Unraveled Together by Wendy Leigh Page B

hours ago?
    â€œJust a group of actors I hired to have drinks with us, and then leave straight afterward, my darling,” Robert says, and the realization starts to dawn on me.
    â€œBut after dinner . . . when I was under the table, and you were . . .” Fucking most of the women , I want to say, but stop myself.
    He strides over to a console in the corner, flicks some switches, and then I hear the words: “Are you sure I can’t fuck her up the ass, Robert?”
    I gaze up at him in shock.
    â€œTaped this morning by actors. Auditioning for what might end up being one of the most racy movies my studio has ever produced. Then those few words were spliced together with all the other noises, the sighs of ecstasy, the moans of pain, everything. And all for your entertainment, all for you, for your enjoyment, and for your fantasy,” he says.
    Before I can thank him with everything I’ve got, he changes the subject. “And—now that our games are over—for something more serious, much more serious,” he says, and my stomach turns to liquid with terror.
    â€œRobert, I know I have to explain . . .” I start; then the door bursts open. One of Robert’s staff.
    â€œMany apologies, Mr. Hartwell, but the lady on the telephone insists that she has to talk to you right now. A matter of life and death, she says,” and the room starts spinning.
    Georgiana! Georgiana is on the line for Robert! It must be her! It must!

Chapter Eight
    Robert, the Present
    I take the call in my office, my adrenaline still pumping from the scene I just created for Miranda, and cursing the interruption, because I was finally about to interrogate her about exactly why she hid the truth from me.
    But the moment I hear the voice on the phone, I’m eminently glad that I took the call: Angel.
    Then again, Murray is dead.
    Georgiana is in the hospital.
    So what the hell does Angel want now?

    Money, of course, the greedy little bitch wants money. Lots of it. For twenty-three tapes she found in the safe when she went back to Le Château.
    â€œWhat kinds of tapes, Angel? And why ask me if I want to have them?” I say.
    â€œBecause each one of them has her name on them. Miranda Stone,” she says.
    â€œIs that all they say, Angel?”
    â€œEach one has a number, and the words ‘Interview with Georgiana Hartwell.’ ”
    â€œAnything else?”
    â€œYes, and I’ll tell you, but first give me some idea of how much you gonna give me for them? A thousand each?”
    I was about to offer her more, far, far more, but she’s a blackmailer, so I won’t encourage her by upping the ante.
    â€œYou’ve got a deal, Angel, and I’ll give you the money when you bring them to me. But first tell me what else is written on each tape.”
    â€œWell, in that case . . .”
    I hold my breath.
    â€œDates, each of them has a date on it.”
    â€œGo get the tape marked one, Angel, tell me the date on it, and then, once you’ve brought me the tapes, you’ll get your twenty-­three thousand.”
    Five minutes later, Angel comes back to the phone again, tells me the date written on the first tape, and at that moment the world well and truly ends for me.
    Three weeks ago . Miranda first interviewed Georgiana three weeks ago. On the second day she was imprisoned in the mausoleum.
    The day before her rescue.
    Before Serendipity.
    Before Le Salon des Fragrances.
    Before Honolulu.
    Before I met her parents.
    Before all of that, Miranda knew that Georgiana was still alive.
    I buzz security.
    â€œPlease escort Miss Stone back to the limousine and tell the driver to take her to Hoboken at once.”

Chapter Nine
    Miranda, the Present
    I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much in my life.
    And I don’t think I’ll ever recover from the shock that the moment Robert finished enacting the intricate fantasy he had