Unraveled Together (11 page)

But he isn't talking to me, and he isn't fucking me. Right now, I don't even exist for him. All I am is a discarded naked object, cowering under a table.

Now and again, during the night (and Robert was of course right, it is a long night), I fall asleep, but am awoken by the shrieks of another woman in ecstasy.

Is it Robert who has brought her to those heights of pleasure, or is it another man? I don't know. All I know is that I'm here, under the table, and Robert has abandoned me as surely as if he had left me alone in the apartment and flown off on a trip to some far-off country.

I wish he had, that he weren't here, just yards from me, taking his pleasure from any woman he wants, just not me, not me.

My abject position, the loneliness, the rejection overwhelms me, and if I were able to cry right now, I would. Instead, I stay there, under the table, gutted and alone.

Then I give a pitiful moan of pain through the gag. A hand, someone's hand has reached under the table and pinched my ass hard, and then explores it further with insistent fingers. I try to pull away, but Robert has done his job too well, and secured me so tightly that I can't. So I stay there, in place, and submit to the pain and the humiliation.

“Are you sure I can't fuck her up the ass, Robert?” I hear the man say.

“Sorry, Chuck, rules are rules. I haven't broken her in yet, and I'm saving that particular orifice for myself . . .” he says, with a laugh, and for a second, I wonder whether he even remembers my name.

The rejection cuts through me like a knife, but at least he isn't going to hand me over to Chuck.

And then it's over.

A hand reaches under the table, unties me, pulls me out, takes off my blindfold and my gag, and suddenly, in front of me, Robert envelops me in his arms and kisses me with so much passion that it eclipses even my pain and humiliation at what he has put me through.

Then he releases me, and I see that we are alone, and the room is empty.

“But Robert, where are all the people?”

He smiles his all-conquering smile.

“Departed hours and hours ago,” he says, then leads me to a couch by the fire and pours me some champagne, while I try to work out the meaning of his words.

All the people—Chuck, with his cruel fingers—they were here just minutes ago, so how could they have departed hours and hours ago?

“Just a group of actors I hired to have drinks with us, and then leave straight afterward, my darling,” Robert says, and the realization starts to dawn on me.

“But after dinner . . . when I was under the table, and you were . . .”
Fucking most of the women
, I want to say, but stop myself.

He strides over to a console in the corner, flicks some switches, and then I hear the words: “Are you sure I can't fuck her up the ass, Robert?”

I gaze up at him in shock.

“Taped this morning by actors. Auditioning for what might end up being one of the most racy movies my studio has ever produced. Then those few words were spliced together with all the other noises, the sighs of ecstasy, the moans of pain, everything. And all for your entertainment, all for you, for your enjoyment, and for your fantasy,” he says.

Before I can thank him with everything I've got, he changes the subject. “And—now that our games are over—for something more serious, much more serious,” he says, and my stomach turns to liquid with terror.

“Robert, I know I have to explain . . .” I start; then the door bursts open. One of Robert's staff.

“Many apologies, Mr. Hartwell, but the lady on the telephone insists that she has to talk to you right now. A matter of life and death, she says,” and the room starts spinning.

Georgiana! Georgiana is on the line for Robert! It must be her! It must!

Chapter Eight

Robert, the Present

I take the call in my office, my adrenaline still pumping from the scene I just created for Miranda, and cursing the interruption, because I was finally about to interrogate her about exactly why she hid the truth from me.

But the moment I hear the voice on the phone, I'm eminently glad that I took the call: Angel.

Then again, Murray is dead.

Georgiana is in the hospital.

So what the hell does Angel want now?

Money, of course, the greedy little bitch wants money. Lots of it. For twenty-three tapes she found in the safe when she went back to Le Château.

“What kinds of tapes, Angel? And why ask me if I want to have them?” I say.

“Because each one of them has her name on them. Miranda Stone,” she says.

“Is that all they say, Angel?”

“Each one has a number, and the words ‘Interview with Georgiana Hartwell.' ”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, and I'll tell you, but first give me some idea of how much you gonna give me for them? A thousand each?”

I was about to offer her more, far, far more, but she's a blackmailer, so I won't encourage her by upping the ante.

“You've got a deal, Angel, and I'll give you the money when you bring them to me. But first tell me what else is written on each tape.”

“Well, in that case . . .”

I hold my breath.

“Dates, each of them has a date on it.”

“Go get the tape marked one, Angel, tell me the date on it, and then, once you've brought me the tapes, you'll get your twenty-­three thousand.”

Five minutes later, Angel comes back to the phone again, tells me the date written on the first tape, and at that moment the world well and truly ends for me.

Three weeks ago
. Miranda first interviewed Georgiana three weeks ago. On the second day she was imprisoned in the mausoleum.

The day
before
her rescue.

Before Serendipity.

Before Le Salon des Fragrances.

Before Honolulu.

Before I met her parents.

Before all of that, Miranda knew that Georgiana was still alive.

I buzz security.

“Please escort Miss Stone back to the limousine and tell the driver to take her to Hoboken at once.”

Chapter Nine

Miranda, the Present

I don't think I've ever cried as much in my life.

And I don't think I'll ever recover from the shock that the moment Robert finished enacting the intricate fantasy he had created for me, and we were on the verge of settling all our differences, he received a call, and within seconds I was escorted straight out of the castle by security and driven home, without his saying a single word to me or offering me any kind of explanation.

I am sobbing so loudly that at first I don't hear the intercom buzz.

When I do, my first thought is Robert! He must have had a change of heart, he must have! He's come to take me home again!

Too soon, much too soon
, a warning voice tells me.

Quaking with tension, I ask the doorman who is there.

A courier.

A thousand possibilities zoom through my mind.

Flowers from Robert.

Chocolate from Robert.

A note, with an apology from Robert.

After all, he definitely owes me one.

Or at the very least, an explanation after creating such a breathtaking fantasy for me, then suddenly leaving me there standing.

The power of Georgiana, of course!

Next to that, I am no one, nothing.

The tears start to flow again.

My doorbell rings, so I dry my eyes and, clenching my fists so hard that my nails dig into the palm of my hand and really hurt me, open the door.

A courier from DHL drags in the Vuitton trunk Robert bought for me in Geneva, and my own shabby suitcase, the one I took on our first trip with a few clothes and not much else—except for my Magic Wand, which I had wrapped in one of my La Perla robes just in case.

I tip the courier, then fling myself onto the couch in floods of tears.

Then I force myself to get up and open the Vuitton trunk, hoping against hope that there's a note in there from Robert, something, anything, but of course there isn't. He doesn't need to send me a message; the Vuitton trunk and my suitcase are message enough:
I don't want any part of you. Never darken my door again.

But despite that, I still can't help admiring all the beautiful clothes, each piece chosen by Robert, each one selected with a combination of love and lust; first in Geneva, then replaced with duplicates after they were burned to ashes in the Mausoleum.

Nothing is sadder than recalling happy memories in times of sadness; whatever the exact words Dante said, they were never truer than they are now.

I force myself to hang up my clothes, trying to distract myself from my heartache at the way in which Robert has flung them back at me. At the same time, I marvel at the glamour and glitter of my wonderful new wardrobe.

But then my mood turns dark again. He could have waited. He could have given me a chance, given me some warning. But like this? It's a declaration of war, an execution.

I have a cup of coffee and a Kit Kat, calm down a little, and rethink what just happened. In the process, I hit on the truth; I shouldn't have been surprised at the dramatic way in which Robert sent my things back to me without any warning, without a note, nothing, all so final, all so extreme.

After all, this is the man who tosses an $8 million coin through the air without a second thought; this is the man who eats caviar by the tin. This man is drama personified, and so it is natural that he has shut the door on our relationship with such an extreme gesture.

And if I had any illusion that there was a light at the end of the tunnel, the finality of what he has done killed all of that. My relationship with Robert Hartwell is now well and truly over. I am single once more, and alone.

I toss and turn through one of the worst nights of my life. I'll never kneel at Robert's feet again, I'll never feel his tongue down my throat, never look into his eyes and see them burn with ardor and adoration for me. Never again, never.

In the end, I manage to grab a couple hours of fitful sleep. When I wake up in the morning, I feel as if I've been on a fifty-­mile hike. Everything aches, not the least my heart. I'm more than tempted to spend the rest of the day in bed, nursing my psychological wounds and feeling sorry for myself.

No time to wallow, Miranda. Time to turn the page, look to the future, and take on the start of the rest of your life.

I can't let myself go completely and just spend the day brooding, or fantasize about turning back the clock. None of that is me, none of that is Miranda Stone, none of that is the woman Robert Hartwell once loved.

Now I know that his love for me has died, and that he is probably with Georgiana again, by her side, loving her and taking care of her, I won't sit around waiting for him to gallop in on his white horse and save me. Now, more than ever, just as I told myself during the darkest hours in the mausoleum, I have to save myself.

At the same time, I'm surprised I haven't heard from Lindy yet, so I've got no idea what kind of nefarious plan our grandfather has hatched to help me get Robert back. Nor do I really want his help.

Then it dawns on me that the only kind of help I need is the kind that is right here, in front of me. The help of the one ally who has always been there for me, who has never let me down, who has always excited me, loved me, consoled me, made my heart sing and my blood flow faster; my escape from the world, from genuine pain, even from myself: my writing.

So I'll do what I've done many times before: I'll drown my sorrows in my work and start writing the sequel to
Unraveled.

I am about to start writing the first chapter when I remember that my editor, Linda, never got
Unraveled
, and that she hasn't even read it, never mind edited it. And I need to know what she thinks of the first book before I throw myself into writing the sequel.

So I take a deep breath and e-mail her the manuscript.

As I hear the whoosh of the e-mail whisking to its destination, to Linda and to my future, it's as if I've got a sliver of hope after all; as if perhaps one day, in the distant future, I might even begin to live once more.