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
“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
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