Unraveled by Him (3 page)

“Stay on the line,” she says after a second or two. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I start to relax, but then she adds as an afterthought, “I must warn you, Miss Stone, that although Mr. Hartwell is a good and decent man, he is also a law unto himself.”

She’s gone from the phone long enough for me to wonder what it is about Mr. Robert Hartwell that intimidates his personal assistant but simultaneously causes her to feel affection for him.

I haven’t come to any conclusion yet when there is a click on the phone, and a voice I instantly recognize from TV—a deep, gravelly voice, resounding with authority—demands, “Miss Miranda Stone, I presume?”

Grandpa’s words echo in my mind
: Forget about how powerful he is. Forget that he holds your professional reputation in the balance. Don’t be threatened by him. Just be direct!

“It is, Mr. Hartwell. I believe Miss Mead has explained to you that I’m a ghostwriter and—”

“Who is currently secretly plotting to publish a sensational erotic novel, under a fake name,” he says with a chuckle.

Hell, he must have already looked at
Unraveled
!

I blush scarlet.

“Just a sideline, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

“Some sideline! A main event, more like it! Mrs. Mead tells me that the second-biggest publisher in the world—after me—is going to publish your erotic novel,” he says, his voice filled with amusement.

“Yes, Mr. Hartwell. But they haven’t seen the final manuscript yet.”

“Ah, but
I
have, Miss Stone! In fact, your erotic novel is at this very minute on my desk, right in front of me,” he says.

He’s toying with me and loving it. I won’t give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

Assuming my best British accent, recently gleaned from my time in London while ghosting an autobiography for a famous Shakespearean actor, I follow Grandpa’s script word for word: “Mr. Hartwell, I know you are a gentleman. So I hope very much that you won’t make me suffer for my unfortunate mistake. Two weeks ago, I erroneously e-mailed my unpublished manuscript to my little sister, and she, with the best will in the world, jumped to the conclusion that you might want to publish it . . . and—”

“Perhaps I would have, Miss Stone. If you hadn’t already got a publisher, that is . . .” he says, cutting in.

As if Robert Hartwell is in the business of publishing erotic novels! What in the hell is he playing at?

“Definitely a pity that you’ve already got a publisher, Miss Stone. But even more of a pity that you are no longer as dedicated to your ghostwriting as you once were. Otherwise . . .” he says, and then leaves me hanging.

Long silence, until I can’t bear the suspense any longer.

“Otherwise, Mr. Hartwell?”

“Otherwise I might consider hiring you to ghost my autobiography,” he says finally.

Ghost Robert Hartwell’s autobiography, the publishing sensation of the century! I don’t know what to say and cast around for something, anything.

Luckily, one of Grandpa’s favorite phrases pops into my head: “When in doubt, say nothing.”

So that’s exactly what I do.

“Still with me, Miss Stone?” Robert Hartwell says after a few moments.

“Very much so, Mr. Hartwell. But you haven’t told me whether or not you are prepared to trash
Unraveled
and never reveal to anyone that I wrote it,” I say, deciding not to let myself dream about ghosting his autobiography before dealing with the issue at hand.

“First things first, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says, echoing my thoughts in an uncanny way. “Are you acquainted with any Spanish proverbs?”

My initial instinct is to tell him where he can stuff his Spanish proverbs, but that wouldn’t get me my manuscript back, or the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of ghosting his autobiography, either.

“No, Mr. Hartwell, but I’d love it if you would tell me one,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Delighted, Miss Stone,” he says, in a voice laced with sarcasm, then goes on: “Here it is: ‘Take what you want in life, and pay.’ An ancient Spanish proverb which, in your current situation, I’m sure you’ll agree carries a great deal of significance.”

Take what you want in life and pay? What in heaven’s name does Robert Hartwell mean by telling me that?

As if he can read my mind, he says, “Let me make this extremely clear to you, Miss Stone. If you expect me to return your manuscript to you, keep the secret that you authored it,
and
consider you for the extremely lucrative, highly prestigious role of my ghostwriter, you will have to pay my price.”

Questions cartwheel through my mind at a breathtaking pace: His price? Robert Hartwell is a billionaire many times over, so his price definitely can’t be money, can it? So what is it? Sex? No way. Robert Hartwell is hardly going to want to have sex with a ghostwriter from Hoboken with a bust that’s too big for her diminutive frame and a face that some say is quite pretty in a 1950-ish movie-star way, but who certainly isn’t about to rival the iconic Lady Georgiana Hartwell in any shape or form. So what exactly does he want from me?

“Miss Stone, I agree to return your erotic manuscript to you, and to keep your authorship of it a secret. Moreover, I will also give serious consideration to the possibility of you ghosting my autobiography. On one condition, and one condition only: you will meet with me tomorrow afternoon at four thirty, here at Hartwell Castle,” he says.

“Of course, Mr. Hartwell, I’d be delighted,” I say as coolly as possible, given that my heart is hammering so wildly.

“Not so fast, Miss Stone, I’m not done yet,” he snaps, sounding exactly like my high school principal reprimanding me for skipping class, and I cringe a little.

“Now, as to the parameters of our meeting . . .” he goes on, then pauses for so long that if he were in front of me right now, I’d fly at him and force him to say something, anything.

Just don’t make me wait like this, or I’ll explode!

“Being made to wait drives me crazy,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

“I’ll definitely take note of that, Miss Stone,” he says. “And now my price . . .”

I hold my breath.

“I shall fulfill your requests, Miss Stone. But only on the condition that you read the first chapter of
Unraveled
to me out loud, face-to-face, here at Hartwell Castle, tomorrow afternoon,” he says in a tone that brooks no contradiction.

The first chapter of
Unraveled
, as Robert Hartwell well knows, obviously having browsed through it, is sexually explicit in the extreme.

Writing that chapter made me blush. And reading it to myself afterward, I was flooded by a combination of shame and sexual excitement so strong that I broke out in a telltale scarlet flush all over my body.

Stand in front of Robert Hartwell and read him the most scorching material I’ve ever written?

“In your dreams, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

“Very well, Miss Stone. In that case there is nothing else for us to discuss,” he says, and the line goes dead.

Leaving me standing there like a lemon, holding the receiver and shaking from head to foot with anger.

Losing Lady Georgiana must have driven Robert Hartwell out of his mind. And now I’m a victim of his insanity.

After all, why would he make such a bizarre demand of me? A prank? A cruel sense of humor?

But he’s a man who, six years after he lost his wife, still only wears black and is in deep-dish mourning for her, the documentary claimed.

So it’s hardly likely that he’s in the mood to crack jokes or play pranks.

Or is it?

I guess I’ll never know.

And I hate, hate, hate not knowing . . .

Even when I was a small child visiting Disneyland, I ran straight up to Mickey Mouse and tried to pull off his mask, just because I so desperately wanted to discover who or what was hiding behind it. But I never did.

Just as I’ll never discover why Robert Hartwell made such a bizarre demand of me.

And I won’t get
Unraveled
back from him either. Or stop him from outing me as the author of
Unraveled
and destroying my career as a ghostwriter. Worse than any of that, there’s no way I’ll get to ghost his blockbuster autobiography now.

So do I forget that I ever heard the name Robert Hartwell and let the chips fall where they may?

Or do I?

Now that I’m feeling calmer, I realize that if I want to remain true to myself and live up to my favorite saying, the motto that has always governed my actions and my life—“It’s better to regret doing something than to regret not doing it”—there is only one solution.

So I swallow my pride and press redial.

To my relief, Mary Ellen, and not her boss, picks up the phone.

“Mr. Hartwell informed me that you would be calling again, Miss Stone, and asked me to reconfirm your meeting with him here at Hartwell Castle tomorrow afternoon at four thirty,” she says.

Robert Hartwell’s arrogance is monumental. I loathe and despise him already.

Chapter Two

Three in the morning and I’ve just finished Googling Robert Hartwell and finding out as much as I can about him. Some of the information is startling, some shocking, all of it fascinating. But the big surprise for me is that after hours of reading about her legendary life, I’m now well and truly captivated by Lady Georgiana, as well.

And as I drift off to sleep, my last thought is,
Lindy was right. Lady Georgiana really was an incredible, wonderful, once in a lifetime woman
.

Four hours later, and I awake screaming, just as I’ve done many nights as far back as I can remember. It’s always the same; I’m in a deep sleep, then the terror strikes, and afterward the frustration that no matter how hard I try, I can never manage to recall what exactly happened during my nightmare.

I go downstairs and grab a Kit Kat. Then I notice that the red light on my landline is flashing. And as traumatized as I still am by my nightmare, when I listen to the message—“Miranda, darling, this is your grandpa. I was elated by your message regarding your prospective meeting with Mr. Hartwell. Please call me the second you wake up”—I can’t stop myself from smiling. However many times I’ve explained it to him, Grandpa still can’t seem to understand that the moment I hear his distinctive voice on the answering machine, I
know
it’s him.

I go to bed again but set my alarm for eight, planning to call Grandpa at nine, as he’s always wide awake by then. But he calls again when I’m in the shower and leaves another message: “Miranda, darling, this is your grandpa, again. As you are meeting with Mr. Hartwell this afternoon, I checked his chart again and made a fascinating discovery. It transpires that he and I have an interesting astrological link.”

Great. Robert Hartwell is making insane demands of me, and now Grandpa thinks he’s going to become his best buddy!

Then again, I guess there’s no reason why not. After all, he was Lady Georgiana’s astrologer once upon a time, wasn’t he?

So when I call Grandpa back, I start by asking him the obvious question: “Didn’t you meet Robert Hartwell when you read Lady Georgiana’s stars, Grandpa?”

“Hartwell never knew of my existence, Miranda. Georgiana and I always met in secret, because she was fully aware that he would despise her for consulting an astrologer,” he says.

“What a tyrant!”

“An apt characterization, Miranda. However, I have given your meeting with the great and powerful Mr. Hartwell a considerable amount of thought.”

“Thank you, Grandpa,” I say, and mean it.

“I hope you will not think me self-serving, Miranda, but it has occurred to me that—provided you leave Lady Georgiana out of the equation and never mention my past professional relationship with her to Robert Hartwell—down the line in your acquaintance, he may perhaps be amenable to publishing
Star Signs
. And you of all people know exactly how much that would mean to me.”

I certainly do.
Star Signs
, the astrology book I ghosted a few years back as a favor for Grandpa, was really close to his heart. But despite investing all his hopes in it, he never managed to get it published. I know that it would mean the world to him, both emotionally and financially, since he lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, if Robert Hartwell agreed to publish it.

“Your silence tells me that being the good-hearted girl that you have always been, you have already come up with the identical idea, Miranda, and I intend to reward you for your thoughtfulness,” Grandpa says.

“Grandpa, I—”

“Not another word, Miranda. I intend to meet you in Manhattan in three hours’ time. And then I plan to escort you to your favorite vintage store and buy you a designer outfit to wear to your encounter with the formidable Mr. Hartwell, after which I shall drive you out to Hartwell Castle myself. And I categorically refuse to take no for an answer.”

Five hours later and I’m on the LIE, risking life and limb.

“You look lovely in the Chanel, Miranda,” Grandpa says, then swerves, attempts to pass a truck, and narrowly misses slamming into it.

The only way to get through this, Miranda, is to keep your eyes shut till we get there.

As I do, the image of Robert Hartwell swims through my mind: tall, dark, handsome, exuding power, as if he were the ruler of some far-off country. Then the image of Lady Georgiana flickers in my mind, blonde, beautiful, and willowy, a Greek goddess incarnate.

Bad luck that I’m small like my father, not tall like my mother . . .

I flash to long ago, when she was a catwalk model in Paris. The best time of her life, she always says. When I was very young she spent hour after hour poring over
Vogue
with me, teaching me to identify and appreciate the creations of the world’s foremost fashion designers. Not that I could ever afford to buy any of their clothes, but my knowledge of high fashion served me well when I became a ghostwriter—complimenting a star on her vintage Balenciaga was always the fastest way for me to bond with her and win her trust.

“Can’t wait to tell Mom you blew your last dime on buying me a vintage Chanel suit, Grandpa,” I say, smoothing down the navy blue skirt, which might be the last word in French chic, but which, I’m forced to admit, makes me look more prim schoolteacher than Greek goddess.

“Call it an investment, Miranda! You can’t meet the widower of one of the ten best-dressed women of all time without looking the epitome of a best-selling author. And it’s the least I can do for you when you’re braving the dragon in his den and also trying to get him to publish my book!” Grandpa says.

“I’ll give it my best shot, Grandpa, I really will. You sure deserve it,” I say, and mean it. He was always a second and better father to me than my own; dried my eyes when my first date stood me up and told me that it was my date’s loss, not mine; encouraged me to become a writer, and has never in my entire life let me down, so there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.

As we pull off the highway the gargantuan iron gates of Hartwell Castle come into view, the ornate bunches of wrought-iron flowers adorning them, each flower with an electric light in the center of it, glittering in the afternoon sun.

“Violets. The color of Lady Georgiana’s eyes. And reminiscent of Georgiana Royale, the violet-scented fragrance Robert Hartwell commissioned in Paris as an engagement gift for her. Her signature scent, created exclusively for her and only her,” Grandpa says in a hushed, reverential voice.

“And after it happened, Robert Hartwell smashed all the Baccarat crystal bottles of Georgiana Royale in existence and destroyed the formula so that no other woman would ever wear it,” I add, quoting from the research I did last night.

“And no other woman ever did,” Grandpa says, his eyes suddenly so bright and brimming over with emotion that it strikes me he might have been in love with Lady Georgiana, if only from afar. You couldn’t blame him, of course—so was half the world.

As we get closer to the castle gates, they swing open as if by magic. A burly security guard in a dark blue uniform approaches, checks my ID, and waves us up a wide driveway shaded by oak trees on either side, leading up to the highest point in Long Island, and Hartwell Castle.

Halfway up the driveway I see a koi pond on our right, dominated by an iron sculpture of a dragon, with blazing electric lights for eyes, and water gushing out of his jaws. I’d love to ask Grandpa to stop the car so we can look at the fish and admire the dragon waterfall, but I don’t want to be late.

So we carry on up the long and winding driveway, past a group of marble statues of nude women, then round a big bend, and suddenly Hartwell Castle, a gray stone fortress modeled on England’s Windsor Castle, and unlike any other residence ever built on this side of the Atlantic, comes into view.

Grandpa stops the car at the moat and wishes me luck.

“Remember, Miranda, the main priority is you and your career. Only mention my book after your relationship with Mr. Hartwell is consolidated. After which, according to the planets, only the sky will be the limit.” He lets me out of the car and drives off to the local mall, where he is going to wait for me.

For a few moments I linger outside the castle, puzzling over his throwaway line—the sky will be the limit. For me? For Robert Hartwell? For all of us? I wonder.

Then I focus on Hartwell Castle’s turreted facade; I’m awestruck by its grim splendor. During my time as a ghostwriter, I’ve met with a Hollywood star in his Pink Palace, which lived up to its name in spades; with Trump at Mar-a-Lago, while fountains splashed and violinists serenaded the guests; and with a South African tycoon at his multimillion-dollar beachside estate as porpoises played in the Atlantic Ocean under his terrace; but nothing has prepared me for the sheer scale of Hartwell Castle.

As I clutch the drawbridge railings and cross the moat, trying to keep my balance, I say a silent prayer that Robert Hartwell isn’t standing by one of the castle windows, watching me totter along in my Louboutins.

I expect to find an English Beefeater standing guard outside the iron portal, brandishing a sabre, but I am wrong. The door is open, and unguarded.

Biting my bottom lip, I step gingerly into an enormous oak-paneled baronial entrance hall with a vaulted, wooden-beamed ceiling and violet and gold stained-glass windows. I hope fervently that the kindly Mary Ellen Mead will be here any second now to make me feel more comfortable.

My heart sinks when, instead of Mary Ellen, I’m confronted by a tall, strapping, hard-faced woman with a helmet of raven hair, and wearing a severe black dress with a white collar and cuffs.

The maid?

Her imperious “Miranda Stone, I gather?” and the way in which she looks me up and down as if I were Typhoid Mary makes it obvious that this amazon of a woman is far more important than that. I get the distinct impression that she expects me to curtsy to her.

“Mrs. Hatch, Mr. Hartwell’s housekeeper,” she announces, and holds out her large hand for me to shake.

When I do, her grip is so strong that I look at her in surprise, only to be met by coal-black eyes, glowering at me scornfully.

Mrs. Hatch? Mrs. Hatchet-Face, more like it.

Without a word, she crooks a finger in my direction imperiously, beckoning me to follow her, as if I were beneath contempt.

Clearly, Mrs. Hatch, a woman I don’t know from Adam or Eve, really dislikes me and I don’t understand why.

Oh, but you do, Miranda! She obviously knows about the bunny girl and your erotic manuscript. Or else she’s just a prize bitch . . .

Feeling like an errant schoolgirl, I trail after Mrs. Hatch as she marches toward a dramatic horseshoe-shaped staircase, the balustrade garlanded with romantic curlicues.

The glamorous sweeping staircase featured in the documentary!
Lady Georgiana Hartwell, swathed in purple chiffon, posing at the top, her blonde hair long and flowing, and Robert Hartwell, his strong arms wound protectively around her, holding her tight, while she gazes up at him, her violet eyes aglow with hero worship.

I push the image from my mind and instead concentrate on negotiating the stairs without falling down them headfirst and breaking my neck, which Mrs. Hatchet-Face would probably love.

At the top of the staircase, she deposits me in a small office, sparsely furnished but with a Monet on the wall—thanks to my college art history classes, I can tell it’s the genuine article—and stomps off without another word to me.

I couldn’t be more glad to see the back of her.

As I wait, I prepare myself for Mr. Hartwell’s first move.

I remember from the documentary that apart from all his other accomplishments, he is also a champion chess player. Whereas I can just about hold my own at checkers.

But I’m not going to let him get the better of me. I’m here at Hartwell Castle, and no matter how famous, wealthy, and handsome Robert Hartwell is, I’ve made it this far, so I am going to do my best to get what I want without letting him bully me into reading
Unraveled
to him out loud. I’ll think of something, anything, to avoid it.

While I’m in the midst of giving myself a pep talk, Mrs. Hatch slams back into the office again. Without a trace of a smile, she announces, “You’ve been summoned,” as if I’m bound for the gallows.

Which I probably am.

As I follow her along endless oak-paneled corridors hung with a series of gold-framed oil paintings of nymphs and satyrs cavorting together on pink fluffy clouds, then up a number of narrow staircases, I start to dream about ghosting Robert Hartwell’s autobiography.

Of course, with his journalistic background, he is eminently capable of writing it himself. But what with running his global empire, he probably can’t spare the time.

And suppose, by some miracle, that he hasn’t been put off by
Unraveled
and is serious about hiring me as his ghostwriter? I’d be in ecstasy. Robert Hartwell’s autobiography would be a guaranteed blockbuster.

After all, he’s certainly lived a life worth immortalizing, a life full of drama, excitement, and, above all, tragedy.

The aftermath of that tragedy is all around me at Hartwell Castle. So although I am concentrating hard on not tripping over the thick, plush scarlet carpet, I can’t help but peek out of the purple and gold stained-glass windows and into the dazzling rose garden outside, and beyond, to the ornate bridge over the stream, which I know is wending its way toward Hartwell Lake and, in the middle of it, Hartwell Island.