Unraveled by Him (4 page)

I’ve seen aerial photographs of the large oval lake, overlooked by weeping willows, and in the middle, Hartwell Island blanketed with exotic foliage, all cloaking the purple marble mausoleum that no one apart from Robert Hartwell has ever entered—the last and final resting place of Lady Georgiana Hartwell.

As I follow Mrs. Hatch along another endless corridor, I try to psych myself up to meet the legendary Mr. Robert Hartwell at last.

I know from our telephone conversation that when it suits him, he can be extremely charming. But I am also well aware that it would be a big mistake for me to let my guard down when I meet him face-to-face.

After all, Robert Hartwell may be a tragic figure whose reputation and star-crossed story commands instant empathy and respect, but I’ve already surmised that he is a man who does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and damn the consequences.

Then again, he hasn’t met me yet!

Outside an enormous black wooden door embossed with the initials
RH
, Mrs. Hatch jabs a brass bell by the side of it and marches off.

“Come in,” raps the deep, gravelly voice I remember only too well from yesterday’s phone call.

I push open the door and hover on the threshold, waiting for Robert Hartwell to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits in a black and gold Louis Carver chair at the end of a long, highly polished mahogany table, scrawling something in a large black leather-bound book with a diamond-encrusted Aurora pen. I’ve always dreamed of owning one myself. Fat chance, as it costs over a million dollars

A few minutes go by, and Robert Hartwell is still immersed in whatever he’s writing and doesn’t bother to stop and look up at me.

I make the decision to keep quiet and wait until he acknowledges me first. Meanwhile, I glance around his office, primed to see framed photographs of Lady Georgiana on every surface. But there aren’t any. Too painful for him, I guess. Instead, on the wall behind his desk hangs a portrait of Napoléon, emperor of France, who was of Italian descent. On the desk lies a copy of Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War.

Well, I don’t have to consult the stars to interpret what that all means: Robert Hartwell, who is half-Italian and clearly as authoritarian as the day is long, is a man who not only identifies with one of the most powerful dictators who ever lived, but also studies military strategy.

It’s clear that leaving me to dangle while he ignores me is just another strategy designed to give him even more of an advantage over me than he already has. But even if he didn’t, I have to admit that now that I am in his presence, Robert Hartwell lives up to his role as the hero of the documentary, and more.

Big, broad-shouldered, imposing, in person he has the aura of a man born to dominate other men. In fact, he reminds me of a five-star general I once met, who was considering hiring me. Except that Robert Hartwell is far more powerful, far more commanding than the five-star general, or any other general, could ever be. He is seated (so I can’t tell if he is really six foot three, as legend has it), his posture is ramrod straight, and he is elegant in his black Armani suit and crisp white shirt. On his thick wrist, a solid gold Patek Philippe watch underscores his wealth and prestige.

I flash back to the documentary and the story of the gold Cartier Panthère watch he bought Lady Georgiana, on which he had engraved the letters
G.I.L.Y.
, which stood for “Georgiana, I Love You.” After he witnessed her delight at his romantic gift, he made sure to engrave the identical letters on every single piece of jewelry he gave her forever afterward.

Imagine being so loved and cherished!

Then I notice the ostentatious lapis lazuli cuff links he’s wearing, and his highly polished black crocodile shoes, both flamboyant in the extreme.

Robert Hartwell can be as flamboyant as he likes, but if he doesn’t say something to me in a minute, I’m going to walk out, no matter what.

As if he has been reading my mind, he looks up and stares straight at me.

Instead of being sorrowful or soulful, as I had expected, his large, hypnotic, dark green eyes bore into me like guided missiles fixing on their target.

“Miss Stone,” he says, unsmiling, not bothering with any polite preamble, “so we meet at last . . .”

He is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life, and however arrogant and forbidding he is right now, he simply takes my breath away.

“Yes, Mr. Hartwell,” is all I manage to summon up.

He indicates that I take a seat next to him, and I do.

And then I flush from head to foot. Not because of his reputation, his dark good looks, wealth, and power, or the intensity of his eyes, but because a palpable heat emanates from his body, which is so erotic that I’m rendered practically senseless.

I realize that he is waiting for me to offer my hand for him to shake, only I can’t because I’m paralyzed with sexual arousal. But I know I have to say something, so I search for an original conversation opener.

“What do you think about astrology, Mr. Hartwell?” is all I manage to come up with, and then want to bite my tongue for saying something so idiotic to him.

He raises his eyebrow at me.

“Not much, Miss Stone. Why do you ask?”

I’m about to blunder into a pitch for Grandpa’s astrology book when I’m saved by the bell—literally, as the desk phone rings.

I get up to leave, so as to give him some privacy, but he motions me to stay where I am.

He launches into a long telephone conversation in Russian, while I take advantage of the renewed opportunity to study one of the most famous men in the universe at close range.

I’ve met countless Hollywood stars, so I’m no stranger to charisma, but Robert Hartwell is head and shoulders—both literally and figuratively—above any other man in terms of his sexual magnetism.

His green eyes fringed by unnaturally long, dark lashes are a complete contradiction to the firm, somewhat hard line of his mouth, his muscular, toned body, his broad shoulders, and his big hands.

I flash on what that body, that mouth, and those hands could do to me, along with the all-encompassing power of his height, his strength, his aura of mastery.

I’ve been in the presence of Robert Hartwell for just eight minutes. He’s spoken exactly fifteen words to me.

And I’m already wildly attracted to the man who seems set on making me jump through all sorts of hoops before he gives me what I want.

But judging by his autocratic my-way-or-the-highway attitude, even then he probably won’t give it to me.

He ends his telephone conversation, but just as I am about to speak, the phone rings again, and, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m sitting here waiting, he launches into another conversation.

“Sell the eight million shares now, Cooper, then hold fire. And decide who we are going to send along to London to bid for the Modigliani in person,” he instructs.

Eight million shares? A Modigliani?

Of course! The Hartwell Galleries—one in Manhattan, one in Chicago, and one in Beverly Hills, each housing segments of the priceless Hartwell art collection, all available for the public to see without paying an entrance fee. His gift to the nation, and Lady Georgiana’s, although commentators usually sniped that with her exquisite taste, she, not Robert Hartwell, assembled it.

On a personal level, the list of what Robert Hartwell owns (apart from the jewel in his crown, the world’s most expensive yacht, the
Lady Georgiana
) is never-ending, an avalanche of luxury cars, and planes, and residences: the Santa Barbara ranch, the Geneva château, the Monte Carlo penthouse, the St. Moritz chalet, the Mayfair mansion, the Capri villa, the Fifth Avenue triplex with the helipad on the roof, plus permanent eight-room suites at all three Ritz hotels: London, Paris, and Madrid.

Finally, he ends his conversation with Mr. Cooper and fixes his heat-seeking-missile eyes on me again.

I tense all over.

He’s going to demand I start reading my manuscript to him here and now, this minute, but no way I’m going to unless he agrees to give it back to me first.

“I intend to return your manuscript to you, Miss Stone,” he says, infiltrating my thoughts so thoroughly that I feel utterly powerless against him.

Then he scribbles a deal memo guaranteeing that he won’t disclose the true identity of the author of
Unraveled
to anyone, and signs it with a flourish.

I reach across the table to take the deal memo, only for him to imprison my hand in his so that I can’t.

“Your turn, Miss Stone,” he says, and passes me the manuscript, instead of the memo.

Don’t let Robert Hartwell intimidate you, Miranda,
I hear Grandpa saying, and pluck up my courage.

“Mr. Hartwell, at the very least, please give me the courtesy of explaining why you insist on tormenting me with your outrageous demand,” I say.

“Tormenting you, Miss Stone? I hardly think I am tormenting you. At least, not much,” he says.

“Quite enough for me, Mr. Hartwell. And I’d just like to understand why you want to put me through this . . . this . . .” And words fail me.

“In time, Miss Stone, in time,” he says, and I bite my lip, then rally.

“And the possibility of me ghosting your autobiography, Mr. Hartwell?” I say in as strong a voice as I can muster.

“After you have fulfilled your side of your bargain, Miss Stone. First, though, I’d like you to tell me a little about yourself,” he says.

“What exactly would you like to know about me, Mr. Hartwell?”

“Start by telling me about your father,” he says, and I nearly faint.

How can he know that that’s the first question I ask every celebrity I interview, so as to coax them to open up to me and tell me their secrets? But here is this world-famous billionaire turning the tables on me and asking me the same thing.

Tell Robert Hartwell about my father?

Not if I can help it.

My father. The first man I ever loved, but who never loved me back. At least, not in the way I yearned to be loved. And now Robert Hartwell wants me to expose my deepest vulnerabilities to him by talking about the man who caused me more anguish than any other man in my life?

Yet at the same time, I am flattered to the tips of my Louboutins that the all-powerful Robert Hartwell is interested in me as a person.

Or perhaps he is just doing what Lady Georgiana always did, or so legend had it: focused on each person she met as if they were the only human being in the universe, and enchant them, lock, stock, and barrel.

But I’m not someone Robert Hartwell needs to enchant. Quite the opposite. Because if I want to persuade Robert Hartwell to let me ghost his autobiography,
I
need to enchant
him
, at least a little.

Which is why, although every fiber of my being cries out against it, I decide to answer his overly personal question after all.

“My father? Divorced from my mother. Shrewd, ruthless, charming, and very dead,” I say.

Robert Hartwell takes my hand in his, this time softly, gently. And the tenderness behind his gesture suddenly and inexplicably makes me feel like bursting into tears.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I know at once that he doesn’t mean he’s sorry about my father, but about my reaction to the unexpected tenderness he has just shown me.

Clearly nothing escapes his eagle eyes. And for a moment, I have the uncomfortable sensation that he has the power to see right through me.

I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, because the thought of being transparent to Robert Hartwell is ultradisturbing to me. So is his feeling sorry for me. Unless, of course, the fact that I’ve aroused his sympathy means that he won’t insist on my fulfilling my side of the bargain after all . . .

Then I feel guilty that I’m considering using my father’s death for my own benefit. At that thought, I suddenly experience an inexplicable desire to do what Robert Hartwell asks, to please him, just as I always wanted to please my father but never could.

“Shall I tell you about the last time I ever saw my father?” I say.

He nods in assent.