Unraveled by Her (2 page)

Besides, Georgiana is dead, buried here in the purple mausoleum on Hartwell Island.

So the British woman can’t be Georgiana, can she?

Then the name Tammy swims through my mind again.

Tammy?

Tamara?

Tamara Hatch?

The first time I set eyes on Mrs. Hatch—or Mrs. Hatchet Face, as I secretly dubbed her—at Hartwell Castle, where she ruled as housekeeper, she was clearly obsessed with Georgiana to the point of craziness. I was terrified of her. It takes a lot to terrify me, but after Robert told me that Tamara Hatch was the most cold and calculating woman he’d ever met in his life, and I discovered that in a previous incarnation she was a professional dominatrix, with all that entailed, I realized that I was damn right to be terrified of her. At the same time, he also told me that he paid her a vast amount of money to leave Hartwell Castle forever and never utter a single word about him or his story to anyone, so surely I don’t have to be afraid of her anymore, do I?

But if Mrs. Hatch isn’t my kidnapper, then who is?

Surely not Georgiana!

Like practically everyone in the world, I recall exactly where I was when the news of the tragedy was first made public.

It was a Monday morning in November and FedEx had just delivered the first printed copy of my very first published book, an autobiography I ghosted for a legendary Hollywood star, now long past her prime but still hauntingly beautiful.

When I first held the book in my hands, saw my name in print, my photograph on the inside of the jacket, my initial euphoric response was to call Mom—only to have her answer the phone in floods of tears.

When she told me the news about Lady Georgiana, my first thought was that this must be a prank, a viral rumor that somehow got to Mom. Then I switched on the TV, and there, “She”—Lady Georgiana’s favorite song—played in the background of a reverential montage of iconic images; Georgiana at the Met Ball, Georgiana sun-kissed and laughing on the deck of a yacht, Georgiana in her couture Chanel bridal gown—Lady Georgiana Hartwell, the woman every man wanted to have, the woman every woman wanted to be.

After the montage ended, there was Robert, standing tall outside Hartwell Castle, the dramatic Windsor Castle replica built on Long Island decades ago by an eccentric English lord with money to burn. While armies of cameramen and photographers were kept at bay by Robert’s security force and by the moat, in a resonant yet expressionless voice, magnified by the battery of microphones in the vicinity, Robert made the statement that brought tears to many who heard it that day.

“Three days ago, my beloved wife, the unique, the extraordinary Lady Georgiana Hartwell, disappeared from our home here at Hartwell Castle. The last person to see Georgiana alive witnessed her diving into Hartwell Lake, as was often her custom. According to the eyewitness, she wore a purple swimsuit and seemed her regular bright and vivacious self.

“At first, I was optimistic that after her swim, she had gone for a run in Hartwell Woods and would soon be home again. However, after she did not return, I began to fear that her disappearance might be due to more sinister forces. But, not wishing news of it to leak out to the public prematurely or to alienate a possible kidnapper, I did not immediately report it to the police.

“Instead, while I waited for a ransom demand to materialize, I spearheaded my own extensive search led by a handpicked team of crack private investigators, trained sniffer dogs, and seasoned professional trackers who scoured the estate and miles of the surrounding countryside, but to no avail.

“Consequently, I reported my wife’s disappearance to the police. And when I did, given the love and respect felt for her by tens of thousands throughout the world, it was agreed that until the exact nature of her disappearance was established, it should not be announced, so as not to cause universal distress.

“At that point, Hartwell Lake was dredged, but no trace of my wife was found. A second, even more extensive search of the estate produced nothing—no clues, and no hint of what might have happened to Georgiana.

“As a result, both I and the authorities continued to nurture the hope that she would ultimately be found alive.

“Now, however, I must report with great sorrow that when—in a last-ditch attempt to find my wife—Hartwell Lake was dredged for a second time yesterday afternoon, the badly decomposed body of a woman was found at the bottom of the lake.

“It was only when I examined the gold bracelet she was wearing, and realized that this was the bracelet I gave my wife on the occasion of our marriage, that I was able to identify the body of the woman found at the bottom of Hartwell Lake as that of my wife, Lady Georgiana Hartwell.”

Pandemonium broke out among the media, but Robert stood tall, his eyes veiled, his jaw set, his face impassive.

“I shall not be taking any questions, nor will I comment further on this very personal tragedy. I ask the media to respect my decision and my privacy. Thank you,” he said.

With that, he turned, squared his shoulders, and strode back into the castle.

When I watched that news report six years ago, I never dreamed for a second that I’d ever meet Robert Hartwell, or that I’d one day become a part of his life, and he the ultimate meaning of mine. To me, he was an Olympian god, a man from another planet, of which he was the supreme ruler, and which was far removed from a mere mortal like me—just as he was and always would be.

Since then, Robert had made his dramatic entrance into my life and stolen my heart, my body, my soul, and all my deepest emotions. Thinking back to that far-off day when I watched him on TV, I remind myself once more how blessed I am to have met him and to love and be loved by him. Not simply because he is six foot three, loving, generous, kind, and a sexual stud beyond all my most heated imaginings (he has a body that would have inspired Michelangelo to sculpt it), but because his macho dominance cloaks a practically supernatural capacity to understand me almost better than I understand myself, and far more than any other human being in this word has or ever will. And I love him for it more than I can express.

All that was ahead of me. But even then, as I watched the news report on Lady Georgiana’s disappearance, along with a worldwide audience of millions, and the imposing figure of Robert Hartwell retreated behind the castle walls, I was overwhelmed by his dignity, his courage, his fortitude, his power, his almost godlike presence.

My little sister, Lindy, and I were glued to the TV some days later, when, with the grounds outside Hartwell Castle obliterated by literally thousands of tributes (most composed of purple flowers, purple stuffed animals, and framed odes to her charm, her beauty, her charity in dedicating herself to her Foundation for Mentally Disabled Children so selflessly), Lady Georgiana’s purple casket was ferried by gondola across Hartwell Lake, accompanied by Robert and four pallbearers, then carried to the purple marble mausoleum, which, on Robert’s instructions, teams of workmen had toiled night and day to construct with lightning speed.

After the casket was carried into the mausoleum, according to reports, a grief-stricken Robert placed a love letter, a bouquet of violets, and a gargantuan bottle of her bespoke fragrance, Georgiana Royale, inside it. And then Lady Georgiana’s casket was sealed and placed on the marble funeral bier. The news anchor closed the coverage in somber tones: “And while her life has now been tragically snuffed out at the untimely age of thirty-five, the legend of Lady Georgiana Hartwell will live on forever.”

Rumor had it that after Lady Georgiana’s interment in the mausoleum, only Robert ever entered it again, on the last day of every month, when he placed twelve fresh Lady Georgiana roses on the casket. To this day, they say that the casket rests like that of some ill-fated Egyptian pharaoh, on a purple marble bier in the main hall of the purple mausoleum.

I’m now in that purple mausoleum chained to the floor, blindfolded, wrapped in what feels like some kind of fur blanket, and with my hands cuffed behind my back.

So am I imprisoned here in the mausoleum, just feet away from Lady Georgiana Hartwell’s body in its purple casket like some devoted handmaiden buried close to her queen?

Before I can take a stab at answering my own question, the earsplitting bark of a dog cuts into my thoughts. Then footsteps, one set heavy, the other dainty, come closer.

“The minx has slept for far too long,” the British woman says. “Let’s wake her up and get her started on the work right away . . .”

Started? Work? Start work on what? And why?

“Can’t face having her up and about yet. Let’s finish listening to the birthday tape before we wake her,” the raspy-voiced woman replies.

The birthday tape . . .

Before I can work out whose birthday the raspy-voiced woman means, there is the click of a tape recorder being turned on.

And suddenly, I hear Robert’s commanding voice ring out, “Present your breasts.”

I hear the clank of nipple clamps, followed by a sharp exhale of breath.

My breath, hissing through gritted teeth as I fight not to betray how much he is hurting me, and not to flout his instructions to remain silent, no matter what.

“Hands behind your back,” he orders, and brusque and harsh though his voice may be, it still makes me feel safe, even under these terrifying circumstances.

“Now close your eyes, my darling,” he decrees.

Then I hear his footsteps move away from me, only to return a few minutes later.

Even now, in the midst of this nightmare, I recall the heat of his body pressed hard against mine, and desire for him scorches through me.

“It’s exactly ten minutes after midnight on the morning of your birthday. Open your eyes, my darling,” he says.

And I do, to be dazzled by a glitter of gold, emerald, and diamonds.

“Once Marlene Dietrich’s, and now yours,” Robert announces gravely.

“He must have purchased that for her in Palm Beach,” the British woman says.

“I always told you that not bugging them when they were down there was a big-time mistake,” the second woman says.

“No time to dwell on past mistakes, Tammy . . . Time to introduce myself to our little prisoner, don’t you think?”

With that, I’m lifted to a seated position, the blindfold is ripped from my eyes, and I recoil, not from the light but from the radiant smile of a woman.

“Good afternoon, Miranda . . . Lady Georgiana Hartwell, Robert’s wife, at your service,” she says.

Chapter Two

I stare back at Georgiana, dumbfounded. Not just because she’s still alive, but also because her once blonde hair is now red and is arranged in a style identical to mine, and her famous violet eyes are now my exact shade of blue.

“Of course I know, sweetie pie, I know what a shock this must be for you. But you ought to feel flattered, really flattered,” she says.

“Flattered that you stole my look?!”

“And you stole my husband. So now we’re even,” she says.

“Stole your husband? I thought you were long dead and buried, not alive and well and a fucking kidnapper!” I yell as loud as I can, and scramble to my feet.

“ ‘A fucking kidnapper’? I’d advise you to remember that while sticks and stones may well break my bones, insults will never, ever hurt me,” she says, and wags her elegant index finger (which, like the rest of her fingers, is tipped with a purple stiletto-shaped acrylic nail) in front of my face.