are we done then?” I ask, looking at Phillipe over my shoulder.

It has been at least an hour since I have been standing here naked and somewhat cold. It has been dead silent for at least half of it. I decided to leave it that way because it seemed he just needed some space today.

“Yes, we can be done, Gemma. Is your shoulder bothering you?”

He seems far away and distant. I know he’s thinking of her.

“No, it isn’t. I’m just a little cold.”

His eyes come up from the canvas, and as he looks over at me, he nods. I see a look in his eyes that, under any other circumstances, I would think is arousal, but I know that look is not for me. That realization makes me feel more than naked. I feel vulnerable.

Slowly, I bring the violin to my front, and I move to the case, placing the instrument gently on the red silk. He says nothing as I go through the motions of putting on my clothes, item by item. Although he’s here, I know he has left the room somehow. He’s not with me.

Moving toward the door, I stop before I leave. “Do you mind if I go downstairs tonight to look at the paintings?”

I don’t really know what to expect, but he nods once.

Looking over to me, he quietly says, “While you’re here, Gemma, you can go wherever you like.”

I give him my thanks and turn to leave the studio. Making my way down the main curved staircase, I stop to look at the painting hanging on the wall. Rhapsody depicts the very replica of the pose I was in only moments earlier.

This time, I don’t hesitate to reach out and stroke the curve of her right cheek. I trace my fingers over the F-holes in the violin, the same pattern that is now dry paint on my skin. She really was beautiful with her otherworldly flawless skin. It is easy for me to see the appeal.

Shaking my head, I make my way down into the kitchen. As I stand at the window, staring out on the vineyards, I can hear Phillipe’s voice playing over in my mind.

While you are here, Gemma, you can go wherever you like.

Yes, I can go anywhere, just not into his heart.

Chapter  Twenty ~ Alone

Alone ~

Throughout my whole life, I had been comfortable being alone. It had never really bothered me until he left me standing on my own tonight. It was then that I realized I had never really known what it was like to be truly by myself. Ironically, this occurred when I was surrounded by a room full of people.

Phillipe’s paintings took off. Saying a few people purchased them was putting it too lightly.

In the past two months, prints of his paintings had been replicated and sold around the world. From the exposure afforded by that little art gallery and first newspaper article, the media had courted and hounded Phillipe, trying to get a piece of him ever since. In fact, just the other night on the radio, I heard an announcer jokingly discuss the talent that had propelled him into the spotlight. She’d laughed and went on to say that the ladies of the world thanked him for his skills because now they could admire his smoldering good looks.

For once in my life, I truly hated the fact that I could not see what the world sees.

Tonight, as I stood in a room full of beautiful women—of that, I had no doubt—I let my insecurities slip between us.

His success was both amazing and completely unreal. If I was being honest, the level of success he’d reached in such a short amount of time—not to mention the fact that thousands of people now had pictures of me in their homes—was slightly mind-blowing. I had known all along that he would succeed. He had been so passionate about everything he did that it had made sense that his paintings also evoked such a strong reaction.

But, tonight, he wanted me to go to a gala with him. So far, I had declined every invitation, realizing that people wanted to know all about the woman behind the paintings. After all, in a recent interview, one reporter had asked if I was, in fact, real or a figment of his imagination. He had assured the man that I was very real.

Now, he was asking me to confirm it. How could I refuse?

* * *

I tightly clutch the journal to my breasts as I make my way downstairs. I cling to it as if loosening my grip on it might lose my place or, even worse, the words might vanish. It amazes me that Chantel was so reluctant to be in the spotlight only because she seemed so comfortable there when playing Diva and posing for Phillipe.

I know it had to do with the content of the paintings, but really, there is nothing to be ashamed of. Like she wrote, Phillipe Tibideau’s work propelled him into the spotlight, and his brooding dark looks made him a solid favorite when it came to magazine sales. One minute, no one heard of him, and suddenly, he was everywhere, not only with his paintings but as the man himself.

He is the enigmatic, mysterious artist, who is undeniably attractive, and he is the man who every woman wants to pose for, but he wants none of that. He only wants her.

It all begins and consequently ends with Chantel Rosenberg.

* * *

The gala was at 7:30 p.m.

I was sitting up in the studio, waiting on him. He’d left around twenty minutes ago to get ready while I had done the same.

I was dressed in red silk. Phillipe had picked an evening gown the color of Diva’s velvet violin case. He’d told me that my complexion and my dark hair reminded him of Snow White.

It was ironic because we would be tested tonight. Our foundation would be shaken, and for a minute, I would forgot who we were.

Someone would offer up temptation, a whisper of doubt, but it wouldn’t come in the form of an apple. No, it would come in the form of something much worse. For the first time ever, I would doubt Phillipe, and with doubt trickling through my veins, I would feel like I had nothing else in the world.

For that moment in time, I would feel completely alone.

* * *

I finally reach the bottom of the stairs and step into the music room. I move over to the light switch I saw him turn on the other day. The bright lights illuminate the stark white space with the odd-shaped boards on the walls. This is the first time I have been in here alone, and I am almost positive that I can sense her presence here, feeling it stronger than before.

Making my way over to the sound system, I look at the rows of CDs. Each label is different: CR-Canon in D, CR-Requiem for a Dream (Lux Aeterna), CR-Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Winter). This is her collection. This is her.

I look through all of them until one in the back under a stack of books catches my eye. Pulling it out, I read the label, CR-Air. I haven’t heard this one yet, and I’m curious. That’s one of my favorite classical pieces, and Chantel was a musical genius. The fact that she learned to play each of these pieces by ear just makes her even more incredible to me.

Putting the CD in the player, I hit play and wait for the music to begin. Instead of the sweeping strains of the violin, I hear a hell of a lot more than I anticipate.

Suddenly, the room is full of happy laughter. From every corner of the room, a female voice now surrounds me. I stiffen automatically, knowing it is her.

“Really, Phillipe? Give me Diva. Let me play.” Her voice filters through the speakers.

Reaching up, I clutch my throat. My very own breath leaves me, but nothing prepares me for the deep rumble that follows.

“Come and get it.”

“No, you wanted to hear my favorite piece. Remember?”

“Yes, but now, I want you to come here.”

“Well, too bad. You can’t always get what you want.”

Straining with every fiber of my being, I listen to every single second of this intimate moment caught in time. There’s a shuffling noise, and then his voice. The sound is now so familiar, yet in this particular moment caught in time, it’s so completely foreign as it drifts over me.

“Play for me.”

She starts playing.

The room fills with one of the most famous melodies in the world. With absolute clarity, the piece permeates the air so smoothly that there isn’t one part that feels rushed or mechanical. As each rise ebbs and flows seamlessly, it is almost surreal that I find myself likening it to the tides of water flowing downstream.

Chantel plays the piece with such passion that I can only sum it up as this: If the notion of sublime were to take musical form, this is what you would hear.