Unraveled by Her (12 page)

Robert wants me to take it easy so that I’ll be fresh and rested when we go visit my mom tomorrow, and however anxious I am to see her the moment I can, I surrender to his wisdom.

“But how do you know that she’s in Honolulu right now?” I ask him.

His next words give me serious pause for thought.

“My people checked it out yesterday,” he says.

His people? People like the private army that rescued me? Or detectives who might have dogged my every move and know exactly what really happened to me on Hartwell Island? But if they know the truth, and that Georgiana is still alive, then Robert must as well. And if he knows . . . if he knows . . . I can’t let myself think of what would happen.

And the same old now-familiar fear washes over me again.

The limo ride from the airport along Kalakaua Avenue to Waikiki Beach is exactly as I remember it, except that part of me wishes that we had flown into Honolulu when it was dark and all the flaming torches on either side of the avenue were ablaze.

Then again, I guess I’ve had enough flames for one lifetime . . .

Robert has booked a suite in the Halekulani, practically my favorite hotel in the entire universe, so that we can use it as our base while we’re here. Mom loves it there, and will adore hanging out by the pool and on Waikiki Beach with us.

“I would have booked the entire hotel for us, but it was too short notice for me to arrange it,” Robert says, then adds, “But one of the most beautiful and romantic hotel suites in Honolulu was available, so  . . .”

And the anticipation of being here in Honolulu with Robert, in a beautiful, romantic hotel suite, fills me with happiness.

The hotel manager escorts us through the grounds in the direction of our ocean-side suite. My eyes are fixed on the Pacific and the far horizon when Robert stops by the Halekulani’s spectacular ocean-side pool.

“A Cattleman orchid,” he says, pointing to the beautiful mosaic on the bottom of the pool.

Orchid. Les Orchidées . . .

“How lovely, darling,” I say, and grit my teeth.

But when I follow him to our ocean-side suite and see the name of it on the door, I can’t stop myself from blanching.

“The Orchid Suite.”

A warning? An omen? I haven’t got a clue. All I know is that even seeing the word “orchid” makes me want to throw up. Partly because of my guilt. Partly because of my fear.

My guilt will probably fade in time. At least, I fervently hope that it will. And my fear that Georgiana is even now stalking me, planning to kidnap me again, is obviously totally misplaced, here in Hawaii, I know. It’s more likely that she’s back in England, where she grew up, or in South Africa, where her mother lives. But not here, not in Hawaii.

And when Robert and I are escorted into the suite by the hotel manager, and I see the master bedroom, with floor-to-ceiling windows facing Diamond Head and the Pacific, I catch my breath at the stirring view, dismiss my fears out of hand, and do my utmost to enjoy the moment.

The hotel manager shows us around our massive suite, which must be at least twenty-five hundred square feet, and encompasses the entertainment lounge. Outside, a private lanai and a private garden offer ocean views open to the sky.

Robert insists that I rest awhile.

I do, dozing until there is a knock on the door, and despite myself, despite my resolution to forget the past, I give a start.

Then I hear Robert’s voice, talking to a waiter.

The next minute he is by my side with a tray of champagne and a silver platter of enormous chocolate-covered strawberries. Then another tray of solid-gold Cartier watches.

“Which one do you think my future mother-in-law would like?” he says.

I pick out a classic gold Cartier watch for her, but he insists on replacing it with the identical style, only studded with diamonds. My mother will be overwhelmed.

And even more overwhelmed when she meets the man I love, the man I am going to marry.

“The hotel’s honeymoon suite used to be on this site,” he says, in a voice that radiates significance.

He pauses for the longest time.

“If Tamara hadn’t kidnapped you and put you through such a terrible ordeal, I would have suggested that we marry here this week. But now I think it’s best for us to let some time pass so that you can fully recover,” he says, and I have to admit he’s right, for many more reasons than he knows.

“I love you for all eternity, Miranda,” he murmurs in his rich and powerful voice, then he pulls me to his chest.

His body feels so hot through his shirt, and his eyes are dark and hypnotic. He puts his hand on the curve of my back, holds me even closer, and kisses me passionately. Then he unbuttons his shirt, so that I can feel the hardness of his body, the roughness of his chest against the softness of my body.

I look up at him, as always aroused by how tall he is, yet simultaneously intimidated by his size and height.

And in my eyes I know there is an unmistakable message. No more tenderness, Robert, no more gentleness. Fuck me hard, fuck me now, bend me to your will, punish me, hurt me, love me.

Instinctively he knows what I want but shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says.

And strolls out onto our private lawn. I follow him and gasp at the beauty of the great expanse of sky above us, and the sun about to set.

Then he engulfs my hands in his own.

“Elegant hands, Miss Stone, and if I were an artist, I would paint them,” he says, and I instantly flash back to our first meeting, when he said those same words to me before we tossed for whether or not I read a salacious chapter of
Unraveled
to him. I lost, then handed him back the coin.

“The Double Eagle coin . . .” I murmur.

“Exactly, my angel. Now, do you feel like another flutter?” he says.

“Here? On the lawn, by the ocean?” I say, bemused.

“Very much so,” he says in a voice that brooks no contradiction.

I nod, full of anticipation of what he has in store for me.

“Look up,” he says.

I do.

And above us, a hot-air balloon.

Which lands just a few feet from us.

Then a handsome, silver-haired man in a top hat, white tie, and tails who looks as if he belongs at the Paris Opera climbs out of the basket and, one at a time, unloads two Vuitton trunks, one large, one small.

“Close your eyes, Miranda,” Robert says.

I do and keep them shut for what seems like an eternity while right beside me, I hear the bump of the trunks as they hit the grass.

“You can look now,” Robert says.

The first Vuitton trunk is next to me, and unopened. On top of the second one, a large roulette wheel now rests—but it’s a roulette wheel with a difference. A wheel with only ten numbers on it.

“Spin the wheel, mademoiselle,” Robert says, with a challenging smile.

I spin it and the ball lands on the number 9.

Whereupon he opens the first trunk and hands me a small blue velvet box with a gilded 9 engraved on the lid.

“Will you open it? Or shall I?” he says.

I know I should say, “Your choice, Master,” but the great thing about my relationship with Robert is that he can shift so effortlessly from dominance to vanilla romance, then back again.

Which gives me the freedom not to defer to him on this momentous occasion: “I’d like to open it myself,” I say.

Inside, an engagement ring with a pink diamond so large that it must be at least a hundred carats. But I don’t really care how big it is. All I care about is that I am marrying Robert, and that this is the symbol of his love and a pledge of his intention to make me his wife.

So vanilla, so conventional, but I want the fairy tale along with all the rest: the dungeons, the whips, the chains, the ropes, the welts, the bruises; the romance of love and marriage.

He takes the ring and places it on my engagement finger.

And then kisses me with so much passion that I become dizzy with pleasure, and if he didn’t hold me so firmly and so tightly in his iron grip, I might easily fall into a swoon like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama.

When he finally lets me go, I pick my words carefully and say, “If the roulette ball landed on any other number but nine, I would have had to remain single, wouldn’t I, Robert?”

“Spin the wheel again,” is his only answer.

The ball lands on number 2.

Whereupon he hands me a green velvet box with the number 2 embossed on it in gold.

Inside, the identical engagement ring, with one difference: “A champagne diamond, a rich cognac,” he says, and I stare at him, at a loss for words.

Then, with a grin that makes his features seem almost boyish, he overturns the Vuitton trunk and all the boxes tumble out and scatter on the lawn.

He spins the roulette wheel over and over, and each time the ball lands on a number, he flings me a box that bears that number. And inside each box, an engagement ring with a setting identical to the first and second ones, except that each one has a different diamond set in it:

Number 1: A white diamond

Number 3: A pink-champagne diamond

Number 4: A canary diamond

Number 5: A blue diamond

Number 6: A brown diamond

Number 7: A green diamond, slightly lighter than the green of Robert’s eyes

Number 8: A blood-red diamond

Number 10: A gray-green diamond

“One engagement ring, sweetheart, but ten different diamonds, for ten different days, ten different moods,” he says.

Different moods? How can I have different moods when I’m here with Robert, the love of my life? For when I’m with him, there is only one mood for me: blissful happiness. Except, of course, when I remember what I am so desperately trying to forget. . .

So why don’t I just tell Robert the truth—that Georgiana is still alive? That way he could send his army after her and I’d be safe now and forever. If, of course, that’s all he does. But what if he does more? What if, when they’ve captured her, she works his magic on him once more and wins him back again? Then I’ll lose him forever.

And I just can’t risk that happening. Not yet. And not easily.
Don’t think of that, Miranda. Think of that later.
Instead, I focus on the happy task in front of me.

In honor of Robert’s eyes, I select the ring with the green diamond, and he places it on my engagement finger.

“Till death us do part,” he says, and amid my joy I feel a shiver of apprehension.

Chapter Eleven

The following morning, a black BMW 7 is on standby outside the hotel.

To my surprise, Robert is driving us himself.

As he expertly negotiates the four-mile, fifteen-minute drive along the stretch of highway from Waikiki to my mother’s house in Manoa, close to the University of Hawaii, where my stepfather, Alex, lectures on French history, I can’t take my eyes off Robert’s profile, so handsome, so striking.

A lump forms in my throat as Mom comes into view, standing by the gate of her home, waiting for us.

Robert hasn’t even switched off the ignition and I’m already in her arms. He gets out of the car and stands back, letting us have our moment. At last I move aside so that Mom can see him for the very first time, in all his macho glory.