Unraveled Together (16 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Miranda, the Present

It's late, and although I've long finished writing the scene in
Unraveled
in which Miranda is at JFK and is confronted by Darren and the brunette supermodel and is torn apart emotionally, I am still on a high and just want to keep writing.

But as always, even though Robert has rejected me, even though I may never in my life see him again, I still can't stop my thoughts from turning to the man I love and start fantasizing about him in all his sexual glamour, his grandeur, and his glory . . .

Robert, a pirate king dressed in full swashbuckler's regalia, on the deck of the frigate he has captured, and I, a princess, now his prisoner, am tied naked to the mast.

As the hot sun beats down on my body, my eyes are riveted by the sight of my captor. Tall, strong, muscular, with flashing eyes and a sense of danger exuding from every perfect pore, he surveys me with such intensity that I feel as if he is going to devour me any moment.

Devour me or whip me.

He approaches me, and my heart flutters with a combination of fear and desire.

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he rubs oil into my feet, my ankles, my legs, my thighs, my stomach, my ass, my back, and my breasts.

His face is now so close to mine that we are almost touching, and then he smiles a devilish smile, and I flinch at the message in it.

“And so, my princess, we find ourselves alone together, so to speak . . .” he says, then, over his shoulder, indicates the crew who are going about their business and averting their eyes from my naked body as he has instructed.

The oil is dripping down onto the deck, and my eyes are drawn to the delicate riding crop Robert is brandishing.

“They are forbidden to look, my princess, but you and I both know that they need to hear . . .”

I gaze at him, almost blinded by his handsome face, the resolve in his eyes, the livid scar on his cheek, the whiteness of his teeth, the broadness of his chest, his rippling muscles.

Then he draws even closer to me and whispers, “As loud as you can, my princess. Loud enough to deceive them.”

I nod.

Then he raises his right hand and slashes the riding crop down toward my breasts, but at the very last split second, he pulls back a fraction so it hardly hurts at all.

But just as he has instructed, I let out a piercing shriek.

Five strokes more, and the two of us repeat the identical show; Robert raises his right hand high, slashes the riding crop toward my body, but at the very last split second pulls back to protect me. Whereupon I scream so loudly that within moments, I am hoarse from screaming.

And then he throws down his crop and motions to one of the maids (a rarity on a frigate, I know) who is in the midst of polishing the railing.

After he unties me, she throws a wrap over me, takes me by the hand, and leads me belowdecks and into the most sumptuous cabin I've ever seen.

Gold, brass, and diamonds everywhere, even on the ceiling. A vast red-velvet-and-gold-covered bed, opulent diamond-studded cushions everywhere, and the potent scent of Egyptian jasmine floating through the air.

Gently, she leads me into a pink-marble bathroom and helps me into the fragrant bubble bath already prepared for me. Then she silently, slowly, almost reverentially washes me from head to foot, dries me, and massages my entire body with lotion scented with Egyptian jasmine.

That done, she leads me over to the bed and motions me to lie down on the pillows. I obey, then close my eyes and drift off to a deep and dreamless sleep.

I am awoken by an insistent throbbing between my legs, open my eyes, and there is Robert, his tongue deep within me, licking, sucking, probing, while I moan in ecstasy.

For a moment, he lifts his head and his eyes meet mine. “Now for the pleasure, my beautiful princess—your reward for taking the pain . . .” He licks his long index finger, then slowly, ever so slowly, inserts it into me and starts thrusting rhythmically.

As the rhythm builds faster and faster, he starts to pleasure me orally again, swirling his tongue around my clitoris at the same time that he thrusts his fingers deep into my—

At that moment, the doorman buzzes me and announces a courier from Hartwell Castle.

I open the front door, fighting the bile rising in my throat, a feeling of doom in my heart. I'm right: a courier with a strongbox containing my engagement rings, and a note.

It didn't take you long, did it?
the note reads.

It didn't take me long? What in heaven's name does Robert mean?

All I know is that when he presented me with the engagement rings—all ten of them—perfect diamonds, all different, yet all in the same settings—he'd said, “For your every mood.”

My every mood? I very much doubt it. Unless, of course, I've forgotten and one of the diamonds is black, for murderous, my mood at this very minute.

It's final then, there is no going back. Robert doesn't want me anymore, and my engagement rings are right here, in front of me, to prove it. There is no hope. It's well and truly over.

Chapter Sixteen

Robert, the Present

I've been as kind to Lindy as I possibly can be under the circumstances, but I still make the entire flight from Miami in silence.

Miranda spent most of the day with Warren Courtney, and I'm fuming.

Miranda back with the man who rejected her without any explanation whatsoever?

How can that be possible?

Sexual masochism is one thing, but to be so masochistic in real life that the moment our relationship is over she immediately runs back to the man who treated her so badly is horrific—and I can't believe that she has sunk so low.

We land at JFK, and just as I am in the midst of escorting Lindy to the limo I've got waiting to take her home, she gives me a pleading look.

“Please, Mr. Hartwell, please, just one hour. One hour with the person who has the key to solving every single mystery,” she begs.

Now that I know that Miranda has run straight into Warren Courtney's arms again, I couldn't care less about solving anything to do with her.

“Please, Mr. Hartwell, you promised,” Lindy goes on, and I can't but admire her persistence.

Out of respect for that persistence, and simply because I admire her loyalty to her sister, I tell her I'll think about it and ask her to call me in the morning.

Back at Hartwell Castle, I check with my operative on Miranda's whereabouts and discover that she arrived home in Hoboken in time to receive the delivery of her engagement rings.

A pang of regret shoots through me.

Regret and longing.

Which is why, at that moment, yearning to hear Miranda's voice again just this once, no matter what, I turn on the tape recorder and start to listen to tape number one, the tape of her first interview with Georgiana.

And when I hear Miranda's voice, loud, clear, and melodious, asking Georgiana the first question, it's all I can do not to pick up the phone and call her, tell her how much I love her, and beg her to come back to me once more.

But I had her escorted out of Hartwell Castle without any explanation and, worse still, sent back her engagement rings as well, so how can I?

Besides, by now she's probably made the decision to commit to Warren once more.

And even if she hasn't, there are still all those unanswered questions.

As I ponder my next step, the tape plays on, and I hear Georgiana's voice.

“Put down the Glock, Tammy, she's decided to behave at last,” I hear her order.

And at that moment, the globe suddenly seems to shift on its axis, and all is right with my world at last. Miranda wasn't in league with Georgiana after all!

Georgiana and Tamara clearly kidnapped her and kept her prisoner in the mausoleum. But while Tamara died in the fire, Georgiana didn't!

Miranda didn't tell me that Georgiana was still alive, but she didn't plot with her against me, either.

She didn't want to harm me, she didn't betray me. She lied to me by omission because she loves me so much and was terrified of losing me.

Not knowing that she never could.

So do I drive straight to Hoboken and ask her forgiveness?

Or has she already moved in with Warren Courtney?

My gut tells me that she isn't back with him again, but I've treated her so badly that I can't be sure.

One more day, one more surveillance by my detectives, and then I'll learn the truth. In the meantime, I pick up the phone.

“Where to next, Lindy?” I ask, hope simmering within me for the first time in days.

That is, until I hear her answer.

The following morning, I've made my decision. Much as I loathe the man, I can't give up now. I can't walk away just as the final curtain is about to fall.

I bite the bullet and agree to meet Miranda's grandfather, the man who defiled her when she was seven years old; the man she came to call “my fairy godfather,” because all through her childhood and teens he showered her with material riches; the former cinematographer who went on to become Georgiana's astrologer at her tony Swiss finishing school; the man whom years later I spied at Le Château, the fantasy parlor in Manhattan.

Was he behind Georgiana's plot to blackmail me? Was he the man who unleashed so much havoc and unhappiness on me and my life?

“He'll tell you what you want to know, he promised. Even Miranda doesn't know the whole truth. But he says that if you come and see him, now that he doesn't have a single thing to lose anymore, he'll tell you anyway. I know he will. And then you'll understand Miranda, and forgive her,” Lindy says.

I take what she is saying on board, but then remind myself that although I am on the verge of forgiving Miranda anyway, there is still Warren Courtney to contend with.

And the truth is that even if Miranda is now moving in with him (and how can I really blame her after I returned all her clothes and her engagement rings to her without even giving her a chance to explain?), the journalist in me still wants to have the answers to all those questions, and to cross every
t
and dot every
i
in this strange and convoluted saga.

“Ever since I told my grandfather you had taken Miranda to Geneva, he insinuated that there was much more to the story. But when I asked, he point-blank refused to tell me, and he still won't. But he says that he'll tell you everything, and a lot more, too, because he hasn't got anything to lose anymore. Two months to live at the most . . .” Lindy says, and her eyes fill with tears.

The limo halts outside the Astoria address and Lindy climbs out.

“I'll come get you once I've told him you're here and that everything's okay,” she says, then runs into a nondescript brick building across the street, leaving me to ponder my upcoming encounter with the man I feel like killing on sight. But no matter how much I hate him, I know that I have no choice but to see him and listen to the truth he appears to want so badly to tell me.

Once Lindy is back, I tell my driver to take her wherever she wants to go, not caring that I'm in real danger of her taking me at my word and commandeering him to transport her to Honolulu and back.

I just want to guarantee that she is as far away as possible from what is about to unfold, and, in particular, from the moment when I unleash verbal hell on that man for what he did to Miranda. I don't want Lindy to witness that, not just because she, for reasons I can't fathom, appears to love him unreservedly, but also because I'm certain that despite her street smarts and willingness to lie when it suits her, on a deeper level Lindy remains innocent, and doesn't have a hint of the terrible wrong he did Miranda. I would stake my life that Miranda has never told her the truth about what he did to her, and I don't want to be responsible for her discovering it.

The door to his apartment is open, but I still bang the gold door knocker in the shape of an owl three times, just to announce my presence.

A thin voice tells me to enter, and I plunge into a dark and dingy foyer, decorated with ornate mirrors, each covered with a muslin veil, plus a few large red vases containing plastic silver carnations. And on the ceiling, a series of dark-green fishing nets, each with a silver globe light trapped in it that casts a low-level glow over the place.

A small bedroom to the right of me, filled to the brim with bright and pretty clothes, a computer, and a collection of books—clearly Lindy's. I don't pause long enough to see any more, but instead carry on to the double doors at the end of the corridor, each with a gold star emblazoned on it.

I rap on the door, again three times, and the same voice as before, only sounding stronger as we are now so eerily close to each other, invites me in.

He's in bed—a bed covered in a red patchwork quilt, astrology books, astrological charts—and next to it, on a big table, is a cluster of crystal balls, spectacles, a bottle of Perrier, and a glass.

I'm now face-to-face with the monstrous man I only ever saw once in my life, the man who called himself William Masters, the man with the narrow, glacial eyes.

Now, however, far from being a shadow of his former self, that same man has a puffy, fat face and thick, fleshy shoulders, presumably bloated from all the steroids he's been taking for his illness.

He holds out a plump hand, each finger, even the thumb, sporting a different gold ring with an astrological motif.

I recoil at making contact with the hand of the man who did Miranda so much wrong all those years ago, but I'm here for a purpose, and insulting this putrid piece of garbage will only hinder it.

So I brace myself and take his hand after all, but make sure to crush it in mine, only stopping short of really hurting him. He stares at me out of his big, bulging eyes, the blue identical to Miranda's and Lindy's, and in them I can see his bewilderment.

Then it clears, and he nods.

“Of course, I should have expected that from the ever-­chivalrous Mr. Hartwell. Besides, I deserve it,” he says, then tries to free his hand from mine with great effort, until I finally release it; the touch of his flesh makes me want to vomit.

I sit on the side of the bed, as far from him as I can, but not far enough to escape the aroma of the Parma Violet pastilles he appears to be sucking. Violets. Georgiana. I almost forgot. Then again, I'm not here for that, I'm not here to talk about her.

A clock in the corner strikes.

“Perfect, Saturn has just hit our mutual north node, Mr. Hartwell. Which is what brings you here to me today. A once-in-twenty-­nine-year transit of the planets that—since the beginning of time—was destined to occur in this minute, and in this place, and about which I've been cognizant for years, just as I have known every single aspect, every single degree of all the planets in your natal chart, and how this transit is destined to impact you. Both of us, in fact.”

Most of what he is saying is gobbledygook to me, but one thing I do remember from my brief spell of writing the astrological predictions for my first newspaper is that the north node governs karma and destiny. And that when Saturn hits the north node, lessons must be learned, scores settled, and ultimately, a price paid for past wrongdoings.

High noon, then, for the man who almost destroyed Miranda.

“We share the identical north node, Mr. Hartwell, although obviously we were not born in the same year. But that doesn't preclude us from also sharing a similar destiny in a certain context,” he says, and I feel nauseous at the thought that he might be talking about Miranda.

“You see, Mr. Hartwell, apart from having the same north node in common—a fairly general occurrence—you and I also have a twin Mars, meaning that we possess dramatic similarities as men . . . Do you grasp my meaning?” he says, voice full of urgency.

I don't think I could answer his question even if I wanted to, because given everything Murray has told me about William Masters. . . I can't suppress the unpleasant thought that perhaps this excuse for a human being is inferring that we are similar in that we have our dominance in common.

He shakes his head.

“But we are not similar in our sexuality, Mr. Hartwell, not at all. In fact, mine is diametrically opposed to yours.”

Before I can process exactly what he means by that—and I'm not sure I want to—he goes on.

“Yes, Mr. Hartwell, you and I are, indeed, very similar men.”

“I very much doubt that,” I snap, before I can prevent myself.

He rocks with merriment.

“Think again. You fell in love with a certain Lady Georgiana Lacely, and married her. And like you, I, too, fell under Georgiana's spell many years before. Although for me, it remained an unrequited love, a love in which she was the queen, the goddess, and I merely her acolyte. But Georgiana isn't our primary common ground, is she . . . ?”

I stay silent.

“Of course, when in doubt say nothing . . .” he says, with a disquieting twisted smile, then goes on. “No, I am referring to the life-altering impact both of us have had, and that you will continue to have, on Miranda.”