Unraveled Together

by Wendy Leigh

  “Sorry, Mr. Hartwell. I didn’t mean that. Here’s the address. I’ll wait for you at the Delano, but first let me tell you about the person you are going to see,” she says, and I feel like a bastard for having doubted her, even for a second. Then she gives me the lowdown on my meeting with the first person on her list, and her scheme for getting what I need from her.

  Key Biscayne, an island connected by causeway to Miami, but which on closer inspection exists in another world. I know something of it from my late father, a bastion of the Republican Party who, during the Nixon era, used to fly down there to see supposedly retired members of the administration, chew over old times with them, plus play a round of golf or two.

  Nowadays, Key Biscayne is redolent of faded grandeur, more Latin America than Kennebunkport, but still laced with big money—inherited money—at every turn. Particularly at the Ocean Club, an island paradise that isn’t on a real island, a country club that isn’t really in the country but is the perfect setting for Petronella Pickering. Or rather, the former Petronella Stone, Luke Stone’s ex-wife and Miranda’s stepmother.

  The butler shows me to the terrace, where Petronella, resplendent in a white-and-gold chiffon caftan underneath which I can see the toned and tanned outline of her immaculate body, is languishing on a chaise longue.

  As I approach her, she slowly, very slowly, removes her outsize white Valentino sunglasses, puts down her glass of pink champagne, and declares, “Why, Mr. Robert Hartwell, the world-­famous studio mogul himself! Welcome to my humble abode,” then holds out her hand for me to kiss.

  I take it in mine lightly, don’t kiss it, and then drop it as soon as is polite.

  She motions me to sit on the end of the chaise, and after I cast a glance around the terrace and see that no other seating is available, I do, but am far from happy with her proximity to me.

  “My little stepdaughter Lindy swore that the TV cameras and the photographs didn’t do you justice, and that I ought to see for myself! And she was more than right . . . Now do tell me about the part you have for me in your next movie. The lead, naturally, I assume,” she says.

  With those few words, I understand exactly what Lindy has sent me here to experience in person: Miranda’s stepmother is English, upper class, and eerily similar to Georgiana.

  I give her a warm smile.

  “The role of a lifetime, Mrs. Pickering.”

  “Petronella . . .”

  “Petronella. The role of a lifetime.”

  “Which is?”

  I take a swig of champagne.

  “Lindy, of course, has the greatest respect for you, and has only the most cordial things to say,” I begin.

  “Naturally,” Petronella says, and tosses her head. “Now do tell me more about my character, Mr. Hartwell.”

  “The role is that of a wonderful, kind stepmother, a stepmother with two stepdaughters. The younger is loving and cooperative, but the elder . . .” I say, then wait for her to fall into the trap Lindy has suggested I set for her.

  “Just like my dear little stepdaughter Miranda! I could win an Oscar in my sleep playing the part of a pure and blameless stepmother forced to deal with a little bitch like that!” she drawls, and if I hadn’t come here seeking crucial information about Miranda, I’d be inclined right then and there to toss Petronella Pickering over the terrace and into the ocean below.

  Instead, I nod.

  And then she starts talking. As she does, she inches her way down the chaise and slithers closer and closer to me, until her thigh is pressed against mine, and the heat of her body starts to rival the heat of the day.

  I force myself not to push her away, and instead shift my position so that I am no longer in contact with her body, and wish that I were anywhere else but in the presence of Petronella Pickering. But however virulently I dislike her, and how much the venom in her voice makes me want to turn a deaf ear to her words, I’m here to listen, and listen I will.

  “Miranda, Miranda. Or rather, Mandy, as my late ex-husband, Luke, used to call her. ‘My lovely little Mandy,’ he’d say, and I’d bite my lip and change the subject. It took me a while, though, years, in fact, of pampering him, pandering to his slightest whim, his every desire, but in the end, I managed to pilot his emotions in another direction, until ‘my lovely little Mandy’ was replaced by ‘my beautiful wife, Petronella.’ And not long after that I got what I wanted; as far as her father was concerned, Miranda might just as well have vanished into thin air,” she says, and shoots me a cat-with-the-cream smile.

  I give her a look so dark and disapproving that I’m not surprised that she blanches, and then hastily tempers her boast with, “I don’t mean that exactly the way it sounds . . . It’s just that, when it came to Miranda and her place in her father’s life, Britannia ultimately ruled, and America became a mere colony. My own personal colony . . .”

  No wonder Miranda was so threatened by the very thought of Georgiana, and that everything she gleaned from the press about her, and later on from me, must have evoked her stepmother, Petronella. Georgiana and Petronella, two peas in a pod, really. Both so chilling, both so cold-blooded. Petronella, the wicked stepmother who stole Miranda’s father from her; Georgiana, whose reincarnation from the dead threatened Miranda so much. I’m beginning to understand exactly why Lindy sent me here, exactly why meeting Petronella may well make me understand, then forgive, Miranda for her lie by omission.

  At the same time, Petronella is so infuriating that I can’t stop myself from making a dig at her: “But what about Luke Stone’s last love, the Thai girl . . .” I say, just to drive home to her that I knew that Luke had ultimately left her.

  “By then I didn’t want him anymore,” she says airily, then adds, “Come, Mr. Hartwell, let me show you the paintings my dear departed husband did of me.”

  I hesitate.

  “And I believe there are one or two of darling Miranda in the collection, as well,” she adds as an enticement.

  I follow her into a large drawing room. There, on every space of the wall, paintings of Petronella, much younger, stark naked, and in a variety of poses.

  I search, in vain, for paintings of Miranda.

  Observing, Petronella stalks over to a closet.

  “Oh, very well! I forgot,” she says, and hands me two small unframed canvases.

  Miranda, aged about sixteen, plump, pretty, and coltishly innocent and awkward. Already so very lovable.

  “Luke painted them just before I married him. She wasn’t much to look at, even back then when young girls are usually at their best, don’t you think? I mean, I could hardly believe my eyes when that gorgeous hunk of a man Warren Courtney was instantly captivated by her at my wedding. She was so very plain, you see,” she says.

  I shake my head.

  “I don’t see, Mrs. Pickering,” I say.

  She gives a light, frothy laugh, and again I am forcibly reminded of Georgiana.

  “Did you happen to know my late wife, the Lady Georgiana, Mrs. Pickering?” I ask on a whim.

  “Petronella, Mr. Hartwell, Petronella. Now do let me show you out. I look forward to becoming your muse and working with you on your latest picture . . .”

  Once outside, I check my cell phone. A new habit for me, but one I’ve been forced to form simply because maybe, perhaps, Miranda will text me, and if she does, I want to know about it.

  But she hasn’t.

  It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m going to swallow my pride, call her, tell her I forgive her and that I want her back.

  In the limo, I sit back as the Miami skyline comes closer and closer, and plan exactly what I am going to say: that I understand, that I love her, and that I want to make her my wife.

  I am just about to dial the number when the phone rings.

  His voice a combination of triumph and relief, Peterson announces, “Mr. Hartwell, my nu
mber five operative just got back to me with a full report of Miss Stone’s movements. She spent most of the day at 40 Central Park South with a Mr. Warren Courtney.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Miranda, the Present

  It’s late, and although I’ve long finished writing the scene in Unraveled in which Miranda is at JFK and is confronted by Darren and the brunette supermodel and is torn apart emotionally, I am still on a high and just want to keep writing.

  But as always, even though Robert has rejected me, even though I may never in my life see him again, I still can’t stop my thoughts from turning to the man I love and start fantasizing about him in all his sexual glamour, his grandeur, and his glory . . .

  Robert, a pirate king dressed in full swashbuckler’s regalia, on the deck of the frigate he has captured, and I, a princess, now his prisoner, am tied naked to the mast.

  As the hot sun beats down on my body, my eyes are riveted by the sight of my captor. Tall, strong, muscular, with flashing eyes and a sense of danger exuding from every perfect pore, he surveys me with such intensity that I feel as if he is going to devour me any moment.

  Devour me or whip me.

  He approaches me, and my heart flutters with a combination of fear and desire.

  Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he rubs oil into my feet, my ankles, my legs, my thighs, my stomach, my ass, my back, and my breasts.

  His face is now so close to mine that we are almost touching, and then he smiles a devilish smile, and I flinch at the message in it.

  “And so, my princess, we find ourselves alone together, so to speak . . .” he says, then, over his shoulder, indicates the crew who are going about their business and averting their eyes from my naked body as he has instructed.

  The oil is dripping down onto the deck, and my eyes are drawn to the delicate riding crop Robert is brandishing.

  “They are forbidden to look, my princess, but you and I both know that they need to hear . . .”

  I gaze at him, almost blinded by his handsome face, the resolve in his eyes, the livid scar on his cheek, the whiteness of his teeth, the broadness of his chest, his rippling muscles.

  Then he draws even closer to me and whispers, “As loud as you can, my princess. Loud enough to deceive them.”

  I nod.

  Then he raises his right hand and slashes the riding crop down toward my breasts, but at the very last split second, he pulls back a fraction so it hardly hurts at all.

  But just as he has instructed, I let out a piercing shriek.

  Five strokes more, and the two of us repeat the identical show; Robert raises his right hand high, slashes the riding crop toward my body, but at the very last split second pulls back to protect me. Whereupon I scream so loudly that within moments, I am hoarse from screaming.

  And then he throws down his crop and motions to one of the maids (a rarity on a frigate, I know) who is in the midst of polishing the railing.

  After he unties me, she throws a wrap over me, takes me by the hand, and leads me belowdecks and into the most sumptuous cabin I’ve ever seen.

  Gold, brass, and diamonds everywhere, even on the ceiling. A vast red-velvet-and-gold-covered bed, opulent diamond-studded cushions everywhere, and the potent scent of Egyptian jasmine floating through the air.

  Gently, she leads me into a pink-marble bathroom and helps me into the fragrant bubble bath already prepared for me. Then she silently, slowly, almost reverentially washes me from head to foot, dries me, and massages my entire body with lotion scented with Egyptian jasmine.

  That done, she leads me over to the bed and motions me to lie down on the pillows. I obey, then close my eyes and drift off to a deep and dreamless sleep.

  I am awoken by an insistent throbbing between my legs, open my eyes, and there is Robert, his tongue deep within me, licking, sucking, probing, while I moan in ecstasy.

  For a moment, he lifts his head and his eyes meet mine. “Now for the pleasure, my beautiful princess—your reward for taking the pain . . .” He licks his long index finger, then slowly, ever so slowly, inserts it into me and starts thrusting rhythmically.

  As the rhythm builds faster and faster, he starts to pleasure me orally again, swirling his tongue around my clitoris at the same time that he thrusts his fingers deep into my—

  At that moment, the doorman buzzes me and announces a courier from Hartwell Castle.

  I open the front door, fighting the bile rising in my throat, a feeling of doom in my heart. I’m right: a courier with a strongbox containing my engagement rings, and a note.

  It didn’t take you long, did it? the note reads.

  It didn’t take me long? What in heaven’s name does Robert mean?

  All I know is that when he presented me with the engagement rings—all ten of them—perfect diamonds, all different, yet all in the same settings—he’d said, “For your every mood.”

  My every mood? I very much doubt it. Unless, of course, I’ve forgotten and one of the diamonds is black, for murderous, my mood at this very minute.

  It’s final then, there is no going back. Robert doesn’t want me anymore, and my engagement rings are right here, in front of me, to prove it. There is no hope. It’s well and truly over.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Robert, the Present

  I’ve been as kind to Lindy as I possibly can be under the circumstances, but I still make the entire flight from Miami in silence.

  Miranda spent most of the day with Warren Courtney, and I’m fuming.

  Miranda back with the man who rejected her without any explanation whatsoever?

  How can that be possible?

  Sexual masochism is one thing, but to be so masochistic in real life that the moment our relationship is over she immediately runs back to the man who treated her so badly is horrific—and I can’t believe that she has sunk so low.

  We land at JFK, and just as I am in the midst of escorting Lindy to the limo I’ve got waiting to take her home, she gives me a pleading look.

  “Please, Mr. Hartwell, please, just one hour. One hour with the person who has the key to solving every single mystery,” she begs.

  Now that I know that Miranda has run straight into Warren Courtney’s arms again, I couldn’t care less about solving anything to do with her.

  “Please, Mr. Hartwell, you promised,” Lindy goes on, and I can’t but admire her persistence.

  Out of respect for that persistence, and simply because I admire her loyalty to her sister, I tell her I’ll think about it and ask her to call me in the morning.

  Back at Hartwell Castle, I check with my operative on Miranda’s whereabouts and discover that she arrived home in Hoboken in time to receive the delivery of her engagement rings.

  A pang of regret shoots through me.

  Regret and longing.

  Which is why, at that moment, yearning to hear Miranda’s voice again just this once, no matter what, I turn on the tape recorder and start to listen to tape number one, the tape of her first interview with Georgiana.

  And when I hear Miranda’s voice, loud, clear, and melodious, asking Georgiana the first question, it’s all I can do not to pick up the phone and call her, tell her how much I love her, and beg her to come back to me once more.

  But I had her escorted out of Hartwell Castle without any explanation and, worse still, sent back her engagement rings as well, so how can I?

  Besides, by now she’s probably made the decision to commit to Warren once more.

  And even if she hasn’t, there are still all those unanswered questions.

  As I ponder my next step, the tape plays on, and I hear Georgiana’s voice.

  “Put down the Glock, Tammy, she’s decided to behave at last,” I hear her order.

  And at that moment, the globe suddenly seems to shift on its axis, and all is right with my world at last. Miran
da wasn’t in league with Georgiana after all!

  Georgiana and Tamara clearly kidnapped her and kept her prisoner in the mausoleum. But while Tamara died in the fire, Georgiana didn’t!

  Miranda didn’t tell me that Georgiana was still alive, but she didn’t plot with her against me, either.

  She didn’t want to harm me, she didn’t betray me. She lied to me by omission because she loves me so much and was terrified of losing me.

  Not knowing that she never could.

  So do I drive straight to Hoboken and ask her forgiveness?

  Or has she already moved in with Warren Courtney?

  My gut tells me that she isn’t back with him again, but I’ve treated her so badly that I can’t be sure.

  One more day, one more surveillance by my detectives, and then I’ll learn the truth. In the meantime, I pick up the phone.

  “Where to next, Lindy?” I ask, hope simmering within me for the first time in days.

  That is, until I hear her answer.

  The following morning, I’ve made my decision. Much as I loathe the man, I can’t give up now. I can’t walk away just as the final curtain is about to fall.

  I bite the bullet and agree to meet Miranda’s grandfather, the man who defiled her when she was seven years old; the man she came to call “my fairy godfather,” because all through her childhood and teens he showered her with material riches; the former cinematographer who went on to become Georgiana’s astrologer at her tony Swiss finishing school; the man whom years later I spied at Le Château, the fantasy parlor in Manhattan.

  Was he behind Georgiana’s plot to blackmail me? Was he the man who unleashed so much havoc and unhappiness on me and my life?