Unraveled Together (14 page)

He's standing there, his jaw open, shocked beyond his wildest nightmares. Just as he once shocked me all those years ago when he rejected me without a single word of explanation.

Sure, he did it out of fear of the violent monster who severed his finger and threatened to do even worse to him if he ever saw me again, but at the same time, he could have ended our relationship in a much kinder, gentler way, a way that didn't leave an innocent seventeen-year-old girl gutted.

“Shocked right now, Warren? Hurt? Even suffering? Poetic justice is a bitch, isn't it?” I say, then slam the door and leave the building.

Then the realization hits me. I sound just like Georgiana at her most vengeful and imperious . . .

I'm so shocked at my own ability to morph into Georgiana once more that it's only when I'm back in Hoboken, still shaken, that I remember that I didn't get what I wanted from Warren: the identity of the mysterious man who had used violence to warn him to stay away from me. And now I guess I never will.

Chapter Thirteen

Robert, the Present

Mary Ellen bursts into my office, her color high.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Hartwell, I really need to talk to you. I've got an emergency and—”

“Your father, Mary Ellen?” I say, concerned.

She shakes her head, and I'm relieved, as I know how much she loves and needs him.

“May I speak frankly, Mr. Hartwell?” she says.

“Of course, Mary Ellen, I'd have it no other way,” I say, and give her a reassuring smile.

She visibly relaxes and sits down on the couch next to my desk.

“You see, Mr. Hartwell, I—all of us at Hartwell Castle, really—have noticed that the moment she left here, you stopped being yourself—”

I hold up my hand to stop her in her tracks.

“But you said—”

“I know I did, Mary Ellen, but I didn't realize that you intended to speak frankly about—that subject—her . . .” I say, and try hard not to sound as threatened as I feel.

“Well, it isn't exactly about her . . . It's just that . . . well . . . we've got a problem . . . she's at the gatehouse.”

Georgiana! She's escaped from the hospital! But how could she have done with two armed guards watching her 24/7? Impossible!

Could Miranda be at the gatehouse? Surely not? Not after I threw her out, then dispatched her clothes back to her, without another word.
Basta!
No, Miranda won't be crawling back to me anytime soon. Not her. Not in this lifetime. Too much pride. Far too much, if the truth be told. She may be a submissive, subservient, obedient, and willing to take punishment and humiliation, but only in
il nostro mondo segreto
, not in her everyday life.

And one of the many things I love about her is that away from all that, other than when she is in the throes of her sexual submission to me, she still retains her pride. And much as I know she loves me, despite her transgression, no matter how desperately she may want to, she'd never just turn up at the castle, attempt to throw herself on my mercy, and plead for me to forgive her and take her back.

“I'm afraid you've got it wrong, Mary Ellen. Now, please bring me last month's file of the Monaco accounts, as Sagan is about to call from Monte Carlo and I need to have the latest figures in front of me,” I say, firmly closing the door on the subject of Miranda, the pain I feel at her absence, and my curiosity about the fracas currently under way at the gatehouse and who and what might be the cause of it.

Surely Angel hasn't come back again demanding more money? Early this morning she picked up the envelope with the cash in it from the gatehouse and, in exchange, handed the tapes to Jerry, and now they are in my office safe. Not that I've been able to listen to them yet. In fact, I probably never will—the idea of Miranda ghosting Georgiana's memoirs is so abhorrent to me.

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Hartwell, I didn't mean to suggest . . .” Mary Ellen says, and flushes.

“It's fine, Mary Ellen, let's just get on with the business at hand,” I say, making a credible attempt to conceal how much the thought of Miranda at the gatehouse has rattled me.

“It's not her, Mr. Hartwell, it's the other one,” Mary Ellen blurts.

“I want to view the gatehouse monitor right away, please, Mary Ellen, and then all this will be settled,” I say in as calm a voice as I can manage.

And within seconds, in front of me on the screen, the gatehouse and, thank God, not Georgiana, not Miranda, but pretty little Lindy Stone, once again dressed in a bunny-girl outfit. My sense of déjà vu is overpowering. This is how it all began, Lindy at the gatehouse in her bunny outfit, delivering Miranda's manuscript to me. Only this time she is in full flow of arguing with Jerry, my head security guard.

“But I'm not trying to deliver anything to Robert Hartwell this time around. I just want to see him. Just for a second. And no, I don't have a nuclear bomb hidden inside my clothes. Strip me if you want, and I'll prove it,” she says, with a cheeky grin that both reminds me of Miranda and doesn't, because while Miranda is brave and feisty, she is far too cool to be cheeky.

“Don't tempt me, sweetheart,” Jerry says, and winks at her.

I switch on the intercom and boom, “Glad to see you're amusing yourself, Jerry. Now I'd like to have a word with Miss Stone.”

Jerry gulps, but Lindy, fearless as the day is young, rushes over to the gatehouse speaker.

“Wow, Mr. Hartwell, I can hear you, but I can't see you. It's just like talking to God!” she says.

“Ah, but God is merciful and forgiving, Lindy, and I'm afraid that—as your sister is about to discover—I am not.”

“But she doesn't even know I'm here!” Lindy says.

“Don't take me for a fool, Lindy,” I say, convinced she's lying to me. More than that, I'm annoyed that by turning up at the castle dressed the way she is, she's evoked the memory of the fateful day on which she delivered the manuscript of
Unraveled
to the castle, thus launching my relationship with Miranda, for better or for worse.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health.
If only Miranda had leveled with me that Georgiana was still alive, we could be husband and wife by now and basking in the sun on the deck of my yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean. And rather than my having to struggle through this farcical conversation with her sister, Miranda and I could be reveling in our love and passion for each other, and exploring the wilder shores of BDSM together.

Lindy's answer to my brusque comment is to wrap her arms around her pocket-Venus body and shiver.

“Please, Mr. Hartwell, it's really cold out here . . .”

The last thing I want is for little Lindy Stone to catch pneumonia on my doorstep.

“Very well, Jerry, you may escort Miss Lindy up to the drawing room; Mary Ellen will give her some hot tea and then the limo will take her home to—”

“Astoria, Mr. Hartwell. I live there, around the corner from my grandfather. I need to take care of him. He's very sick, you know,” she says.

Yes, in more ways than one . . .

I tense at the thought of that twisted and depraved man being ministered to by this innocent-looking girl, and say a silent prayer that he didn't defile her in the same way he did Miranda.

At that thought, I find myself soften toward Lindy. And after all, by coming here today, she is demonstrating her love and loyalty to her sister, and I admire loyalty. So I throw in the towel and say, “Very well, Lindy, Jerry will bring you into the castle, and then you and I shall have tea together. Presumably you like chocolate cake,” I add as an afterthought, unable to forget my Miranda and how much she loves chocolate.

My Miranda.

Is she still
my
Miranda?

And, more to the point, where exactly is she today? Alone? Or with another man?

I can't bear the thought of Miranda with another man, not even for a second. Until now, she's stayed close to home, but this morning, according to my detectives, she left for the city dressed to the nines, then they lost her car in traffic.

Was she going on a date?

Or to meet with a possible subject of her next autobiography?

No way of knowing.

How in the hell can I have an army of detectives on my payroll and not a single one of them has been able to give me an update on Miranda's whereabouts today?

But until they do, I might as well turn my attention to little Miss Lindy.

Once inside the castle, her face now pink from the roaring hall fire, when I finally ask Lindy point blank if she knows where Miranda is right now, she shakes her head, vehemently.

“No, Mr. Hartwell, Miranda wouldn't tell me where she was going. I just know she's not home,” she says, her guileless blue eyes transparent and clear. She's lying to me, of course, and—unlike her sister—she's not good at it.

Clearly, she is covering for Miranda, and, more to the point, covering for whomever she's with. Miranda with another man? I want to kill him.

“But she did call me . . .” she goes on, and gives me a hopeful smile. “Mr. Hartwell, my mom says that you really, really love my sister, and my stepfather says the same thing, and he's really smart . . .”

“He certainly is, Lindy, and he and your mother are right. I do love your sister. I love her very much. But that doesn't mean I shall ever permit myself to drop my guard with her or trust her again.”

She gives me a blank look.

“I'm sure she's told you exactly what transpired between us,” I say, and then inwardly bet the farm that she'll deny it.

And she does.

Pretty as she is, she's a terrible actress. Besides, my patience is starting to wear thin.

“Lindy, I admire loyalty as much as the next man, if not more, but let's cut the crap. Your sister may not have told you where she's gone today, and what she's planning to do when she gets there, but she sure as hell sent you here to plead with me to forgive her and take her back again,” I say.

“No, she didn't. I swear she didn't,” she cries, and she sounds so sincere that, for a second, I find myself almost believing her.

“So what brings you to Hartwell Castle, then?” I say.

“May I use the bathroom for a moment?” is her response, and I nod and tell her where the nearest one is; then, when she's out of sight, I place another bet with myself: she's in there, either texting Miranda, or calling her . . .

I can feel the excitement build within me. And the hope. Hope, the most dangerous of all emotions, so easily raised, then so equally easily dashed. Because even if Lindy is here on some kind of a mission for Miranda, even if Miranda has asked her to deliver a message to me, how can I ever believe it? How can I ever trust her again?

“Okay, Mr. Hartwell, I'll come clean. Miranda really doesn't know that I'm here, but I do know what she's doing today,” Lindy announces as she comes back into the hall again.

“And?”

She shakes her head.

“She's busy interviewing someone for her book, but I don't know who . . . I'm supposed to meet her for coffee in the city afterward,” she says.

I excuse myself and call my lead detective, instructing him to follow Lindy from the moment she leaves the castle, and then observe her meeting with Miranda and report back to me. I want to know every detail: what she is wearing, her demeanor, anything that might betray how she spent her day, and with whom.

What the hell are you playing at, RH? One minute you vow to yourself that you will never forgive Miranda, banish her from here, then send back all her things. The next you're pulling out all the stops to try to find her. Make up your fucking mind . . .

“It's just that I've never seen her cry so much . . .” Lindy says.

I look at her in surprise and see that her own eyes are suddenly filled with tears.

“She never cried at all before, did she?” is all I can manage.

“Well, she's certainly making up for it now,” she says, and shoots me a reproachful look.

“So what exactly do you want from me, Lindy?”

“To trust me and let me take you to see two people. When you meet the first, you will understand why my sister found it so difficult to believe you'd stay with her and wouldn't up and leave her for Georgiana. The second will tell you the truth about everything,” she says.

“Everything?” I say, and raise an eyebrow.

“That person will tell you things that will change everything. Not just how you feel about my sister, but also what you know about all the rest,” she says.

“The rest?”

“How she got here in the first place.”

I lean back in my chair and give her an appraising look.

“Are you trying to fuck with me, Lindy?”

She shakes her head.

“Mr. Hartwell, my sister told me that you love to gamble. Can I make a deal with you?”

“A deal isn't a gamble,” I say, somewhat reprovingly.

“I know it isn't, but this one is. If I tell you something, Mr. Hartwell, and what I tell you really blows your mind, will you come with me to see the two people who'll help you understand everything about my sister?”

“Your mother and stepfather? But as far as I know, as of this morning they're still in Honolulu . . .”

She shakes her head, not about to show her hand too soon, and I realize that, like her sister, she is far from stupid.

“Not yet, Mr. Hartwell. First you have to agree to my deal.”

I go over to the bar and pour myself a brandy.

“An orange juice or something, Lindy?” I say, remembering my manners.

“If anything, a brandy, but I need to keep my wits about me, so perhaps not,” she says, and I give a faint smile at the implied compliment.

“Do we have a deal, then?” she says.

I nod.

“Okay, Mr. Hartwell, then here goes: remember when I delivered
Unraveled
to the castle in the first place?” she says.