Unraveled Together (18 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Miranda, the Present

The telephone rips me out of my sleep.

It's Lindy. I brace myself to learn the details of the plan our grandfather has conceived so that I will get Robert back, and thank my lucky stars that I'm barely awake and probably won't be able to absorb any of it.

To my surprise, though, she doesn't mention his name at all, but instead is saying something about her birthday, about Mom suddenly sending her a ticket to Honolulu, that she's flying out on the night before her birthday, but that she still doesn't want to miss our birthday lunch.

“So please can we go to Violetta today instead, Miranda?” she says, and I sit bolt upright in bed.

Violetta, today, now? How will I ever bear it?

“Mandy? You promised . . .” she cajoles.

No matter how bad I'm feeling right now, no matter how deep my mortal dread of going back to Violetta once more, I refuse to let Lindy down.

“Of course, sweetie, of course I'll take you there today,” I say; then—much as I know I shouldn't—I secretly cross my fingers and pray that we won't be able to get a table.

“I'll make the reservation,” Lindy says, and I have no alternative but to agree.

Less than ten minutes later, she texts me:
Just booked a table for two at Violetta, 1:15. So excited. Meet you there, Lindy xx

No escape, then.

So I drag myself out of bed, wash my tearstained face, then run a bubble bath.

A bubble bath. Robert always loved for me to take a bubble bath. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I want to, something, anything, always reminds me of him, and I don't know how to handle it.

I try to reassure myself that after all, Warren rejected me, and I handled that and eventually moved on. But then Warren was and is only half the man that Robert is. Not nearly as macho, not nearly as handsome, not nearly as desirable, not nearly as tender during the moments when tenderness comes to the fore, and, of course, not nearly as dominant when it counts.

Besides, my emotions for Warren were like an anthill in comparison to the vast Everest of my emotions for Robert. No comparison, no way, nohow. And next to getting over Warren, I know that getting over Robert will be ten times as hard, ten times as difficult.

And of all the days I've spent drowning in unhappiness because I've lost Robert, today will no doubt be one of the worst. Lunch at Violetta, the restaurant he owns and where we had our first date and were so happy together.

At least he won't be there today, as I remember his telling me that he never goes out to lunch during the week.

“Cuts into my day,” he'd explained.

“But you had lunch with me?” I ventured.

“A once-in-a-lifetime break with tradition for a once-in-a-­lifetime woman,” was his flattering reply.

In any event, I want to look my best for Lindy as, after all, this is her birthday lunch, so—after a great deal of deliberation, and some more heartache—out of all the dresses that Robert bought for me in Geneva, I fix on the Stella McCartney to wear to lunch today.

For a few moments, I toy with wearing my engagement ring—but not on my engagement finger—in particular, the one with the emerald-green stone, the stone that always reminded me of his beautiful eyes. The eyes I'll never look into ever again.

Snap out of it, Miranda. Stop being so sentimental. The very least you can do is put on a happy face for Lindy on her birthday . . .

I decide not to wear my engagement ring after all.

Then I square my shoulders and focus on Lindy's birthday lunch.

Too late to order her a big cake with her name iced on it, but I still call the restaurant and ask whether they can lay on something special to celebrate my sister's birthday.

“If she orders dessert, we'll definitely have a lit candle with it,” the receptionist says, and then she takes my name, and Lindy's.

“Oh, there is something special we could arrange for you, Miss Stone,” she says. “We happen to have a pianist playing at the restaurant during lunch today, so perhaps he could play ‘Happy Birthday' for your sister.”

I tell her that would be lovely, and I'm pleased that even at such short notice, I can do a little something special to celebrate Lindy's birthday.

To my surprise, when I arrive at Violetta a few minutes late, Lindy isn't there either. I debate whether to wait for her in the lobby, but the thought of hanging around in the lobby of Robert's restaurant makes my stomach lurch, so I ask the maître d' to show me to our table.

To my horror, it's the very same table, in the very same alcove, where Robert and I had lunch together all those weeks ago.

I fight back my sobs and sit down facing the wall, leaving Lindy the seat with a view of the spectacular restaurant. She'll get more pleasure out of the scene than I will, feeling as I do right now.

All around me, diners are chatting in low, modulated tones, primarily because the pianist is playing so passionately and so beautifully.

“Tara's Theme” from
Gone with the Wind
.

“Lara's Theme” from
Dr. Zhivago
.

The theme from
Titanic
.

The
Godfather
theme.

I am almost starting to relax and enjoy the medley of film scores, as well as the glass of champagne that the waiter has brought me (“compliments of the house”), when I check my watch and realize that Lindy is now twenty-five minutes late.

Cell phones are banned in the restaurant (typical of Robert, who has always hated them), so I can't text to find out where she is. And I don't want to leave the table, as I expect she'll be here any minute.

So I lean back in my chair, close my eyes for a moment, and luxuriate in the music.

Just as the pianist plays the last few bars of “Somewhere over the Rainbow,” a dramatic, almost reverential hush falls over the restaurant.

And then the pianist strikes up “Hymne à L'Amour.”

In shock, I hide my head in my hands because I don't want the entire restaurant to witness the tears that are about to fall from my eyes.

As I do, swiftly, so swiftly that I don't even have time to react, strong but gentle fingers wrap themselves around my left hand.

In shock, I open my eyes and my green diamond engagement ring glitters back at me from my finger.

I look up, dazzled. And there, standing in front me, only seemingly taller, more handsome, more magnificent then ever: Robert in all his glory.

“Would you rather have lunch here, or on the plane?” is all he says.

And I fling my arms around his neck, oblivious to everyone in the restaurant, oblivious to the tears in my eyes, while he kisses me as I've never been kissed before, and the entire restaurant watches and applauds.

Since we left the restaurant, in the limo to the airport, and on the plane, we haven't stopped talking, and right now, I feel as if we never will. And then I remember Lindy.

“Lindy's birthday . . .” I say.

“We'll all be celebrating it together when we get there, my darling,” Robert says.

“There?”

“London,” he says.

“But my passport?”

“Lindy picked it up from your apartment, along with your engagement ring, while you were on your way here,” he says, and gives me a conspiratorial wink that for a second transforms this sophisticated, macho tycoon into a naughty schoolboy.

“And you know what happens to naughty schoolboys . . .” I say, thinking aloud without meaning to.

Chapter Twenty

Miranda, the Present

The Lady Astor Suite, Cliveden, Berkshire, England

Robert has been banished to the hotel pool under strict instructions not to come back upstairs to the suite until I'm dressed and ready in the beautiful emerald-green dress I've secretly bought for my engagement party. While I'm waiting for my bubble bath to fill to the brim, I lounge on the crimson brocade couch by the vast, ornate open fireplace, watch the flames dancing, as the light streams through the picture windows framing the large terrace already set up for my engagement party. Beneath the terrace, exquisitely landscaped gardens which slope down towards the River Thames in a distance.

As always, I love being in the country of Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Byron, but even more so because this time I'm with Robert. I no longer think of Georgiana at all. Once only when I came into the suite and overheard Robert talking to his head of security back in the States and saying, “As long as the doctors still have her drugged up . . .” did I catch myself almost feeling sorry for her.

But then I remind myself of all the evil she has done and would have done, had she not been stopped, and I don't feel sorry for her any more.

Once I judge that the bath must be ready, I climb in, sink into the bubbles, close my eyes, and drift away on a cloud of dreams and fantasies. The air is thick with the scent of Egyptian jasmine, the water is warm, and the tub is deep enough for me to feel as if I am currently encased in a cocoon of luxury—safe, cosseted, and protected.

In just half an hour, the makeup artist and the hairdresser will arrive, along with the stylist who will put the finishing touches on my extravagantly glamorous engagement dress.

The rest of the suite and the massive terrace are already set up for the reception. They're big enough to accommodate sixty people, but today there will be just seven of us: Robert and me, Mom and Alex, Lindy, Mary Ellen and her husband, Rory.

I'm still massively jet-lagged after the flight, and although I don't want to, floating in the tub, relaxed and happy, I fall into a deep slumber.

The sound of the shower wakes me.

Robert! I'm thrilled, but also annoyed. Why is he up here when he isn't supposed to see me until I'm dressed and ready for the party? And why is he taking a shower up here and not by the pool?

Just as I am about to call his name, the shower stops running. Stranger than strange . . . the ghost of one of the celebrated former inhabitants of Cliveden? The Duke of Buckingham? Churchill? Or even Lady Astor herself?

Or perhaps I'm still dreaming. I close my eyes again, about to grab a last few minutes' rest, then—on instinct—open them again. Out of the corners of my eyes, I see a flash of silver. The air splits apart for a second, and I look up to see a swollen, bandaged face, the eyes and mouth mere slits, looming over me, with a bandaged hand aiming a gigantic knife downward at me.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out.

But instead of slashing down, the bandaged hand holds the knife in midair, taunting me, and if I had any doubts about who the hand belongs to, they are dispelled when I catch a glint of violet eyes behind the bandages.

“Just a few seconds and it will all be over, Miss Miranda Stone—never to be Hartwell. And to think that your genius god Robert didn't figure out that two security guards wouldn't be a match for me. Within days, they were both at my feet, then in my bed, and then I owned them, body and soul. And after that, it was easy. Not as easy though, as it will be when I've disposed of you once and for always, little Miss Miranda,” she says.

“But what will you do then, Georgiana?” I say, trying to stall her.

“Ever the little ghostwriter. A ghostwriter about to become a ghost,” she says.

“You were a ghost once . . .”

“But you, Miss Miranda, aren't me. Only an act of God will stop me from getting what I want, remember?”

“And what do you want?”

She laughs her tinkling glass laugh, and—to my relief—puts down the knife.

“Robert, of course. Robert and only Robert. And for that . . .” she says, then picks up the knife again and starts to run her long fingers up and down the flat side of the blade.

Instinctively, I cover my breasts.

“Ah yes, the crown jewels. Maybe I should cut them off first, then leave them outside the suite for Robert to slip on when he comes to claim his blushing bride. Scratch that; his bleeding bride.”

She raises the knife high above her shoulder.

If I stand up, I'll make myself into an easy target.

If I don't, it will be even easier for her to knife me.

I don't want her to kill me. I don't want to die. But if I have to, let it be fast, let it be painless, let her slash the artery of my neck so it will be instantaneous.

I take a deep breath.

Just as I expect to feel the blade to slice into me, Georgiana lets out a bloodcurdling scream and the knife falls to the ground with a clatter.

To my shock, she crumples into a heap on the floor.

And I see Robert, a fireplace poker in his hand, bringing it down on her over and over again, while I watch, mesmerized.

And then it's over.

“You're safe now, Miranda, we're both safe. And I'll never leave you again,” Robert says, and I know that we are, and that he won't.

Georgiana is now dead and buried. This time, for real, and our nightmare is over at last. Fortunately for me, Robert's trusty P.I. was more loyal to him than the hired security detail Georgiana had seduced—he sent word of her escape just in time, and Robert deduced immediately that there was only one place she would go. Now that I'm sure she can never again come between us, I find it in my heart to pity her at last. After all, in some small way I understand her—twisted and vicious though it was, her love for Robert was in some ways as powerful as mine.

Robert's and my belated engagement party was beautiful, and just a few days later, we were married at last.

This evening, my wedding night in the Duke of Windsor Suite in the Paris Ritz, I feel so strange, naked in the four-poster bed, under the pale-blue canopy, waiting for Robert to make his grand entrance, almost as if I were a shy virgin bride and he my new husband, about to deflower me.

Robert Hartwell, my new husband. My husband, Robert Hartwell. Just the two of us, no more Georgiana, no more shadows. Just us, our love, and our white-hot, carnal passion for each other.

I hear the suite door open. My pulse quickens and blood floods my brain. Robert, in a black satin robe, naked underneath, I know.

“You belong to me, Miranda,” my new husband says, and he's right—and has been from the moment I first set eyes on him.

The throbbing ache between my legs is almost unbearable. Robert slides his fingers into me and gives me temporary relief. Then he stops and leans close to me, whispering, “Say it. Say it now. Say you want me to fuck you!”

“I do. I do want you to fuck me, Master, I do, please, I do.”

“Beg for it then,” he says, with a devilish smile.

I drop to my knees, about to beg him to fuck me, just as he wants me to do.

As I look up at him, my stomach starts to flutter.

“You love being on your knees to me, don't you?” he says, almost accusingly.

I look up at him, so tall, so strong, so masterful, and I find it difficult to breathe, never mind answer.

I manage to nod.

“You know you can't always have what you love, don't you?” he says suddenly.

There is a slight tone of menace in his voice and a raw flash of fear surges through me.

His hand presses into the back of my head.

“On all fours, your ass in the air, your face pressed to the ground,” he says, and I immediately obey but feel humiliated.

This is my wedding night; surely he isn't going to spend it degrading me?
The somewhat disloyal thought goes through my mind. Disloyal because, of course, punishment and degradation are both integral parts of our bond, of what brought us together, along with the passion and the romance.

I yelp out in shock as I feel his teeth nip into my ass.

Then he stops and I feel his hand smack hard on the exact spot that he has just bitten me.

I moan in pleasure.

“Stay in place now, and don't move,” he says.

Then he gets up, goes over to his briefcase, and—to my fury—takes out a newspaper.

A newspaper!

He is going to read a newspaper on our wedding night!

The nerve!

But if that's what he wants to do, I guess I'll have to put up with it.

I shift my position slightly.

“I thought I told you not to move,” he says, and I brace myself for another slap.

But he does nothing.

Instead, he sits down on the four-poster bed, opens his newspaper, then slowly, very slowly, rests his feet on my ass, while I remain silent and in place.

“You make a very useful piece of furniture,” he says, and—over what must be the longest ten minutes of my life—stays there, his feet resting on my ass, and reads the paper.

My breath slows and—probably for the first time in my life— my mind becomes empty, blank.

And as the ignominy of my servile position washes over me, I surrender to it, utterly and completely.

I am Mrs. Robert Hartwell now, the wife of one of the most powerful, wealthiest, and most famous men in the world. I have unlimited riches at my disposal, mansions, castles, planes, yachts, jewels, everything, anything.

Yet tonight, on my wedding night, I am here, on the floor, reduced to being just a piece of human furniture, and nothing else.

And all of a sudden I feel a rush of exhilaration, a sense of freedom—the freedom to live and to be myself, at last.

For as strong as I am in my vanilla life, and as self-directed, this is the real me, the pure me, the me that I want to be, the me that I truly am.

And only Robert—like a high priest, or a guru—can help me to be what I am, to live out my vocation without hesitation or shame, and to soar.

For the more he punishes me, the more he humiliates, the stronger and more powerful he becomes, and the more I am able to be myself, at last.

Gently, he moves his feet to the floor again, but I stay where I am, immobile.

“You may look at me now,” he says.

And as I do, even though he isn't touching any part of me, my heart begins to beat faster, and my breathing grows deep and almost convulsive, as my entire body starts to shake in an earth-­shattering orgasm.

As wave after wave ripples through my body, my heart, and my soul, I lose myself and am transformed into pure adoration, pure spirit, pure submission, and my vocation, my destiny is fulfilled.

Robert takes my hands and helps me to my feet.

“God help me, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone else in this world. All the years, all the loss and the loneliness have brought me to this moment, to you, Miranda,” he says.

Then he kisses me, slowly, searchingly, passionately, tenderly, and I feel the hardness of his body, the roughness of his chest across the softness of my nipples.