Unraveled by Her (3 page)

All I can do is pray that nothing bad has happened to him, and that nothing ever will.

I'm currently trapped in a prison, so there is nothing that I can do right now to rescue him from whatever terrible fate these monsters have got in store for him, and the thought makes me want to weep.

No time to wallow in
futile displays of emotion,
I hear Robert's voice say to me, loud and clear.

Time to work out how to get out of here, because my fate is obviously all down to me, and only me.

In an attempt to take stock of my surroundings, I crane my neck and check out the adjoining bedroom. The big double bed is covered by a red fox-fur coat, a black leather military-style greatcoat, boxes of Georgiana Royale, and an open Vuitton beauty case with a mirror in the lid, filled to the brim with makeup.

For a second I feel as if I'm back in college again, about to be introduced to my two roommates and hoping fervently that we'll all like one another.

Almost as if she can read my mind, Georgiana gives me a friendly smile, whisks into the kitchen, and, after a few minutes, serves me a steaming cup of coffee.

“Thank you, Georgiana, I appreciate it,” I say, as disarmingly as I can manage.

If she unties my hands so that I can drink the coffee, I'm going to fling it straight into her fucking face . . .

But she's clearly much too canny to make the mistake of doing that.

Instead, she holds the mug close to my mouth and waits patiently while I drink the coffee.

Then she opens a suitcase in the corner that I hadn't noticed up till now and pulls out my vintage green dress (the same one I wore on my first lunch date with Robert, at Violetta, his restaurant in the Hartwell Gallery), underwear, and some flat shoes—not my usual stilettos.

Pity, as stilettos could have been a perfect weapon . . . but Georgiana was clearly smart enough to figure that out, which is why I'm stuck with flats.

“Good, Miranda, good. Now let's get started,” she says, after she's unshackled me and given me some momentary privacy in which to get dressed.

When I come out of the bathroom, she takes me by the hands. “Beautiful,” she says, running her fingers up and down the back of them, first the left and then the right.

Even from across the room, where Tamara is now back at the desk, polishing the barrel of the Glock, I can tell that she is bristling.

“Feeling better now, Miranda?” Georgiana asks in a voice so warm and friendly that I wouldn't be surprised if Tamara jumped up and stabbed her.

If only . . .

“Very much, thank you,” I say.

My politeness is rewarded by Georgiana cuffing my right hand to another chain and attaching it to a chair leg, leaving my left hand free.

For a second I toy with flying at her to claw her eyes out. But what would be the point, with the trigger-happy Mrs. Hatch watching me like a hawk, and the killer guard dog, Pluto, probably about to tear into the room any second and go for my throat?

Before I can ask Georgiana to define what she means by “get started,” Tamara yanks my hair so hard that for a second I'm afraid she'll snap my neck.

“Over to the desk, bitch,” Tamara says. She forces me over to it, pushes me down on the chair, and slams a Montblanc fountain pen onto the desk so hard that I'm surprised she doesn't dent it.

Montblanc, the pen I used to write those interminable lines Robert ordered me to do over and over during my fourth dungeon test!

That, though, is the happiest of all the memories I have that are associated with Montblanc. My memory of Mont Blanc itself, the mountain that looms over Geneva, is tarnished by that terrible night on which Robert and I were so blissfully happy, and then that mysterious purple funeral wreath was delivered to him bearing a warning against me.

A purple mausoleum. A purple wreath, which sowed bitter distrust of me in Robert's heart, and shattered our romantic idyll.

“So did you send Robert the wreath, Georgiana? Or was it you, Tamara?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.

“Gigi sent it,” Tamara says, and smirks.

Gigi? Gigi—the beautiful doe-eyed Geneva boutique assistant who couldn't keep her hands off Robert even as she helped select the spectacular designer wardrobe he bought for me. Why on earth would she want to send Robert the purple funeral wreath that drove him away from me and almost destroyed our love forever?

“But why in the hell would she send that wreath to Robert?” I ask.

“Very simple: Tammy, Gigi, and I all attended Les Orchidées finishing school in Switzerland together, and, like the Three Musketeers, we made a pact that for the rest of our lives we would look out for each other, come hell or high water,” Georgiana says.

The next moment, she swiftly removes my restraints with the expertise of someone accustomed to locks and chains.

Le Château. I wonder . . .

But before I can follow my train of thought to any kind of logical conclusion, she massages my wrists until the blood flows painfully back into them.

My hands are free now.

Shall I go for her eyes? Her throat?

Just as I am weighing the possibilities, I hear a ferocious bark and brace myself to be attacked by the Rottweiler or Doberman I assume is slavering outside. Tamara jumps up and flings open the mausoleum door—whereupon the tiniest and cutest miniature white poodle I've ever seen in my life charges toward me.

A miniature poodle! The evil Mrs. Hatch has a miniature poodle! Then again, Hitler loved his dog, Blondi . . .

Tamara scoops the poodle up with one hand. “There, there, Pluto, Mommy will take care of you,” she says, and showers him with kisses.

Out of the blue, Georgiana produces a pair of thin latex gloves, puts them on, and passes the other pair to Tamara, who follows suit.

Then Georgiana places a large piece of beige writing paper in front of me, and I stare at it, nonplussed.

“Write exactly what I tell you,” she says.

“I'm a ghostwriter, Georgiana, not a secretary. I don't take dictation,” I snap, before I can stop myself.

I feel the muzzle of the Glock dig into the back of my neck, and my blood freezes.

“You do now, bitch,” Tamara says, ramming the Montblanc into the palm of my hand and closing my fist around it in an iron grip.

The pen feels like a lead weight in my hands. But perhaps I could scratch her eyes out with the nib . . .

Though if I do, she'll probably go into shock and fire the Glock straight at my head.

Or else Georgiana will grab it from her and shoot me on the spot instead.

“Just tell me what to write,” I sigh, resigned, at least for the moment, to the sheer hopelessness of my situation.

“That's more like it. You and I have so much in common—not just our look, but a certain Mr. Robert Hartwell as well. Nonetheless, I must warn you not to defy me, otherwise there will surely be tears at bedtime,” Georgiana says.

Defy you, bitch? I'd rather stomp all over you.

“Now, Miranda, I know only too well that your writing isn't the most legible . . .” she goes on, and polishes the amethyst mirror with her handkerchief.

How does she know that? More to the point, why does she want me to know that she knows?

“In this case, sweetie, it's crucial that you do your best and write as clearly as you can. So take your time, and concentrate on the task ahead of you,” she orders.

I'm tempted to reply, “Yes, Pamela”—the alias she used when she worked at Le Château as a professional submissive—just to show that I know all about her dark descent into an S&M fantasy parlor.

Bite your tongue, Miranda, until you've discovered what the fuck is going on.

“I'll do my best,” I say.

She lights up with the kind of enchanting glow she probably routinely projected in order to charm the guests at her legendary Hartwell Castle parties. I hate it—and her.

“About time, Miranda. Now start with the following . . .

“ ‘My dearest Robert, There is no easy way for me to say this, but please don't try and find me, because I never want to see you again as long as I live.' ”

Chapter Three

My hand is paralyzed in midair.

“Please don't force me to write this to Robert, please. I just can't do it. I can't!” I burst into tears at the utter nightmare in which I'm trapped.

“Just do it, bitch!” Tamara grabs me by the shoulders and shakes me so hard that my teeth chatter.

“Stop it, Tammy!” Georgiana says, yanking her off me, and for a second I wonder who in the relationship is the dominatrix and who is the submissive.

She puts her arm around me, and I practically choke on the sweet and sickly scent of violets. The unwelcome assault on my senses serves to stem my tears, and suddenly I have an idea that I hope will stall her in her tracks and buy me some time.

“Now that your eyes are blue, Georgiana, do you still love the color violet so much?” I say, attempting to sound genuinely curious, when all I really want is to grab Tamara's Glock and shoot her in the heart—if she has one, that is.

“Always,” she says.

“Because you have violet eyes?” I say.

“Oh, the real reason is far more interesting than that!” she says, her eyes alight at my question. Terrified as I am, I suddenly flash back to Palm Beach, strolling by the shores of the Atlantic with Robert, and telling him, “Much as I love it when you spank me, whip me, dominate me, Robert, I love just talking to you almost as much.”

And he gave me his Robert Hartwell King of the World smile and said, “Unique as you are, Miranda, I can't help but think of Napoléon's finest seduction tactic: ‘Give me the ear of a woman and I have that woman . . .' ”

At first, I was insulted that he'd pigeonholed me as a silly, susceptible woman, but then I remembered my ghostwriting experiences and was forced to admit to myself that he was right. It isn't just women who are seduced by conversation, but men, too—­especially when someone asks them about themselves.

Lucky for me, Georgiana is no different and is clearly delighted at the chance to hold forth about herself.

“Bring us some tea, Tammy,” she says, as if we are at afternoon tea in the Palm Court at the Plaza.

As Tamara skulks toward the small kitchen, Georgiana takes both my hands in hers, looks deep into my eyes, and, in a husky whisper, says, “You may think that I'm drawn to violet and violets because of my violet eyes, Miranda. But that isn't the truth . . .” She pauses for a long time, presumably for dramatic effect, while I sit there and feign interest in what she is about to say.

Tamara deposits two cups of tea in front of us.

Time to fling the tea in Georgiana's face?

I'd love to, but I can't risk it. She's so much taller than I am that it would probably miss her face and spill all over her chest instead, which wouldn't do much damage at all. There's no way I could overpower her and Tamara all on my own, and I have to accept that reality, much as I kick against it.

As Georgiana gushes on with her story, I force myself to drink my tea without gagging at her self-involvement. At the same time, I'm glad that I've succeeded in diverting her from her plans, if only for a short time.

“So why do I love violet and violets so much, Miranda? Let me tell you . . . I was fifteen years old, as innocent as the day is young, and in New York on vacation. In fact, I wish I still had a snapshot of myself that hot August morning. Me skipping along Fifth Avenue in a sweet little pink and white checked cotton summer dress, with delicate pearl buttons set in a frill that ran down the front.

“Outside Saks, an old man was selling tiny little bunches of violets for a quarter a bunch. I was broke, but they were so pretty that I couldn't resist.

“ ‘Let me help you,' the old man said, and moved closer to me, the violets in his wrinkled hands.

“I stood still. Then he leaned down to pin the corsage on my dress. All of a sudden, with lightning speed, he slid his fingers inside the front of it and pinched my left nipple, hard.

“That old man selling violets on Fifth Avenue pinched my nipple, and old and ugly as he was, he afforded me the first sexual thrill of my young life. Forever afterward, I always remembered that moment, and that thrill intermingled with the scent of violets.”

“What a riveting story,” I say, after I've digested her strange, dark revelation. “What gave you your first sexual thrill, Tamara?” I ask, as an afterthought.

Then I flinch at the butt of the Glock digging into the back of my neck again.

“Nice try, Miranda . . . Start writing!”

“Tammy is quite correct, cupcake. Plenty of time for social niceties after you've finished writing the letter,” Georgiana says.

She settles back in a cream leather armchair and, almost as if she were instructing a class in flower arranging, says, “Now, Miranda, pay attention. Write exactly what I tell you, word for word.

“ ‘My dearest Robert, There is no easy way for me to say this, but please don't try and find me. There is no point, because I never want to see you again as long as I live. And even if you—with your stubborn, determined nature, which I know so well—persist in attempting to find me, I no longer love you. In fact, I never did.' ”

“But he'll never believe me, not in a million years!” I burst out.

“Oh, yes, he will, once you've told him everything in exactly the terms that I am about to dictate to you,” Georgiana says, just as Tamara digs the barrel of the Glock so deep into my neck that it takes all my willpower not to cry out in fear.

I'm trapped.

Held hostage by two maniacs.

No way out.

So I grit my teeth and start writing. “My dearest Robert . . .”

But I just can't go on, and I slam the pen down on the desk.

“He won't believe me. He won't!” I say, as the tears stream down my face.

“Shut the fuck up and keep writing,” Tamara says, with a vicious twist of the Glock barrel against my right ear.

In fear for my life, like a robot trapped in a nightmare, I write the words Georgiana orders me to write.

“. . . By now you will have awakened from the drugged sleep after I dosed your champagne . . . and then shot you up with the tranquilizer gun, all done because I had to make my getaway, darling.”

I can't bear the terrible lies that Georgiana is forcing me to write, and my hand is shaking so badly that, without intending to, I drop the pen.

“Keep writing, bitch,” Tamara says, and rams the pen back into my hand again as Georgiana resumes her dictation.

“My photographic memory means that I remember all the accusations you threw at me on that terrible night in Geneva . . . And remembering them, I can't help but be amused by the irony of how close you were to the truth . . .”

Georgiana and Tamara exchange loaded glances, and Tamara sniggers.

“Lucky we had the hotel suite bugged,” she says, then gives me a vicious shove in the rib with the Glock handle.

“Robert, I could repeat every single lacerating word you threw at me on that terrible night in Geneva. I won't go into details here, because in my heart I know that you must remember what transpired between us only too well.

“So I'll just summarize; you accused me of being a trickster who somehow discovered that you were a seasoned dominant who hadn't had a submissive for years, and consequently decided to use your desires as a way of getting my hands on your fortune.

“You accused me of enlisting my sister to storm Hartwell Castle and deliver the manuscript of
Unraveled,
the erotic novel I wrote. When, of course, I knew full well that it would excite you immeasurably. And once you had it, I faked a burning desire to get it back from you as an excuse for gaining admittance to Hartwell Castle, to meet you and to steal your heart.

“After that, you flat-out accused me of pretending to be a submissive in order to get a financial hold over you. Moreover, you accused me of inventing my BDSM relationship with Warren Courtney, my first lover, and of inventing my night at the Carlyle with the Master whose face I never saw and whose real name I never knew. And that my grand plan was to lure you into my ‘spider's web,' as you called it.”

I'm writing so fast, yet so carefully, that initially the words don't really sink into my brain. And when they do, the horror of what Georgiana is forcing me to convey to Robert strikes me as hard as if Tamara had hit me over the head with her Glock, which I'll bet she'd love to do.

“Continue writing, please,” Georgiana says. “ ‘The reality, Robert, is that you were right. Everything you accused me of was the truth. I was faking submission in order to get a financial hold over you. I did make up the story about Warren Courtney, about my night at the Carlyle with the Master. I made it all up. Every single word of it.' ”

“But that's a dreadful lie!” I burst out. “Robert will never believe that I'm not a real submissive. How could he, when I sailed through those five tests of my submission?” The blood throbs so hard in my veins that I'm afraid they'll burst.

“By the time he's read your letter, he will, mark my words,” she says darkly, and then carries on dictating in her queenly voice.

“Start a new paragraph: ‘But I took you in, Robert. How? Perhaps because, like Georgiana, I was always an actress. Most of all, because the mile-high dollar signs I saw whenever I looked at you made everything—the pain, the punishment—easier to bear.' ”

“ ‘The mile-high dollar signs I saw whenever I looked at you' is exactly the way in which Robert described that greedy man Murray, the owner of Le Château, who introduced him to Pamela—or rather, you—looking at him whenever he went to Le Château!” I say.

“Most perceptive of you!” she says, with a light laugh.

“But Robert will know I didn't write that letter! He'll know!” I say, exultant.

“The only thing he'll know, Miranda, is that you cleverly recalled the exact phrase he used when he described Murray to you. Whereupon you craftily appropriated the identical sentiments for yourself and repeated them in this letter. And, knowing Robert as I do, I can assure you he will take that as yet further evidence of your innate cunning, your perfidy.”

She's right. Of course he will. He'll think that about me and a million worse other things as well.

“Not much more to go now, so let's finish and be done with it. Next paragraph: ‘I bore it all, the punishment, the pain and the humiliation, Robert, because I knew that if I did, you would immediately hire me to ghost your autobiography and that I'd make millions from it. More than that, I knew that if you believed that I was the submissive of your dreams, you would trust, love, and marry me, and I would become Lady Miranda Hartwell, with all the fame and fortune that entailed.' ”

Robert will never believe a word of this. He can't.

“Don't stop, cupcake, time waits for no woman,” Georgiana says, and if my chain were long enough to reach her face, I'd punch her. But it isn't, so I clench my right fist, and with my other hand write the words she orders me to.

“That's what I planned, Robert, that's what I intended. But then I became enthralled by you, with everything you are, your godlike body, your handsome face, your strong, commanding voice, your piercing green eyes, your power, your glory, everything.”

“And now the final paragraph, the—what do the French call it?—coup de grâce. Take this down word for word: ‘Robert, because of everything you are, everything you do to me, you have captivated me completely. And that, as I'm sure you know, is my greatest fear, the fear I've lived with since my childhood. Of being captivated, out of control, and consumed by the all-embracing terror that once I show you how much I love and need you, you will abandon me without another thought. I just can't risk that happening to me, Robert, I can't. Which is why I had to leave you, before you could leave me. Please understand, and forgive me.' ”

As tears flow from my eyes, Tamara snatches the letter away from me and passes it to Georgiana.

“Let me read it through one more time before she signs it,” she says.

And she does, enunciating every syllable in her best cut-­crystal
Downton Abbey
way, while I sob as if my heart was breaking. Which, of course, it is.

After she has read the letter, she hands it back to me, and then, as an afterthought, offers me her white lace handkerchief.

“We don't want the ink to run all over the letter, now, do we, cupcake?” she says, and after I wipe my tears away, I fight to stop myself from strangling her, just like she made Robert pretend to that night in the Honeymoon Suite—as he told me after Palm Beach and our romantic interlude there, when our love deepened and I first heard “our song.” Our song . . .

“May I please sign the letter now, Georgiana?” I say in a sweet voice.

She passes me the letter without another word. I sign it with a flourish and hand it back to her.

And wait, my stomach in a knot, while she reads it once more.

When she's finished, she flings the letter down on the desk.

“Don't you dare trifle with me, Miranda! You aren't in some dungeon playing naughty schoolgirl with your precious fucking Robert anymore. Get to work, write the whole letter all over again and sign it properly, or else . . .” She is shaking with rage.

“I don't know what on earth you mean,” I say evenly.

“Are you seriously hearing impaired, Miranda, or just plain stupid? You haven't signed the letter properly. And I repeat: now you'll just have to write the whole thing all over again,” she says.

“You don't understand, Georgiana, if I don't sign the letter with Robert's special secret name for me, he won't for one second believe that it isn't a forgery, that I actually wrote it,” I say, holding my breath and praying that she'll fall for it.

“But I've never once overheard him call you that on any of the tapes!” she says, with an icy glare.