Unraveled by Her (19 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

“After I fled the dungeon, I ran out of Le Château like a bat out of hell, and into the cab Murray had on standby all evening for me, then to JFK, from where I flew to London and safety,” she goes on.

“And you didn't look back for even a second,” I say bitterly.

“That's not true. Not true at all. I couldn't get Robert out of my mind, not in the taxi to the airport, not on the plane to London, not in my waking hours, and not in my dreams,” she says, and I wish I had asked her a different question.

“So you were in London all those months when he was searching for you?” I say.

“Every single second. Much safer than in the US, where he might have found me more easily,” she says.

“And how did you know that Robert was searching for you so desperately, while all along you were hiding away in London?”

“Murray,” she says, and twists her signet ring so that the crest is facing up.

For a moment we stare at each other in silence.

Then she sits up straight and adds, “One thing I will swear is that through it all, the entire time Robert searched for me and I listened to all the reports Murray gave me about him, I never once gloated that he was devoting so much energy to finding me, nor did I ever laugh at him.”

I wish she hadn't said that, because I know that if Robert ever reads her book—her grand excuse for an apology, an explanation, whatever the fuck it ends up as—the one thing he would never, ever forgive is if she ever laughed at him during that time.

“I'll bet Murray laughed at Robert, though,” I say.

She shakes her head adamantly.

“Did Shakespeare laugh at King Lear? Did Michelangelo laugh at David? Of course not.”

“Meaning that Murray considered his plot to be a work of art?” I say.

“You're not as stupid as I thought you were, my little lambkin,” Georgiana says slowly, and I could kick myself for showing my hand to her when I know full well that it will be far better for me if she continues to underestimate me.

“So he was proud of what he did to Robert?” I say, the color in my cheeks rising.

“Proud doesn't really cut it, Miranda. Mesmerized is more like it. You see, Murray knew that he was playing a dangerous game, and that if it went wrong, he'd lose everything,” she says.

“Everything?” I say.

“His share of Robert's fortune, his power over him and, of course, over me,” she says.

“If Murray lived, of course,” I say.

“But he was alive during the whole search, then did a disappearing act after his Mafia cohorts discovered that he cooked the books. He hasn't been heard from since, so I'll wager that they found him after all,” she says.

“Tell me more about Murray's plot,” I say.

And she visibly relaxes.

“You see, Miranda, Murray's genius was to understand one thing about Robert, the deepest, most essential part of him: his chivalry,” she says.

Someone else once said that Robert was chivalrous . . .

But I don't want to think of that, don't want to remember . . .

“And he judged correctly that Robert's chivalry would render his search for Pamela even more vital to him, because Robert wasn't just searching for Pamela, the submissive of his dreams. His ultimate goal, his Holy Grail, was to rescue her from a fate worse than death: an existence with the evil man who claimed he owned her,” she says.

“Like a knight in shining armor who rescues a damsel in distress, then ravishes her, and she loves it,” I say, in a faraway voice.

“Miranda?”

“Just something I once said about Robert many years ago, long before I met him. He reminded me of a swashbuckling pirate or a glamorous highwayman,” I say, wishing with all my heart and soul that I could turn back the clock to the night when Lindy and I watched the documentary about Robert, and the joy of meeting him and loving him was all ahead of me.

“Not to worry,” Georgiana says, pulling me back to my surroundings. “I don't intend to belabor WM and pour salt on that particular wound . . .”

“It was all on tape, wasn't it?” I say, as the horror courses through me that she heard the tape of Robert hypnotizing me and then shepherding me toward my discovery of my childhood trauma. She knows all about it in every horrific detail.

She nods and pats my hand. “I'll stop at very little to get what I want. But one thing I will stop at is anything that will hurt a child, particularly one who was abused in the past. And in this context, Miranda, I consider you to be a hurt and damaged child.”

Of course! Charlotte, her daughter, locked away in an institution for life. The genesis of the Georgiana Hartwell Foundation!

“Which reminds me: I want to devote a chapter in my autobiography to the foundation, my charitable work and how—as soon as I became romantically involved with him—Robert was responsible for giving me the opportunity to do good, to launch my foundation and help millions of children throughout the world who suffered as my Charlotte does. Without him none of that would have been possible. And so I want to record my profound thanks to him for what he wrought on my behalf,” she says.

Then she smiles her enchanting Lady Georgiana Hartwell smile and changes the subject. “So no more mention of William Masters. Let's talk about the romance of the signet ring, instead,” she says.

“The ring you left on the dungeon mantel, and that Murray gave to Tamara. Robert's only way to discover Pamela's identity?” I say.

“Exactly! The infamous ring,” she says.

“Which you left in the dungeon on purpose? And then Murray gave it to Tamara?” I say.

“Only in the fanciful story, which he concocted for Robert's benefit. When all the time he had sequestered my signet ring in his office drawer,” she says.

“So Robert scoured America to find the ring—and Tamara, who supposedly owned it—all for nothing,” I say indignantly.

“Yes, but didn't he have a brilliant time while he was doing it!” she says, and I flush with fury.

“How can you say that, Georgiana? He almost lost his mind searching for Pamela!” I say.

“Meanwhile, he was having sessions with some of the world's most beautiful and willing submissives . . .”

“Yes, but he wasn't enjoying it,” I say.

And Georgiana laughs her glass-shattering laugh.

“You really are far more naive than you look, aren't you, cupcake?” she says, and I remind myself again how much I hate her. “Robert loved every minute of it. And learned three times as much about S&M and submissive women than most men will learn in a lifetime,” she says.

And despite the circumstances I'm in, despite the fact that it's Georgiana talking about it, when I hear her evoke Robert's expertise as a dominant, his sure touch, his confidence, it sends a thrill through me.

Then a new thought rips through my mind.

“How did you know that Robert was taking sessions in S&M parlors all over the West Coast during his search for Pamela?”

“Murray. He kept constant tabs on Robert. After all, Robert was his meal ticket, his pension, so why wouldn't he get his detective to shadow him? Apart from which, Robert kept in touch with Murray on a regular basis, so Murray had inside information on when and where he was traveling, which fantasy parlors he planned to visit, and he knew that Robert's quest to find me burned within him stronger than ever,” she says.

“Until one day, it didn't . . .” I say, keen to remind her that she wasn't quite as irresistible as she imagines she was.

She frowns, clearly aware of my suppressed glee.

“After everything Robert invested in the search—the energy, expense, and sheer time—it's a miracle that he carried on searching for me for as long as he did,” she says finally, and tosses her head.

“Yes, but isn't that just because of his chivalrous nature, his quest to save you from . . . that man?” I say.

“Possibly,” she says, and draws each syllable out, so the word sounds longer and stronger.

“And then what happened?”

“Robert ended his search in LA. Which is where Murray arranged for one of his girls, then working in LA, to give Robert what he sought so desperately for so long—Tamara and the signet ring,” she says.

“And that's where you came in,” I say, then gird myself to hear the story of her triumphant reunion with Robert, of their romantic engagement and fairy-tale marriage.

Chapter Twenty-Five

I don't know how much longer I can listen to this; I don't know how much more I can take! Hour after hour of Georgiana putting her romantic memories of Robert on tape, waxing sentimental over him and gushing about their supposed romance like some breathless, love-struck teenager.

And all in such cat-with-the-cream tones, so oblivious to my feelings for Robert, my love for him, and his for me. But if he discovers that Georgiana kidnapped me and is still alive, that I knew it but hid the truth from him, will his love for me survive? I doubt it . . .

I push that thought out of my mind and settle back and ask Georgiana one of the questions foremost in my mind.

“But when I listened to everything you told me about your life with Robert once he found you again, and proposed marriage to you, you sound as if you were so happy, so much in love with him. Yet you went ahead and blackmailed him.”

She nods, her eyes big and serious.

“And I'll regret it to my dying day,” she says.

“So why did you do what you did on your wedding night?”

She pauses for a long moment.

“I was being blackmailed myself,” she says finally, then adds, “I can't reveal the identity of my blackmailer to you, nor can it be included in my autobiography. But more than anything else, I need Robert to learn the story behind the blackmail, the wrong that was done me, and how the blackmailer used it to his advantage. It's late, but I'll tell you every detail tomorrow.”

I visibly relax, but she goes on, “A brief overview for you, just so that you can get a feel for the tragedy, the drama: Simon Watford didn't just rape me in a variety of ways. He also had someone there to film my rape from every angle. And my blackmailer got his hands on a copy of that film and threatened to post it on the Internet unless I blackmailed Robert and took him for everything he had. The threat of public humiliation in the face of the world, and the private shame and humiliation about the part I played in Murray's deception, gave me no choice. Moreover, it was made eminently clear to me that if I refused to bow to the blackmailer's demands, I'd be at the bottom of the East River, with rocks in my pocket, drowned. And so I gave in.”

I am almost inclined to believe Georgiana's story, as it seems to me that her blackmailer, like Murray's murderer, must be a mobster who secretly owned shares in Le Château. After all, I'd always heard that the sex business is notorious for Mafia infiltration.

With a catch in her voice, she goes on, “As it is, what I did naturally caused me to lose Robert's trust. Any man would have found my actions unforgivable, but I knew that for Robert it would be far, far worse. I betrayed his trust, and that, for him, would have been anathema,” she says, while I feel myself pale.

“I'm sure that as a result of what I did to him, he won't ever trust another woman again, not even you,” she says, and I flinch at the irony.

“You see, Miranda, he was such a little boy when his father killed himself. And you know that he found the body,” she says.

I didn't, and hearing it shocks me to the core. “Poor, poor Robert! I had no idea.”

“He was just seven years old when he found his father's body, his throat cut and blood streaming everywhere. But of course that was never made public,” she says.

“So he told you all about it himself?” I say. However appalled and saddened I am at her revelation, I can't repress the stab of jealousy I feel at the thought that Robert might have confided his childhood trauma to her, and not to me.

“No,” she says, “Murray did.”

My jaw drops.

“You see, the moment it hit him that he'd caught as big a fish as Robert in his net, Murray ordered his detective to uncover every single thing he could about Robert,” she says, and the story falls into place for me.

“But how did his father's death cause Robert not to trust women?” I ask, bemused.

“As they carried his father's body off to the morgue, and little Robert was sobbing his heart out, his mother hugged him to her and then and there swore to him that she would never leave him,” Georgiana says.

“And then she was committed to an asylum,” I say, as the truth dawns on me.

“After that, Robert never trusted another woman again. Until me, that is . . .” she says, and at least has the good grace to look shamefaced at her own words.

“And you went ahead and stabbed him in the heart,” I say, then am awash with guilt because, of course, now I've done exactly the same thing to him.

“Looking back, the moment Robert found me again and I moved into Hartwell Castle, I should have been honest with him about Suzy, about Pamela, because he loved me enough to understand. Then when the blackmailer struck, I could have told him everything about me and my life, and we could have fought him together. But I made the worst mistake of my life and did not,” she says.

And I fell into the identical trap by not telling him the truth about Georgiana. So in the end, we both made the same mistake. The bitter irony strikes me to the very core of my being, and I don't know how I'll ever be able to live with it.

Meanwhile, she carries on: “And then, when Robert got the better of me, and he did, I faked my own death,” she says.

Robert got the better of her? I couldn't be happier. But now isn't the moment to ask her how he did it.

“Tell me about the woman whose corpse was found in Hartwell Lake, Georgiana,” I say.

“Robert made it easy for us by refusing to allow an autopsy on the body, after Tamara had arranged to have it dumped in the lake,” she says after a while.

I recoil.

“So Tamara murdered the poor woman!” I say, once I've begun to recover from the shock.

She shakes her head vehemently.

“Tammy was many things, but she was not a killer. She just found me a stray warm body. The body of a hapless professional submissive named Patty,” she says.

Right on cue, the doorbell of Le Château rings.

Georgiana dashes over to answer it, and ushers a girl in her early twenties into the dungeon.

“Angel, my little poppet, it warms my heart to see you here so bright and early. This dumb little bitch I'm trying so fruitlessly to train today has got deep-dish delusions that she can make it as a submissive. But you and I both know that a proper sub isn't born in a day, don't we?” she says.

“Yes, Countess,” Angel says in a faint voice.

“Right, then. I have an important meeting connected with my daughter scheduled on the Upper West Side. And I think this is the ideal opportunity to give Dumbo her first experience of being held in strict bondage, don't you?”

“Oh yes, Countess, definitely,” Angel agrees eagerly.

Ten minutes later, I'm trussed up like a prize turkey, and in such a way as not to be in the least bit erotic or alluring.

“Well done, Angel! Now you can watch her while I'm gone,” Georgiana says, and sweeps out of the dungeon, leaving me alone with Angel.

She spends the next half hour in an adjacent office, from where she makes personal calls in a loud voice. Meanwhile, I plot how to take advantage of my solitude.

I need to take a leaf out of Georgiana's book.

Identify with my aggressor.

Better still: become her.

Become Georgiana.

Angel sidles into the dungeon.

“So you think you're going to make it as a sub here and steal my best tricks, do you, Dumbo?” She sticks her face in front of mine, expecting me to cringe and crumble.

I flash her a look so imperious that I'm surprised she doesn't wilt on the spot.

“I'd caution you not to fall into the trap of believing every iota of what you are told, Little Miss Angel,” I declare, in bell-like Georgiana tones. “Because once I'm through with giving the best performance of my life to your sainted patroness, and she's hired me, every single trick you've spent months cultivating will be at my feet, and you'll be toast.”

“But you don't have any experience!”

“Dream on, pussycat. Caesars Palace, Las Vegas. Forty percent to the bellman, sixty percent to me, and practically every high roller in Nevada who imagined himself to be a dominant and longed to crack his whip over the delicate, pink, and perfect flesh of a nubile submissive was in seventh heaven with me.

“You see, Angel, I may not be eighteen years old anymore, but if I weren't in the demeaning position into which your phony countess has currently placed me, you would immediately become aware of a seminal truth: I'm every dominant's dream submissive.

“Luxuriate in this vision of submission currently in front of you, sweetheart. I look like an angel—big tits, long legs, perfect ass—and I always aim to please. A virtuoso at oral sex, I can take every inch of a man down my throat. Ask me if I ever gag and I won't comprehend the meaning of the question. And when a man ejaculates in my mouth—and he will, far sooner than he imagines—I happily take every drop.

“Pain? I can endure almost anything, and give the most convincing appearance of relishing every slap, every lash, every stroke, every bruise, every welt meted out to me.

“Role play? Absolutely! In English, in fluent French, in perfect German, in flawless Italian, and even a little Russian, if requested!

“Oh yes, pussycat, any man who gets a taste of my submissive charms will be mine for life, in bliss forever. Compete with me, sweetie pie? Dream on! Within three months, Madame Countess will be history, I can promise you. But if you play your cards right today and do what I tell you, you'll soon be working for me and making a fortune!”

I take a breath, then give a sidelong glance to Angel, who—as the old song goes—has turned a whiter shade of pale.

“Lemme get this straight. You're saying that you're faking it? You're not a new and inexperienced sub at all? You're snowing the countess so that you can get in here and take over the joint?” she says, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief.

“So you really aren't as stupid as you look after all, my precious little Angel-pie! But nonetheless, I'll make it simple for you: once your precious countess has made her ludicrous attempts to turn me into a submissive, when I'm already light-years ahead of any submissive in this state, and in most of all the others, as well, I'll take sessions 24/7 and, along the way, I'll yank Le Château right out of her inept clutches.”

“I'll tell her what you're planning! I'll tell the countess,” she says.

“Good luck, sweetie pie. She'll tell you that I'm simply boasting, that I've got ideas far above my station and not to take any notice of me. At your peril, you won't . . . not until I deign to show my hand, you won't,” I say.

“But . . .” Angel stammers.

“And then I'll own Le Château, and you, lock, stock, and barrel, my delicate little cherub!”

She casts wildly around the dungeon, searching desperately for something with which to counteract my claims.

“Let me give you some stellar advice that will hold you in good stead when you eventually attempt to make your way in the world, Angel. If ever you are confronted by the glorious specter of a full-blooded beautiful woman who lives by the motto ‘Only an act of God will stop me from getting what I want,' you need to accept the inevitable: you will be trounced by her. And my advice to you is, throw in the towel. Because whatever you do, she will always, always win.”

“So I—”

“So you only have one alternative, Angel. Listen carefully, because here it comes. But first you have to untie me. And then I shall give you the key to your survival in this cruel and heartless business.”

Within seven minutes Angel has untied me, and I'm free and ready to run like the wind.

Except . . .

I hear a loud and insistent banging.

And then the words “Angel, Angel, open the door at once. I'm back!”

“One call, and that's all it will take to get me out of your life, out of here and gone forever,” is what I tell Angel.