Chapter Twenty-Two

When I first heard the name William Masters, when I first learned the truth about the man I’d loved since childhood (I can’t, even now, refer to him as “my grandfather” without shuddering), my world was shattered into a thousand pieces.

Seemingly unaware of my churning emotions, Georgiana goes on, “You see, I never met William Masters, thus he has less to do with the story than you might imagine. There is no need for me to raise the specter of that man again except to say that he was the unlikely but perfect candidate to launch the complex plot that Murray had so cleverly conceived.

“Now that I had agreed to participate in the plot, and Robert had seen that man, all that was left was for Murray to give Robert the good news,” she says.

And with that, Miss Britisher-than-the-Queen-of-England assumes a Bronx accent about as accurate as Dick Van Dyke’s cockney accent in Mary Poppins.

“I’ve found her, Mr. Blake! I’ve found your dream girl, your perfect submissive!”

‘Mr. Blake’ was the pseudonym Robert used whenever he visited Le Château in the dead of night. Fortunately for me, her weird accent somehow makes it much easier for me to hear her talk about anything to do with the man she calls WM.

“At that stage, although Robert did his best not to show how elated he was with Murray’s news, at the prospect of finally encountering the submissive of his dreams, it was radiantly apparent to Murray,” Georgiana continues.

“He told Robert that I was owned by the man whom he saw through the dungeon grid, so as to paint me as rare, elusive, unobtainable, and thus to send the price Robert was prepared to pay for me sky-high.

“Robert was so eager to live out his fantasies with Pamela in all their lurid detail that he agreed to Murray’s exorbitant terms without hesitation. And so, one evening, he strode into Le Château and down to one of the dungeons, which, at his request, was already set up as a schoolroom, and inside I, or rather ‘Pamela,’ was waiting for him.

“Pamela was eighteen years old, Murray had told him, but in reality, I was much older than that. I also wasn’t nearly as innocent as Murray painted me to be, not by a long way. But it suited his purpose to claim that I was, and he told Robert, ‘She’s a nice girl, Mr. Blake, go easy on her,’ as if I were some virgin bride about to be deflowered on her wedding night.

“For as long as I live, I’ll always remember my first meeting with Robert that night at Le Château all those years ago, the night when we first met and he fell in love with me at first sight,” Georgiana says, her vanity all aflame.

I want to throw up. Preferably all over her. Better, though, to save my energy to find a way out of here.

“I was on my knees when he first walked into the dungeon, and my gaze was firmly fixed on the floor, but in reality I was desperate to look up and appraise him.

“And when he indicated that I should, I raised my eyes to him, slowly, ever so slowly, so that he could experience the full impact of how big and how violet and how filled with yearning for him they were.

“But, engrossed as I was in my own theatrical performance, I wasn’t remotely prepared for what I’d see when I first set eyes on Robert; as you know, Miranda, he’s the most handsome man whom I—or any other woman—could conjure up in my imagination.

“A classic Master, dressed all in black, with so much presence. So tall, so strong, so powerful, with those lacerating green eyes. He was—and is—so dominant, so dashing, so like a romantic hero or a macho movie star born to seduce every woman who crosses his path. And the best lover in the universe, don’t you think, Miranda?”

Her words feel like acid poured into my ears, down my throat, into my mouth, everywhere, and I explode with emotional pain.

“Shut the fuck up, Georgiana! Just shut the fuck up,” I scream, and grab her by the throat with my one free hand and squeeze as hard as I can, desperate to stop her talking about Robert, to silence her forever.

Her nails dig into my wrist so hard that a drop of blood spurts out and I scream in agony.

“And I was even starting to like you,” she says, and before I can stop her, she grabs a cattle prod from the rack and zaps me with it.

I come to when I feel icy water streaming over my face, my hair, my body.

“Wake up, you little bitch, I’m not done with you yet,” she says, her voice thick with fury. She pulls me to my feet, grabs my right hand, and cuffs it to my left behind my back.

“From now on, I’m going to treat you exactly like the prisoner you are. Just lucky for you that Tammy isn’t here right now . . .”

Then the realization hits her.

“And never will be,” she says, and the tears well up in her eyes.

I don’t feel a second’s pity for her. I just sit there, my eyes fixed firmly on the floor, and wish that I were anywhere but here, and that Georgiana really were six feet under like she was supposed to be.

She wipes her eyes, and then the steel comes back into them again.

“Face the facts, Miranda, you’re chained up, Robert doesn’t know I’m still alive, he won’t have a clue that you’re here, and he isn’t about to gallop in on his white horse and save you again, so you’d better knuckle under and complete the task for which I’ve brought you here,” she says, then switches on the tape recorder and continues.

“In fact, I was so mesmerized by the sight of Robert in all his dominant glory, his aura, his power, the heat that seemed to seep out of every inch of his magnificent body, that I was rooted to the spot,” she says.

She’s appropriated all my feelings for Robert. I hate her more than I ever dreamed I could hate anyone . . .

“Then Robert, like some chivalrous cavalier from days of old, held out his hand to help me up from the floor. And as I put my hand in his, he closed his fingers around it, and for a second I felt an electric charge pass between us, followed by the fear that he was about to pulverize my hand then and there. But I shook that feeling off and stood up as gracefully as if I were in the midst of an audience with the Queen of England, and not in the dungeon of a brothel.

“Then, true to Murray’s script, I made a big deal out of noticing the gold signet ring on the little finger of my left hand, just to be sure that my reaction didn’t escape Robert.

“He may have remained impassive, but I sensed that even if I didn’t exaggerate my reaction to the signet ring, he would have noticed it. He’s so perceptive, you know . . .”

Know? I more than know how perceptive Robert is. I’ve experienced his searing perception every single day since we first met, and plan to carry on doing so for the next million more to come.