Unraveled by Her (19 page)

But after dinner, we all watch
Gladiator
, Robert’s favorite movie, in the castle theatre, and I am so enthralled by every second of it that it’s only when the movie ends that the image of Georgiana in this very same movie theater on that terrible fateful night on which she summoned Robert there and issued her blackmail threats to him suddenly comes to the fore in my mind.

The lights go up, he turns to me and, his eyes shining, declares, “Honor . . . one of the most important things in life.”

If I don’t tell him the truth soon, I know that I will lose mine now and for always.

In the morning. I’ll tell him the truth in the morning.

But when I wake up, he’s gone.

His handwritten note says, “Apologies, darling, but I’m afraid there’s been a crisis in our Montreal office, and I’ve had to fly up there for the day. Should be back early this evening. And I’ll have a very special surprise for you . . . Till then, be good . . .”

I spend the day in the library, learning about Napoléon so as to keep up with Robert, and my stepfather as well.

I’m deep in Emil Ludwig’s classic Napoléon biography, which Robert highly recommended I read, when a messenger materializes with a large envelope for me.

When I open it, a second envelope falls out, and when I open that, I can hardly believe my eyes. Inside, in a small folder, a key card marked “The Empire Suite” on one side, and “Carlyle” on the other.

And in the large envelope a note from Robert, in his distinctive handwriting:

Miranda, the time has come for me to eradicate from your mind your past sexual experience at the Carlyle, and to replace it with one that I promise will prove far, far more potent and satisfying for you. Don your burgundy boots, your mink with the fox collar, and nothing else. Present yourself at the castle portal at 7:25 and not a second later.

And prepare to embark on the adventure of your life.

R

Chapter Seventeen

The white stretch limo that awaits me at the castle portal is unfamiliar to me—and a garish departure from Robert’s usual Rolls—but I guess he wanted me to make the journey to the Carlyle in a stretch limo driven by a stranger. Otherwise I’d have spent the entire time chatting with one of the drivers I am beginning to know so well, thus distracting me from my trepidation and my anticipation of what lies ahead of me.

This driver is startlingly handsome, blond with dark blue eyes and an otherworldly air.

Instinctively, I remain silent during the journey, and so does he.

As we near the hotel, I can’t help smiling to myself.

Robert is so competitive, trust him to want to replay the Carlyle scene I wrote about in
Unraveled,
and to want to do it a thousand times better than the other Master did that night. I have no doubt whatsoever that he’ll succeed, and triumph over the memory of that night and that Master.

At the same time, when the car pulls up in front of the Carlyle and the doorman opens the door, I am struck by a strong sense of déjà vu, and don’t relish the sensation.

I should, because my last visit here was dramatic and exciting, and afforded me more sexual satisfaction than I ever imagined I’d enjoy. Since then, though, Robert has mastered every aspect of me: my body, my mind, my heart, my soul, my fantasies, and my sexuality, and it pains me slightly to remember that another man once mastered me in this very same hotel.

Which is no doubt why Robert wants me to retrace my steps and play out the same scene again, only with him this time. I have every confidence that he will execute it with far more panache, style, and sexual magic than did the other Master.

While the elevator carries me up to the twenty-eighth floor, I suddenly remember that once before, in Dungeon 1, on the night of the first test of my submission, Robert initially appeared to have re-created my night here at the Carlyle with the other Master. But then it turned out that while he had laid on all the trappings of that night in the Carlyle, the scene he actually acted out with me was much hotter, heavier, as it would be, given that he is the Master of all Masters.

So what will he do to me here tonight?

Surely not exactly the same scene?

My guess is that he’ll improve on it vastly, and I’ll luxuriate in every second of whatever he plans to do to me, with me, for me.

I hug my mink coat close to me and feel more loved and cherished than ever.

Outside the Empire Suite, I pause for a second to fix my face and my hair.

Even if none of it is destined to stay in place once Robert takes me firmly in hand, I still want to look as good as I can when I make my entrance and put myself in his power once more.

I flush with pleasure at the thought of him waiting for me inside the Empire Suite, resplendent in all his macho glory, poised to dominate me to the maximum extent of his power. With a final glance in the mirror, I turn the knob and open the door.

As I expected, candles are placed strategically all around the suite.

But instead of the air being redolent with the fragrance of iris, musk, and vanilla, it is filled with Robert’s own special masculine aroma, an aroma that makes me hot with desire.

I unzip my boots, put them in a corner, let my coat drop to the floor, but then spy the note propped up against a gold vase filled with pink roses, and which stands on the grand piano. Next to it, a black velvet blindfold.

In thick capital letters, Robert has written: “TAKE THE BLINDFOLD. PUT ON YOUR BOOTS. AND YOUR COAT AND FASTEN ALL THE CLASPS SECURELY. THEN ENTER THE ADJOINING SUITE. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS WILL AWAIT YOU THERE.”

A treasure hunt! He is sending me on a treasure hunt!

I feel as if I’m five years old again, with a new Raggedy Ann doll to play with to my heart’s content, and I bask in the tender emotions.

I open the door of the adjoining suite, and inside, to my horror, I am faced with the grim apparition of a wheelchair.

On it, a large sign: “Your chariot awaits . . . be seated.”

A smaller sign in front of it, with the words “And then the blindfold . . .”

I sit down in the wheelchair, attach the blindfold securely around my eyes, and I am imprisoned in darkness.

Then I brace myself for a long wait.

He’ll make me wait.

Of course he will.

What feels like hours later but could be mere minutes, I hear the faint footfall of someone approaching over the lush carpet of the suite. Robert! Strong hands fasten the shackles tightly around my wrists and ankles, the collar around my neck, and I breathe a sigh of relief that any second now, I’ll feel his insistent fingers roam all over my naked body and hear his breath quicken with desire for me.

Instead, I feel the heaviness of some kind of a blanket thrown over my knees, then pulled up to my neck.

Then the sensation of a bonnet placed on my head, then a knot tied under my chin.

Little Red Riding Hood!

Robert has outfitted me as Little Red Riding Hood, about to be ravaged by the big, bad, masterful wolf!

And I sit there, waiting impatiently for him to growl and do his worst to me.

Only to meet with silence.

The sting of something piercing my neck. And then . . .

“Delighted to have you back again, Miranda. I’ve missed you. . . .”

Chapter Eighteen

The early-morning light streams into the cage from a small window high in the wall opposite me.

I’ve been out almost all night. Eight hours during which I was unconscious and at her mercy.

But now I’m awake, alive and kicking. I open my mouth to scream, but my tongue comes into contact with the hard rubber ball gag stuffed between my teeth.

I start to shake from head to foot with rage. The worst kind of rage: rage against myself.

If only I had told Robert the truth. He would have surrounded me with bodyguards 24/7 and I would be safe and free and with him, instead of chained up inside a cage in a dungeon.

But not in a dungeon familiar to me.

Not one of the dungeons in the basement of Hartwell Castle.

If not there, then where?

Through the window, I hear the hoot of a passing boat.

The South Street Seaport.

Le Château.

She’s imprisoned me in a dungeon at Le Château.

Then the door swings open with a flourish, and there in the doorway stands my nemesis, Lady Georgiana Hartwell.

“I’d love to keep you permanently gagged, Miranda, but as I urgently need to talk to you, I’ll refrain from doing so,” she says, and glides toward me, a syringe in her hands.

“My best friend, my favorite weapon. One shot, in eight seconds you’ll be groggy, in twenty you’ll fall into a coma. And after that, you’ll be out for the count again, so if I were you . . .” she trails off, and points the gun straight at my mouth.

“I’ll take off the gag, but one peep out of you and it’s naptime once more,” she says.

I have no doubt that she means it, and nod in silent acquiescence.

She flashes me a triumphant smiles, puts down the gun, then reaches over to a rack of implements, selects a large purple leather paddle with holes in it, and slams it down across a spanking bench a few times so loudly that I jump.

“Just having a little fun, cupcake,” she says, winks, and then places it on top of the cage.

Then she unlocks the cage door, unbuckles my gag, and drags me out of the cage over to a large iron chair. She shackles me to one leg of it, then cups my face in her hands.

I am overcome by the unwelcome sickly scent of Georgiana Royale, and feel like I’m about to puke.

“Now Miranda, think back carefully. Tell me everything, and leave nothing out. What was his first reaction? What did he say? And what do you think he’s going to do next?” she says, her eyes wild, her color high.

When I don’t answer at once, she grabs the purple paddle.

“Open your fucking mouth and tell me what I want to know,” she says, and slashes the paddle across the cage roof in time with her words.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Georgiana.”

She throws down the paddle, grabs my shoulders, and shakes me hard.