by Wendy Leigh
He takes the ring and places it on my engagement finger.
And then kisses me with so much passion that I become dizzy with pleasure, and if he didn’t hold me so firmly and so tightly in his iron grip, I might easily fall into a swoon like the heroine of some Victorian melodrama.
When he finally lets me go, I pick my words carefully and say, “If the roulette ball landed on any other number but nine, I would have had to remain single, wouldn’t I, Robert?”
“Spin the wheel again,” is his only answer.
The ball lands on number 2.
Whereupon he hands me a green velvet box with the number 2 embossed on it in gold.
Inside, the identical engagement ring, with one difference: “A champagne diamond, a rich cognac,” he says, and I stare at him, at a loss for words.
Then, with a grin that makes his features seem almost boyish, he overturns the Vuitton trunk and all the boxes tumble out and scatter on the lawn.
He spins the roulette wheel over and over, and each time the ball lands on a number, he flings me a box that bears that number. And inside each box, an engagement ring with a setting identical to the first and second ones, except that each one has a different diamond set in it:
Number 1: A white diamond
Number 3: A pink-champagne diamond
Number 4: A canary diamond
Number 5: A blue diamond
Number 6: A brown diamond
Number 7: A green diamond, slightly lighter than the green of Robert’s eyes
Number 8: A blood-red diamond
Number 10: A gray-green diamond
“One engagement ring, sweetheart, but ten different diamonds, for ten different days, ten different moods,” he says.
Different moods? How can I have different moods when I’m here with Robert, the love of my life? For when I’m with him, there is only one mood for me: blissful happiness. Except, of course, when I remember what I am so desperately trying to forget. . .
So why don’t I just tell Robert the truth—that Georgiana is still alive? That way he could send his army after her and I’d be safe now and forever. If, of course, that’s all he does. But what if he does more? What if, when they’ve captured her, she works his magic on him once more and wins him back again? Then I’ll lose him forever.
And I just can’t risk that happening. Not yet. And not easily. Don’t think of that, Miranda. Think of that later. Instead, I focus on the happy task in front of me.
In honor of Robert’s eyes, I select the ring with the green diamond, and he places it on my engagement finger.
“Till death us do part,” he says, and amid my joy I feel a shiver of apprehension.
Chapter Eleven
The following morning, a black BMW 7 is on standby outside the hotel.
To my surprise, Robert is driving us himself.
As he expertly negotiates the four-mile, fifteen-minute drive along the stretch of highway from Waikiki to my mother’s house in Manoa, close to the University of Hawaii, where my stepfather, Alex, lectures on French history, I can’t take my eyes off Robert’s profile, so handsome, so striking.
A lump forms in my throat as Mom comes into view, standing by the gate of her home, waiting for us.
Robert hasn’t even switched off the ignition and I’m already in her arms. He gets out of the car and stands back, letting us have our moment. At last I move aside so that Mom can see him for the very first time, in all his macho glory.
And my beautiful, sophisticated, former supermodel of a mother takes one look at Robert and is suddenly a blushing girl of fifteen again.
“It’s like coming face-to-face with Elvis,” she whispers to me later.
Robert’s first words to her are “Thank you for having such a beautiful, accomplished, kind, and loving daughter.”
She flushes with pleasure and says how happy she is to meet him and I can tell that’s the understatement of the year. But then her smile fades, her eyes cloud over, and she says, “I’m so sorry that the mausoleum burned down in that terrible fire. It must be so terribly sad for you not to be able to visit Lady Georgiana’s grave anymore.”
I turn my face away from both of them so that they don’t observe the guilt written all over it. How could I not have told him? And yet, how can I? I’m terrified of his reaction. Besides, I’ve held back from telling him the truth for this long, so why not wait a little longer? What harm can a few more hours, a few more days, do?
A couple of minutes later, I follow my mother and Robert inside the house, where my stepfather, Alex, is waiting for us. I’m nervous about introducing Robert to Alex. Although he’s only been married to my mom for a few years, he is extremely intellectual and I respect him, so his opinion matters to me.
But I quickly relax when he and Robert immediately strike up a conversation about Napoléon, Robert’s hero, and one of Alex’s specialized areas of study. Within moments they are vigorously debating Napoléon’s merits and defects, with Alex putting forward the case against Napoléon and Robert, of course, arguing passionately for him.
“You could do worse than marry someone who is so knowledgeable about the emperor of France, and argues his case so eloquently,” Alex says to me much later. I’m thrilled that Alex likes him, though inwardly I secretly quake at the thought of Alex knowing I picked Robert partly because of his kinship with a very different Frenchman, the Marquis de Sade.
At supper, Robert sits next to me, the essence of charm and courtesy and the very model of a boyfriend, with no trace of either the world-famous tycoon or my demon dominant lover in evidence.
Toward the end of supper, Alex raises his glass and toasts him.
Then Mom leaves the table, comes back with a beautifully gift-wrapped package, and hands it to Robert. She hasn’t told me what’s in it, and I can’t for the life of me imagine what gift she’s chosen for a multibillionaire who has everything.
“It belonged to my father, Miranda’s grandfather, and I’d like you to have it,” she says.
Inside, a silver watch on a leather strap. I never met my mother’s father (these days, I have difficulties with the word “grandfather”), but I’ve seen pictures of him wearing this same watch.
I glance at Robert and I can see that he’s immensely touched by Mom’s gesture.
He takes off the priceless Patek Philippe from his wrist, sticks it into his pocket, and replaces it with the watch Mom just gave him.
I can tell that she now thinks that Elvis had nothing on Robert, and I’m overjoyed by her reaction to him.
Afterward, I help her load the dishes into the dishwasher and catch her studying me with a worried look on her face.
“He’s a dream come true, and I can tell that he loves you to distraction, and that you love him just as much. But I’m puzzled that you are so awfully pale and listless tonight, darling, and not quite yourself,” she says.
“Jet lag,” I tell her, but she bites her lip in disbelief.
When we get back to the living room, Robert is studying the photograph of me at my graduation, which has pride of place on the wall.
“Even then, she already had that movie-star magic,” he says, then courteously adds, “Just like her mother,” and Mom practically swoons on the spot.
“Would you like to see some more pictures of Miranda?” Alex offers.
“I’d like nothing better,” Robert replies, and proceeds to spend the next hour leafing through photo albums, starting from when I was a baby, in my father’s arms.
When he comes to one of me at three, beaming into the lens, radiant with love, trust, and security, he stops.
“I assume you took that, Clare,” he says.
She shakes her head.
“No, her father, my ex-husband, Luke, did,” she says.
And then he turns to another page in the album.
There, a photograph of me in my father’s arms.
I’m clutching the Raggedy Ann doll he gave me for my fifth birthday, and even today I remember that moment, and how happy I was.
Robert studies the photograph extremely closely.
“He obviously loved you very much, Miranda.”
I have to fight back the tears that spring suddenly to my eyes. Tears of loss and longing for my father, the father who never made me feel loved by him but whom I adored with all my heart.
Toward the end of the evening, Robert asks Alex to go out to the car with him, and for the next few minutes they bring in garment bag after garment bag marked “Dior,” while my mother stands there speechless. My heart swells at how good he is, how kind, how generous.
At the same time, I know with every fiber of my being that even if he were a truck driver who’d just bought my mother a five-dollar glass dish from Kmart, I would love him just as much, and Mom would be just as happy that I was marrying him.
On our final day in Honolulu, Robert invites my mother and Alex to dinner at La Mer, Halekulani’s gourmet restaurant, which he has rented out tonight just for us. We sit down to a succulent supper starting with beef tartare with caviar, followed by lobster in a shaved-truffle sauce, and ending with Hawaiian vanilla soufflé with macadamia nuts. Just as we’ve finished the soufflé, Robert gives Alex a gift I knew nothing about in advance—a bound edition of Le Code Napoléon—The Napoléonic Code.
“I rest my case, Professor,” he says, and I’m once more impressed to the core by the thoughtfulness and the intelligence of the man I am about to marry.
And then he presents my mother with the diamond and gold Cartier watch we picked out together.
“For the beautiful and brilliant mother of the bride. Another way of telling you that I will love your daughter till the end of time,” he says.
And my mother cries tears of happiness, while I think to myself that even if I were ever remotely worthy of Robert, I certainly am not anymore.
After my mother and Alex leave, I am overcome with sadness.
I know that Robert is instantly aware of my emotions, and I turn away from him in embarrassment, just so that he won’t see the tears in my eyes. After all, I’m a grown woman, so why should I be upset that I’m parting from my mother?
“Don’t feel embarrassed, darling. If I still had a mother, I’d react exactly the same way,” he says, and my heart aches for him.
Then he squares his shoulders.
“Go change into something sexy, sweetheart. Then let’s have a drink in the bar,” he says.
I go back to the suite, take off my demure black dress, and put on the red Valentino dress he picked out for me in Geneva instead.
With Gigi’s help, of course. Don’t think of her. Don’t.
When I walk back into the lobby again, Robert looks up from his newspaper and gives a low whistle.
“A sex goddess incarnate,” he says, and his eyes grow dark with desire for me.
I’m thrilled.
I follow him into the Halekulani’s Levers Bar and we sit there holding hands, listening to the romantic jazz standards the pianist plays and sings so beautifully.
Out of the blue, though, he switches from Cole Porter to “When You Wish Upon a Star,” a song I’ve always loved. My mother used to sing it to me when I was a child, but instead of enjoying it, I suddenly realize that it is the theme to Disney’s Pinocchio, the story of a marionette that told terrible lies, and I stiffen.
Robert gives me a questioning look, so I will myself to relax and instead listen to the lyrics.
But when I hear the lines about wishing on a star to make your dreams come true and that fate is kind to lovers, all I can think is yes, fate has been kind and sent me Robert. And I really did think I’d found true love and eternal happiness at last. But how can I hold fast to it when I’m hiding such a terrible secret, one that could end up with me losing everything I hold so dear?
Sensing my distress, Robert pays the check and suggests we go for a stroll along the beach.
He probably thinks I’m still upset about leaving Mom, and I am touched at his kindness and sensitivity. I just wish that that were the only reason.
He puts his arm around my waist, and together, we stroll along by the side of the Pacific in silence as the stars shine down on us. We end up sitting in the dark by the pool, and I do my utmost to avoid thinking about the orchid mosaic at the bottom of it. I lean back against Robert’s chest, and I can feel him relax with relief that I’m myself again.
I’m not, of course, and I probably never will be, but I don’t want him to know that.
But despite that, despite everything, because I am so close to him, because the heat of his body is scorching mine, I am acutely aware of how erotic every single inch of him is in every single way.
And without any warning, but probably because he has been secretly monitoring my every expression, my every change of mood, and realizes the effect he is having on me, he slides his hand under my dress and rubs my pubic mound, which, as I got a Hollywood wax in the spa this afternoon, is smooth all over.
“I love it bare,” he says, and moves his fingers farther down and for a minute or two swirls them around the edge of my clitoris, “every inch of it. So smooth, so beautiful. And I can’t wait . . .”
“Can’t wait to do what, Robert?” I say, excited to the tips of my toes at the prospect of his igniting our red-hot sex life again. And, as always, I love his telling me ahead of time in his deep, gravelly voice exactly what he is going to do to me later.
“Touch it, feel it, stroke it . . .” he says.
“Pinch it?”
“Just a little,” he says.
“Only a little?”
“So do you really think you’re ready to plunge back into il nostro mondo segreto [Italian for “our secret world,” as he sometimes terms BDSM] with me again?” he says.
“Just try me!”
With that, he grabs me by the hair, pulls my head back, and kisses me so passionately, so violently, that if he weren’t holding me so tightly, I would probably topple over into the pool.
“Don’t ever change,” I say when I regain my balance.
“Never would, never could, Miranda; my dominance is in my blood, my DNA, and there is no way in which I could shed it, even if I wanted to. But because of what Tamara did to you, and because you are still so fragile, when I planned this trip, I decided that this was the perfect time for me to give you another taste of what a vanilla love affair can be like, and—”
He stops for a second, then lights a cigarette.
“And what, Robert?” I say.
“And also because I still need to prove to myself that I am able to survive for more than a few days without dominating the woman I love,” he says finally.
“But you were in a vanilla relationship with Georgiana for a while,” I can’t help but mention.
“Once. Not out of choice but out of necessity. That particular relationship was far different than ours will be, I can promise you.”
Then, seeing my discomfort at the thought of their relationship, he changes the subject, “Let me emphasize again that I decided a vanilla interlude is right for us now. And I plan to keep it that way until I judge that you are strong enough for something a little more challenging. When I decide, and not before,” he says sternly, and while I tremble outwardly at the forcefulness of his voice, for the first time since my rescue, I am well and truly wet.
“When will that be?”
“When I say so,” he says, and stares deep into my eyes. So deep and so piercingly that I end up flinching and looking away, lest he read the secret within them.
Don’t let her do this to you, don’t let her deprive you of the thrill of walking on the dark side with him once more.
So I turn back to him and, with every iot
a of sincerity and conviction I possess, say, “I can’t hold out much longer, Robert. Let’s start again tonight. Please.”
He stares at me for what seems ages.
Then he stands, pulls himself up to his full height, grabs me by the arm, and yanks me up on my feet. And suddenly, he is miraculously transformed into a Master once more. My Master.
“Inside, Miranda,” he says. “Lovely as you were in every way these last few days in Honolulu, I’m afraid that I have to inform you that certain elements of your behavior need correction and could benefit from a session of intensive, severe, and sustained discipline.”
I tingle all over with an irresistible combination of fear and pleasure.
Then he clicks his fingers and indicates that I should follow him.
Which I do, like a bitch in heat, under his spell.
Chapter Twelve
He backs me into the suite living room until I’m standing in the middle of it.
Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he unzips my dress, and his fingers move lingeringly down my back as the dress falls to the floor.
“Pick it up and hang it in the closet, neatly,” he orders.
I do, careful to arrange the dress on the hanger so that it doesn’t slip off and arouse his ire.
“Get back in the middle of the room, right away,” he says.
I scurry there, as he leans against a nearby desk and impatiently raps the top of it with a long shoehorn with a mahogany handle and a bone tongue.
“Arms behind your neck. Now spread your legs for me,” he orders, as his voice rings with dominance and I obey without hesitation.
“Stand up straight, Miranda,” he snaps, and I do.
“Stomach in,” he says, and gives my belly a sharp tap with the shoehorn, which makes me pull my stomach in, double quick.
“Stick those beautiful big breasts out,” he says, and I blush with shame but do.