by Wendy Leigh
Hours later I’m still hot with sexual excitement. I do my utmost to compose myself when he leads me into Le Salon des Fragrances, where he introduces me to the head perfumer and informs her that he wishes to have a perfume created exclusively for me.
Under different circumstances, I would be thrilled to bits, and so grateful to him for his lavish gift, but now all I can think of is Georgiana Royale, the perfume he had commissioned specially for Georgiana. I gag at the recollection of the overpoweringly suffocating scent of violets. And all of a sudden I am back in the mausoleum, with Georgiana and Tamara once more.
With that, Le Salon des Fragrances takes on an air of unreality, as if it is spinning, swooping around me. I feel utterly disoriented. It seems like my heart is beating so loudly that any minute now it will jump out of my chest, but the rhythm is strange, erratic. For a moment I feel that I am on the verge of choking. A sharp pain shoots through my chest, and I’m convinced that I’m about to throw up.
No matter how much I try to control my reaction, I can’t prevent myself from panting in short, speedy breaths that make me feel faint and nauseous and dizzy, all at once. I break out in a sweat.
Am I going to pass out? Am I going to fall flat on my face here in this super-luxury department store with a crowd of executive staff clustered around me witnessing it? Worse still, am I going to embarrass Robert? I fight not to, and in despair clutch his arm.
He takes one look at me, grabs a chair, and helps me into it.
Holding both of my hands, in a calm, slow voice he says, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling. I’m here. Follow my breathing,” and for a few minutes we breathe together until I regain my composure.
Nevertheless, I can tell by the look on his face how worried he is about me.
Please don’t ask me why I’m suddenly acting so weird, Robert, please don’t. I don’t want to lie to you again—even if just by omission.
He fixes me with his laser-beam stare, and for a moment I have the distinct feeling that he intuits the real reason for my panic attack. I am suddenly overcome by the fear that any second he will stride out of the store and leave me standing here, alone and abandoned. But then I tell myself that he will never do that, not ever. He loves me. He’ll never leave me. And even if he finds out the truth, he’ll understand that after the kidnapping, I went into shock, and that afterward, my insecurities about Georgiana escalated, along with my fears that if he knew that she was still alive, I could lose him to her, once and for always, and forgive me for hiding the truth that she is still alive from him. I know he will.
Won’t he?
Luckily, the blood comes back to my face relatively quickly, and within a few moments I am as right as rain again. And now that I’ve bounced back from my panic attack, my mind is made up. Hell will freeze over before I follow in Georgiana’s footsteps like a sheep and allow Robert to have a fragrance commissioned for me.
“Darling, it’s lovely of you to want to commission a fragrance specially for me, but it will take ages and ages for it to be created, and even longer for me to get it and actually be able to use it. So do you think we could pick one out here and now, so that I can start to use it? I’m sure that’s far better than waiting for months and months,” I say, my voice full of conviction.
“Impatient, are we?”
“Always . . .”
“Well, you know what happens to impatient little girls . . .” he says, and gives me one of his stern over-my-knees-you-go looks.
But just when I start to think that I’ve overstepped the mark, he laughs his infectious laugh.
“The stage is yours, my darling. Take your pick, and select the fragrance your heart desires,” he says.
So we spend a fun hour together during which I test out an array of exclusive fragrances. I am just about to make a final decision when the head of the department materializes with a fragrance that she says she is confident is the one for me: X by Clive Christian, which, she explains, is a powerful blend of Egyptian jasmine (with which Cleopatra doused the sails of her royal barge when she set out to seduce Marc Antony), rose, patchouli, cashmere musk, and all manner of priceless ingredients that reputedly comprise the world’s most powerful aphrodisiacs.
That isn’t all; the fragrance—pure perfume—comes in a crystal bottle with a stopper and: “Each drop has to be applied with the stopper. And afterward, in order to protect the X perfume from the skin oils, the stopper must be cleaned with this . . .” Then she produces a pink, purple, and lilac silk handkerchief and my stomach does a flip.
Purple and lilac. At least it’s not violet . . . but I’m still unnerved. Then I pull myself together.
“Robert, I think that X and I are made for each other. And I’d love to adopt it as my signature fragrance,” I say.
“It does have a certain sensual something about it . . .” Robert admits, and places a regular order for it to be shipped to me wherever in the world we happen to be at the time.
Together, that’s all I hope for. Together.
Mission now accomplished in the Salon des Fragrances, I follow him into the designer clothes department, where he insists that I try on a series of dresses from Dior’s new collection. I protest, but he ignores me and requests that the team bring out even more clothes for me to try on. So I surrender to his will and twirl around in front of him in glamorous outfit after glamorous outfit, and all through it I feel as if I were a princess starring in a fairy tale, and he is the king who has won me.
Without any warning, out of the blue I am suddenly swamped with sadness that my mother isn’t here, trying on clothes with me.
“Wistful, Miranda?” he says, immediately noticing my change of mood.
I give him a wan smile. “I was thinking of my mother,” I say.
“She was a catwalk model, wasn’t she?” he asks, and I nod.
“And is she still a size six?” he asks.
For a second, I’m dismayed that Robert is such a seasoned womanizer that he knows that the classic model is size 6/8, but then I brush away my insecurities and focus on the pleasure of the moment, instead.
“Still a six, and proud of it,” I answer.
Within minutes he has ordered the entire Dior collection in her size.
“So you think your mom will be happy with the collection, Miranda?”
“Happy? She’ll be ecstatic!” I say, amazed that he doesn’t automatically know that.
He beams with pleasure.
“So how would you like to deliver it to her in person?” he says.
All of a sudden I feel as if Christmas, Easter, and my birthday have arrived all at once. But what if I’ve misinterpreted him?
“Robert, do you really mean that?”
He nods.
“The plane is fueled up and ready to take off anytime you want,” he says.
I want, oh how I want!
And three hours later we are high in the sky, en route to Honolulu.
Chapter Ten
The seat belt sign is switched off, Robert leans back in his armchair seat, and our eyes lock. His eyes are full of tenderness, mine full of erotic expectation ignited by my memory of our flight to Geneva. Will he any minute order me to strip naked and stand in front of him while he inspects my body? Will he upend me across his knee and spank the hell out of me? Will he fuck me with all his strength and passion? And will I be deliciously sore afterward?
“Do you remember when I told you that I believe in strict rules?” he says, cutting into my thoughts.
“How could I possibly forget?”
He strokes my face, and I melt under his exquisite touch.
“You’ve been through so much, my darling, and strong as you are, I intend to handle you with kid gloves until you are fully recovered from the trauma,” he says.
I flash back to last night, how he hugged me as if he would never let m
e go, kissed me tenderly from head to foot, so that my skin, my body, my entire being vibrated with pleasure, yet instead of making any sexual demands on me he held me in his arms, and then we slept the entire night like that.
“I control my dominance, it does not control me,” he says, in an even-firmer-than-usual voice.
“Which means?” I say, even though I’ve got a sinking feeling that I know where he is heading, and I don’t like it much.
“That I intend to lead a vanilla existence with you until the time is right for us to once more live out our wildness together. And that’s my final decision,” he says in his don’t-imagine-for-even-a-split-second-that-I’ll-ever-allow-you-to-contradict-me voice.
Just days ago I was imprisoned by Georgiana and Tamara. And now my passion, my desires, my lust for Robert—for all he is, everything he can do to me—are prisoners of his dictate that for the time being we maintain a vanilla relationship.
I don’t plan to protest, though. Tomorrow I’ll be in Honolulu with my mother, and she’ll meet Robert, my love and my future husband, for the very first time.
“Mom doesn’t even know we’re engaged,” I say to him.
“I know, my darling,” he says, and strokes the back of my hand. “And you don’t even have anything to show for it . . . but when you do, you’ll understand exactly why I needed time . . .” he says, simultaneously exciting my curiosity and acknowledging that he hasn’t given me an engagement ring yet.
It has crossed my mind before that he hasn’t, but I decided not to make a big deal out of it because, knowing Robert, the engagement ring he ends up selecting for me will be bigger and more beautiful than the Ritz.
“I don’t care about that. All I care about is that I’m with you,” I say.
“I know you mean that, Miranda. And I love you more than you can ever know,” he says.
I always forget the freshness of the air in Honolulu, the unique quality of the light, the drama of Diamond Head, the beauty of the vegetation, but when the plane lands there, the breeze hits me, and I remember.
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.