Chapter Nine

Once breakfast is finished, I assume that Robert will be at his habitual all-day meetings. In an attempt to prevent myself from spending the day brooding on everything, or torturing myself with the ever-present dilemma of whether to tell him the whole truth, part of the truth, or none of it at all, I plan on distracting myself by exploring Hartwell Castle’s library to check out some of the literally thousands of autobiographies it houses.

Instead, to my delight, he announces that now that the doctors have pronounced that I’m fully recovered, we are going into Manhattan together.

The Rolls is parked in the forecourt, but the usual chauffeur, James, is nowhere to be seen. I am just about to inquire what has happened to him, and whether he is all right, when Robert opens the car door for me, then gets into the driver’s seat himself.

As I sit in the front of the Rolls with Robert as we drive down the Long Island Expressway, the horror of the past few days subsides and I suddenly find that I am drawn to the erotic sight of his big hands on the steering wheel. He drives as fast as the speed limit allows, weaving in and out of traffic with confidence and control, and the power of his oh-so-masculine hands, his driving skill suddenly excite me through and through. I am stunned that Robert can arouse me sexually by something as innocuous as simply driving a car well. But I guess I should have been prepared for that—he exudes sexual charisma and his capacity to inflame my desire is never-ending.

Just as we arrive at the city, although I had such a big breakfast, I suddenly have a yen for something sweet and ask Robert whether James keeps any chocolate in the car.

He makes a sudden turn and snakes into a parking space just off Third Avenue, outside a Victorian-style town house with the name “Serendipity 3” emblazoned on it.

“Serendipity! You used that word in Palm Beach, the day you proposed to me, and then I used it to toast Lindy,” I say.

“That’s one of my reasons for bringing you here. Step inside, and you’ll discover the other. And I’d bet a six-figure sum that you’ll more than enjoy it,” he says, and my heart leaps in anticipation.

Inside Serendipity 3, a treasure trove of trinkets are on sale, and at the back of the store, there is a pretty dessert parlor lit by Tiffany lamps. Without even a glance at the menu, Robert immediately orders me Serendipity’s specialty, Frrrozen Hot Chocolate—which turns out to be a massive chocolate milkshake creation served out of a giant goblet.

Thrilled with the most chocolaty-chocolate treat of all time, I gulp it through an extra-thick straw and savor every single luscious mouthful.

“Don’t you want to try it?” I say, and pass him a second straw, but he just laughs his rich and infectious laugh.

“Darling Miranda, I first enjoyed a Frrrozen Hot Chocolate here when you were about five years old!” he says.

I never think about the age difference between us, but right now, as I gorge myself on my chocolate extravaganza, he watches me with all the fond indulgence of a father.

Not my father, of course; the father I should have had but didn’t.

At that thought, I feel a pang of loss, but then remind myself not to look back, but to revel in the present, in being with Robert, and safe. So I throw him a bright smile.

“I love the name Serendipity, but the truth is that I was never really one hundred percent sure of the precise meaning when you used it in Palm Beach, except that it seemed to indicate that something or someone was good. And I hate not knowing exactly what a particular word really means. So please, could you give me the exact definition?” I say.

“I’m deeply shocked that a best-selling author like you doesn’t know exactly what ‘serendipity’ means, Miranda! I ought to put you over my knee right here and now and punish you for your dreadful lack of linguistic knowledge,” he says, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“If only . . .” is on the tip of my tongue, but I know better than to challenge him.

“ ‘Serendipity.’ A happy chance. Or, as I prefer to think of it, a lucky charm,” he says.

Lucky, that’s what I feel at this moment. Lucky to be alive, lucky to be here with Robert, lucky to love and be loved by him. And I silently pray that my luck will hold forever.

After Serendipity, Robert heads for an exclusive internationally known department store, and I follow behind him, floating on cloud nine because he has arranged for one of the most upscale luxury department stores in the entire world to be closed, just for us.

Together we explore the store, while a team of personal shoppers shadow us from a suitable distance and make a record of all our purchases.

One of our first stops is in the sunglasses department, where Robert gets me to try on twenty or more pairs of designer sunglasses and selects eight of them.

“But it’s winter. Why do I need so many?” I say, bemused.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder, Miranda,” he says, then plants a kiss on my forehead and buys all eight for me.

Then he strides over to the swimwear department and tells me to model a series of Pucci bikinis for him, selecting ten of them in swirling rainbow colors.

“But when will I wear them?” I ask.

“Soon,” is all he will say. Then he takes me to the designer shoe department, where he picks out eight pairs of Chanel sandals for me in eight different colors.

At that point, his generosity is too much for me—in every sense—so I pull out my credit card.

“Robert, if you don’t come to the men’s department with me this minute and let me buy you a gift, I’ll up and leave you right here and take the bus home to Hoboken,” I say, and he raises an eyebrow at me.

I stare back at him unblinking, refusing to let his Robert Hartwell I-can-see-right-through-you stare intimidate me.

“Very well, my darling—but just one item and no more,” he says, and we head for the men’s department together.

“How about a suit, then?” I say, and point toward the Zegna collection.

He shakes his head.

“All my suits—other than my Armanis—are tailor-made in London,” he says.

“Then some shoes,” I say, though I’ve got a sinking feeling he’ll have an answer for that, as well.

“Handmade in Italy,” he says.

“Some ties? Shirts? Cuff links, then?”

“One thing, and one thing only,” he says sternly.

“But why can’t I buy you more than one thing?” I say.

“Because I say so,” is his answer. I feel about seven years old, and in this context, I don’t particularly like the feeling.

“If you weren’t twice his height, I’d start calling you Napoléon, because you are such a tyrant!”

“But that’s exactly what you crave, and what drew you to me in the first place, Miranda,” he says, and a shiver of pleasure runs through me, unbidden.

“I do, but this once, let me buy you something, please,” I say.

“If you really insist, you can buy me something I believe I shall be able to put to good use: a leather belt,” he says, taking pity on me. I brighten at the prospect.

“A long, thick, heavy belt. One that is particularly flexible,” he goes on, and as the thought of how the belt will feel when he slashes it across my bare ass comes to mind, I blush to the roots of my hair.

Then, with the shopping team at his heels, he strides over to the belt department, and I follow.

“Now, Miranda, please explain to the team exactly what you are looking for,” he says, with a devilish smile.

I blush scarlet again and then recite, “A long, thick, heavy belt, one that is particularly . . .” but on the word “flexible” I find myself unable to articulate the rest of the sentence clearly.

The shopping team scramble to find a selection of belts and come up with fifteen, all of which they lay on the counter in front of Robert, who makes a great production of picking up each one of them, flexing it, putting it down again, then trying the next.

Finally, he ends up with three.

“So which of all these belts do you think is the most flexible, Miranda? The thicker one? The longer one? Or the heavier one?”

I want to sink into the floor because I’m certain every single member of the shopping team knows exactly what he intends to do with the belt. But I swallow hard and pick an Armani belt in soft calfskin the color of mahogany.

“Good,” he says. “That’ll do fine.” He indicates that I can now pay for it.

Which I do, soaking wet with anticipation at what he plans to do with the belt, yet also humiliated that he made me select and buy a punishment implement that he is clearly going to use on me, and how . . .

At the same time, I’m elated that he clearly thinks I’m now well enough to start playing again . . .

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.