Unraveled by Him (5 page)

I glance out of the window at the rose garden below. My father loved flowers, and at the thought, I am suddenly nostalgic and sad.

“All right, Mr. Hartwell. Three years ago, my father was in Mount Sinai, suffering from tongue cancer, and despite everything that had passed between us, and everything that had not, I hated to see him suffering. He was wafer thin, but his eyes were large and round. And the disease had deprived him of speech.

“So—because I knew he was dying, that this was probably the last time I would ever see him, and he knew it, too—I handed him a yellow legal pad and asked him if he wanted to write something for me.

“He took it from me and began to write. I couldn’t bear the suspense, the hope within me that this, finally, was it; my father, for the first time in my life and his, was going to give me the emotional security I had always craved.

“So I went downstairs to the coffee shop, had a cup of green tea and a Hershey bar, terrified of what he’d write, but praying that it would be something tender, something that I could keep forever, something that would make me feel loved by him at last.”

Robert Hartwell raises an eyebrow.

“You never did?” he says.

I shake my head.

“Never. But this was our last meeting and I knew it. After I decided I’d given him enough time, I went back up to his room again.

“From the door, I could see that he had written five or six lines on the yellow pad.

“
My father’s last words to me.
I promised myself that however emotional they were, I wouldn’t break down in front of him. I didn’t want that to be his last image of me, his last memory, you see.

“I took the pad from him. This is what my father wrote to me: ‘Call Bangkok 23075 and ask for Arissa Peng. Tell her that Luke can’t talk anymore, that he is dying, that he loves her, always will, and wherever he is, he will watch over her forever.”

“He wrote that on his deathbed? And asked you, his daughter, to read it to his girlfriend?” Robert Hartwell says, a look of amazement on his handsome face.

I nod.

Then, although I can feel a lump starting to form in my throat, I go on.

“So I took the pad on which my father had written a message for his seventeen-year-old Thai girlfriend, telling her everything I always longed for him to tell me but never did. And I went downstairs to the call box, called Bangkok, and, just as my father had asked me to, I told Arissa Peng all of it.

“So that’s the story,” I say, and flash Robert Hartwell what I hope is a brilliant smile.

“Let me take you on a tour of the estate,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

A stay of execution . . .

With Robert Hartwell as my guide, I tour Hartwell Castle’s luxurious interior. And while he fails to show me the private rooms, he does take me to see the high-tech gym jammed full of the latest equipment (where, according to the tabloids, he does three-hour workouts every day, come rain or shine), the casino, the twenty-seat movie theater, and the heated indoor swimming pool, in which, reports claimed, Lady Georgiana swam fifty lengths every morning.

I can’t even swim one. No matter how hard and how often Grandpa tried to teach me to swim over the years, even in a shallow pool, I always suffered the harrowing sensation of losing control and—however much I hate admitting defeat—I gave up every time.

Fortunately, though, Robert Hartwell doesn’t invite me for a swim. In fact, throughout the tour of the staterooms, he hardly talks to me at all. Most of the time, he has a faraway look in his eyes and I guess he is thinking about Lady Georgiana: Lady Georgiana swimming in the pool, Lady Georgiana famously hitting the bull’s-eye each and every time they played darts together, Lady Georgiana entwined with him as they watched romantic movies together in their screening room.

For a moment I wonder whether he has home movies of her; Lady Georgiana surfing off Bondi Beach, Lady Georgiana galloping through Central Park on her famous white Arabian mare (named Viola, of course), Lady Georgiana on the beach in Barbados, her toned and tanned body displayed to its best advantage in a minuscule violet bikini.

As the various images I saw of Lady Georgiana during my research flit through my mind, along with the reams of glowing tributes to her which I read last night, an unexpected pang of jealousy at her perfection cuts through me.

Luckily, at that moment Robert Hartwell takes my arm and with an unexpected forcefulness propels me out of the castle and into the front of a waiting golf cart. So I push those thoughts out of my mind.

When he takes the wheel, I am once more assailed by the heat of his body and have to tense all my muscles so as not to betray my physical reaction to him.

As we tour the estate together, his thigh is pressed close to mine, and although I move as far away from him as I can, it takes all my willpower for me to concentrate on my surroundings: the Chinese pagoda (where Lady Georgiana used to meditate on a daily basis), the Blue Grotto (the site of countless glamorous dinner parties at which Lady Georgiana always made sure that every guest was comfortable, happy, and content), the outdoor swimming pool (where she swam all those lengths in good weather), and the rose Garden (where the priceless Lady Georgiana rose continues to grow in abundance).

Fortunately, I remember all that from my research, because Robert Hartwell doesn’t bother to elaborate on any of it. Nor does he ever utter Lady Georgiana’s name. And in a strange way, I’m glad.

The golf cart rounds a bend and suddenly, Hartwell Lake shimmers in front of us, and in the middle, Hartwell Island with its purple marble mausoleum, which a heartbroken Robert Hartwell commissioned, and where Lady Georgiana will remain for all eternity.

The cart grinds to a halt by the edge of Hartwell Lake. I flash back to all the reports of Robert and Lady Georgiana’s ten-million-dollar wedding reception, here by the lake, where all the fountains were infused with Georgiana Royale, and clouds of the sultry fragrance filled the air with the heady scent of violets.

Robert Hartwell takes my hand to help me out of the golf cart. I shrink a little, not just because I feel as if he is about to crush my hand, but because I want to mask the earthquake of emotions he ignites within me; sexual arousal, light-headedness, and an intoxicating flash of fear.

He grips my elbow and steers me toward a lakeside bench, facing the island.

We sit there, together, in silence.

“You must have loved her very much,” I say after a while.

His eyes cloud over.

“I did. I really did,” he says. I’m primed for him to add, “And I still do.”

Instead, without any warning, he turns and faces me, his hypnotic eyes dark and unfathomable.

“Now, Miss Stone,” he says, “I am not a patient man. Time for you to live up to our bargain at last.”

I have no choice, and no escape.

Or perhaps I do . . .

“Shall we toss for it, Mr. Hartwell?” I say.

“Trying to beat me at my own game, Miss Stone?” he says, with a low chuckle.

“And why not, Mr. Hartwell? I’m willing to trust my fate to chance.”

“Of course you are, Miss Stone. After all, you are a woman who believes in the stars . . . a beautiful woman, at that.”

Robert Hartwell has just called me beautiful!

I blush scarlet.

“Shall we, Miss Stone?” he says, and, as if by magic, produces a gold coin.

I take a look at it and gulp.

Because it isn’t just any gold coin, but the 1933 Double Eagle!

The Double Eagle, which, I recall from the headlines trumpeting its sale to an anonymous bidder, is worth over $8 million.

“May I look at it before the toss, Mr. Hartwell?” I say.

“Ah, so you don’t trust me, Miss Stone?” he says, then gives me a slight smile and hands the coin over to me.

“Trusting a man isn’t one of my strong points, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, then regret it.

“I’m well aware of that, Miss Stone,” he says, and fixes me with his laser-beam stare.

Flustered, I examine the coin even more closely. “Lady Liberty on one side, the American eagle on the other,” I say.

“And the only Double Eagle, out of thirteen still in existence, in private ownership. Until I arranged for it to be purchased anonymously on my behalf, it was watched over night and day by three security guards,” he says.

“But you’re just carrying it around in your pocket!”

“And why not?” he says, and flings the coin straight at me.

By some miracle, I catch it.

“Good catch, Miss Stone, I didn’t peg you for a sporty girl,” he says.

“No, just one who writes lurid erotica,” I shoot back.

“And who won’t be forced to read part of it to me out loud if she wins the toss,” he says with a seductive smile.

“And if I lose?” I say, a slight break in my voice.

“And if you lose, I shall have no mercy. But I think you already know that, Miss Stone,” he says.

Instinctively, I close my fist around the Double Eagle.

Very gently, Robert Hartwell reaches forward, unclenches my fist, and takes the coin back from me.

“Elegant hands, Miss Stone. If I were an artist, I would paint them,” he says.

“You’re very kind, Mr. Hartwell. Of course you would be even kinder if you showed me some mercy.”

“No chance. Your toss, or mine?” he says.

I hesitate.

“Mine, Mr. Hartwell,” I say finally.

“Very well, Miss Stone, so be it. Heads or tails?”

“Lady Liberty, of course, Mr. Hartwell.”

“Naturally,” he says, and tosses the Double Eagle coin high in the air, while I cross my fingers that Lady Liberty will triumph over the American eagle.

“Tails, Miss Stone. I win,” he says, and, quick as a flash, pockets his $8 million coin.

I wanted to win the toss, I needed to win the toss, but when I don’t, I inwardly surrender to the fact that Robert Hartwell has beaten me—because somewhere deep in a secret part of my psyche that I generally keep tightly under control, I am aroused that he has.

“Now, Mr. Hartwell?”

“Now, Miss Stone.”

“Right here, Mr. Hartwell?”

This time, he doesn’t dignify my question with an answer, but nods curtly and passes me the manuscript of
Unraveled
.

I face him, pull myself up to my full height (not difficult when you are only five foot two), and look up into his eyes.

“Do you really and truly want to put me through this, Mr. Hartwell?”

“You know I do, Miss Stone,” he says.

“And I really can’t appeal to your chivalrous nature?”

“On hiatus right now, Miss Stone,” he says with a slight smile.

“You win then, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, then grit my teeth and prepare to start reading
Unraveled
to him.

Suddenly, as fate would have it, there is a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning, and the sky opens up with rain.

“It seems that you do have Lady Luck on your side after all, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell declares, then vaults into the golf cart, pulls me in after him, and drives back to the castle at breakneck speed.

In the forecourt, a maroon Rolls with the number plate RH1 is waiting. The liveried chauffeur steps forward and hands Robert Hartwell an envelope with my name on it. He passes it over to me.

Inside is his signed deal memo promising never to disclose that I’m the author of
Unraveled.

“Lunch at one tomorrow, the Hartwell Gallery, Madison Avenue. And bring your manuscript with you,” Robert Hartwell says, and it is an order, not a question.

Then he waves away the chauffeur and opens the Rolls door for me himself.

“Take Miss Stone wherever she wants to go, James,” he instructs.

I suppress the urge to say “Honolulu” throw Robert Hartwell a smile, and settle into the backseat of the Rolls.

Then the Rolls glides away, with me in it.

I look out the rear window as Robert Hartwell recedes from view, tall, dark, brooding, handsome, yet a complete and utter enigma to me.

Chapter Three

At ten sharp in the morning, the maroon Rolls-Royce pulls up outside my building. Luckily, most of my neighbors are at work, otherwise I’d never live it down.

James, the chauffeur I met yesterday, hands me a large envelope before returning to the Rolls and, presumably, Hartwell Castle. Inside, a draft legal proposal for me to ghost Robert Hartwell’s autobiography, start date in three months, and offering me an improbably large sum of money.
The ghosting assignment of my dreams!
And Robert Hartwell is handing it to me on a plate!

But before the reality can sink in, I read his handwritten note informing me that he is looking forward to our lunch today, and it strikes me forcibly that so am I, far, far more than I ever imagined.

The truth is that since yesterday, I’ve been counting the minutes until I’m in his presence again to experience his magnetism, his power, the electricity of his green eyes fixed hypnotically on mine. He makes me feel that if I were lost in a jungle, he would rescue me, and protect me forever.

I only wish I had another Chanel to wear for our lunch. Instead, I settle on a green floral dress I picked up in a vintage shop and try hard to concentrate on getting ready.

But I’m finding it difficult, wrestling as I am with a dilemma: Do I bring my manuscript of
Unraveled
with me as Robert Hartwell instructed, so that I can read it to him over lunch? Or, as he’s already signed an agreement promising not to reveal my identity as the author, and has proposed that I ghost his book, do I rebel and leave the manuscript behind at home?

No matter what, Miranda, always be true to your word. Always be honorable.

My father said that to me when I changed my mind about going to summer camp long after the fees had been paid. At the time I remember thinking,
Who are you to lecture me when you’re running around on my mother?

But deep down, I knew he was right, and I guess I still do.

So I stuff the manuscript in my purse and head over to the city.

During the subway ride, Grandpa’s warning of last night rings in my ears:
Be on your guard, Miranda. Charming as Robert Hartwell may be, as lucrative as it might be to ghost his autobiography, don’t let him see the effect he is having on you. Play hard to get. Otherwise, once the white heat of his interest in you has subsided, he could easily discard you without another thought.

Are you saying that I shouldn’t do it, then, Grandpa?
I said.

Dearest Miranda, I only want what’s best for you. I only want you to be safe and happy,
Grandpa said, then returned to his astrological calculations.

Twenty blocks before the Hartwell Gallery, the bus hits a pothole and has a puncture. So I have to get out and walk all the way up Madison, praying that I won’t be late.

One look at Robert Hartwell pacing the purple marble lobby of the gallery, his face as dark as thunder, and I realize that I
am
late.

Very late.

Forty-five minutes late, to be exact.

And I’m surprised that he’s even still here, waiting for me.

“Delighted that you could manage to find the time to join me, Miss Stone,” he says.

Then he turns his big broad back on me and strides toward the restaurant, while I trudge along behind him, feeling about an inch high.

In front of the revolving door, he stops and motions me to go ahead.

A memory pops into my mind unbidden, something Grandpa once said about my father: “He goes through a revolving door behind you, but always comes out in front.”

An odd thought to have had at that moment, I know, but Robert Hartwell throws me so off-balance that I can’t think straight. One thing, though, is clear: Violetta, the Hartwell Gallery restaurant, appears to be empty.

A midtown Manhattan, three-Michelin-star restaurant completely empty at lunchtime?

But at least I won’t have to worry about the other diners overhearing me when I read the first chapter of
Unraveled
to Robert Hartwell.

I follow him to a red velvet–curtained alcove in the back of the restaurant. Without a word, he hands me a glass of pink champagne, raises his own in a silent toast, and then gives me one of his dark, intense stares, which burns through me to such a degree that I am so unnerved I have to look away.

The maître d’ glides over to our table, but Robert Hartwell gives him his fierce look, and he instantly bows away.

“Now, Miss Stone,” Robert Hartwell says, once we’ve sat down facing each other, “let me get right to the point . . .”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else of you, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

“Spirited today, aren’t we, Miss Stone?” he says, with enough of a chuckle to make me relax slightly.

“Always, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, emboldened by the pink champagne I’ve been sipping.

“Good,” he says, “I like a woman with spirit.”

So does that mean he likes me? As a woman, not just as a ghostwriter?

“And I also like your sense of style, Miss Stone. Navy Chanel yesterday. And a green dress today,” he says.

Green like your eyes
, I think, but instead say, “Vintage, Mr. Hartwell.”

“Perfect for your hair, Miss Stone.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hartwell,” I say, about to add how thrilled I am to be ghosting his autobiography, but a waiter is suddenly at the table, as if Robert Hartwell has somehow magicked him there.

“Miss Stone will begin with the beluga, followed by the lobster Newburg, and I shall have the same. Then she will finish with the chocolate soufflé,” he declares, then dismisses the waiter before I have the chance to protest.

Not that I want to.

Chocolate soufflé.

I hardly know this man.

But he sure as hell knows me.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Miss Stone. It’s time for you to start reading!” he says suddenly.

How in hell’s name can I read anything to him when he’s so close to me that I can hardly breathe?

“Did anyone ever tell you that can be extremely overbearing, Mr. Hartwell?” I say, trying to win back some ground from him, if only for a moment.

“Allow me to lay down a rule, Miss Stone,” he says by way of an answer.

“I hate rules, Mr. Hartwell.”

“That’s unfortunate, because I believe that strict rules can be beneficial, especially to a young lady in your position,” he says.

“My position, Mr. Hartwell?”

“As my ghostwriter, I mean.”

Robert Hartwell’s ghostwriter! I was too focused on seeing him again, too overwhelmed by the man to truly grasp the news that I really do have the chance of ghostwriting his autobiography after all. And making all my career dreams come true.

“Then I’d be most interested to hear your rule, Mr. Hartwell,” I say.

He leans back in his chair, in the process displaying his big shoulders and well-developed muscles to their best advantage.

“Very well: as you are about to become my ghostwriter, I’d advise you never to butt your pretty little head against mine, Miss Stone, because mine is far, far harder than yours.”

Robert Hartwell: Hard. Harder.
The image that flashes through my mind is so potent that all of a sudden, I’m at a loss for words.

“You are a clever girl, Miss Stone,” he goes on after a minute or two, “but if you choose to dance with the devil, you will have to accept that you may never get your own way again.”

“Are you saying that you are the devil, Mr. Hartwell?”

“No, Miss Stone, but I’ll wager that when we’re done, you’ll be claiming that I am.”

Done? We’ve only just met, but Robert Hartwell is already planning to be done with me! Just like Grandpa predicted . . .

“When we are done with lunch, I mean,” Robert Hartwell says hastily, intuiting my thoughts, then adds, “Unless, of course, you are planning to welsh on our bet . . .”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I say, somewhat grudgingly.

“You are indeed, Miss Stone. And as Napoléon used to say, ‘Once you parley with the enemy, the fortress is lost.’ ”

Before I can think of an intelligent response, the waiter presents me with a purple and gold porcelain plate filled with delicate mounds of beluga, chopped onions, and a dollop of sour cream, plus some tiny blinis.

In contrast, he hands Robert Hartwell a large tin of beluga, plus a crystal spoon, with which he proceeds to demolish the entire contents of the tin, while I struggle not to look startled. Then again, why should I be? After all, he makes no secret about the fact that he is the King of Excess.

Good thing he works out so fanatically . . .

After the waiter has cleared the table, Robert Hartwell waves him away and fixes me with a glare so stern that I know there truly is no escape for me anymore.

So I take a few gulps of champagne, square my shoulders, and start reading.

It’s excruciatingly cold at six thirty on a December night in Manhattan. Seven inches of hard-driving snow has settled on the city, JFK is closed, and so are LaGuardia and Newark.

The Carlyle doorman opens my cab door and gives me a welcoming smile. I smile back as best as I can, under the circumstances. As I do, I wrap my white mink coat with the silver fox collar tightly around me.

“A gift from your boyfriend, Miss Stone?” Robert Hartwell interrupts.

“Why don’t you hold your horses, Mr. Hartwell? You must be the most impatient man in the universe!”

“And you the most impatient woman,” he says, but I ignore him and force myself to carry on reading.

The coat is new, my present to myself, in celebration of the publication of my latest book.

I check that all the clasps are fastened.

It occurs to me that the furrier hasn’t yet embroidered my name on the gray silk lining.

Given what lies ahead of me, I’m relieved.

When I step onto the pavement, the snow encases my burgundy leather boots, the icy air slices through my coat, deep into my flesh, and I shiver. Once inside the hotel, I check my phone again.

No new wordy text from the Master.

No imperious voice message.

Nothing more to say.

The plans are now set, and I have no choice but to go through with them.

At reception, I give my name. If the concierge recognizes me, he is far too well trained to acknowledge it. He hands me a large blue envelope.

Most of the front of it is covered in dramatic handwriting dominated by lots of loops and curlicues, the words written in navy ink with a firm hand.

By the elevator, I stop and open the envelope.

A key to the suite, the name of the suite, and nothing else.

Then up to the twenty-eighth floor, as my excitement rises along with the elevator, my heart pulsates, and the rest of me throbs with the fearful thrill of the unknown.

Outside the suite, I take a deep breath, then open the door.

At the far end, a floor-to-ceiling picture window through which the lights of nearby Central Park glitter.

Candles are placed strategically around the suite.

The air is potent with the fragrance of iris, musk, vanilla.

“And Birchwood embers,” the Master will tell me later, his voice lingering on the word
birch
.

For a moment, I survey the scene, transfixed.

Then I unzip my boots.

For a second, I consider placing them in the corridor so that they can be removed by the valet and cleaned during the night.

But do I really want anyone to hover outside the suite during the night, even for a moment?

I stand the boots in a corner, opposite the grand piano.

Next, I unfasten my coat, slip it off my shoulders. and let it fall in a heap onto the black polished floor, leaving me stark naked.

“May I stop reading now, please, Mr. Hartwell?” I say.

“In your dreams, as you once phrased it so succinctly, Miss Stone.”