remembered from Le Château.
My first thought was: How the hell did she make the association between Mr. Blake, the dominant client to whom she catered at Le Château more than once, and me, Robert Hartwell?
I had no idea. And now Angel was clearly about to demand money in exchange for her silence regarding my visits to Le Château all those years ago.
But I was wrong.
âIâve got a message for you, Mr. Hartwell. Miranda Stone said to tell you that sheâs being held prisoner in Le Château,â she said.
My heart stopped.
Then, through an enormous act of will, I managed to recover for a second. âWho has her, Angel, who has her?â I said.
âThe Countess Suzanne von Stern,â she said, then hung up.
Of course! Von Stern must be one of Le Châteauâs dominatrixes out to get revenge on me for what happened to her buddy Tamara, cofounder of Le Château, so she kidnapped Miranda.
But when I burst through the doors of Le Château, primed to find Miranda held at gunpoint by a six-foot-tall leather-clad dominatrix, I instead found Murray, and the puzzle fell into place once and for all.
Murray was not dead and was set on getting revenge for what had happened to Tamara, and this Countess von Stern was clearly his accomplice.
And so the nightmare unfolded, and my trust in Miranda plummeted .
Chapter Five
Miranda, the Present
St. George Ferry Terminal, Staten Island
After Robert strode out of Le Château and left me standing there, alone, bereft, and speechless, my heart broken, I found myself on the banks of the East River, torn between life and death.
And although I chose life, I remained so distraught that, without even intending to, I drifted farther downtown, no destination in mind, until I ended up at the Whitehall Terminal, South Ferry.
Since then, Iâve made the journey between Manhattan and Staten Island and back again, over and over, as if I were pulled there by a magnet I am unable to resist. Each time the ferry arrives at the terminal, I follow the crowds into the waiting room until I can board the next one en route for Manhattan.
During each and every trip, my despair intensifies. Yet I keep making the same twenty-five-minute journey because somehow, somewhere, deep in the heart of me, I have a sense that the very repetitive nature of my journey will help me escape from the hell in which I now find myself.
Donât brood, Miranda. Think of the good times, otherwise you wonât be able to stand this..
But the truth is that no matter how many good times Robert and I have in our past together, after what I did he walked out on me and probably isnât in love with me anymore, and never will be again. And because of that, Iâll never be happy or complete again, either.
If only he were here with me, I could explain, I could make him understand. But he isnât, and I donât know what to do next, except to board the Andrew J. Barberi , yet again, bound for Manhattan. As the ferry pulls away from the dock, ahead of us in the distance the sunlight shimmers over HGM Towers, the New York headquarters of Hartwell Global Media. Even seeing the name Hartwell from so far away, and in such an impersonal context, hurts me more than I can express. So I turn away from HGM Towers and, instead, fix on the far horizon.
A helicopter whirs above the ferry and for a secondâa wild, passionate, joyful secondâmy heart skips a beat; Robert! He hasnât left me after all, he hasnât abandoned me, heâs forgiven me for failing to tell him the truth about Lady Georgiana, that she is alive and wants him back.
But as the helicopter moves closer to the ferry, no matter how passionately I long for Robert to be in it, I can see that someone else is piloting it solo, and that Robert is not there. So I have to face the fact that he is probably already ensconced in Hartwell Castle, steaming with anger at me and at my betrayal.
Or, even worse, he is
My first thought was: How the hell did she make the association between Mr. Blake, the dominant client to whom she catered at Le Château more than once, and me, Robert Hartwell?
I had no idea. And now Angel was clearly about to demand money in exchange for her silence regarding my visits to Le Château all those years ago.
But I was wrong.
âIâve got a message for you, Mr. Hartwell. Miranda Stone said to tell you that sheâs being held prisoner in Le Château,â she said.
My heart stopped.
Then, through an enormous act of will, I managed to recover for a second. âWho has her, Angel, who has her?â I said.
âThe Countess Suzanne von Stern,â she said, then hung up.
Of course! Von Stern must be one of Le Châteauâs dominatrixes out to get revenge on me for what happened to her buddy Tamara, cofounder of Le Château, so she kidnapped Miranda.
But when I burst through the doors of Le Château, primed to find Miranda held at gunpoint by a six-foot-tall leather-clad dominatrix, I instead found Murray, and the puzzle fell into place once and for all.
Murray was not dead and was set on getting revenge for what had happened to Tamara, and this Countess von Stern was clearly his accomplice.
And so the nightmare unfolded, and my trust in Miranda plummeted .
Chapter Five
Miranda, the Present
St. George Ferry Terminal, Staten Island
After Robert strode out of Le Château and left me standing there, alone, bereft, and speechless, my heart broken, I found myself on the banks of the East River, torn between life and death.
And although I chose life, I remained so distraught that, without even intending to, I drifted farther downtown, no destination in mind, until I ended up at the Whitehall Terminal, South Ferry.
Since then, Iâve made the journey between Manhattan and Staten Island and back again, over and over, as if I were pulled there by a magnet I am unable to resist. Each time the ferry arrives at the terminal, I follow the crowds into the waiting room until I can board the next one en route for Manhattan.
During each and every trip, my despair intensifies. Yet I keep making the same twenty-five-minute journey because somehow, somewhere, deep in the heart of me, I have a sense that the very repetitive nature of my journey will help me escape from the hell in which I now find myself.
Donât brood, Miranda. Think of the good times, otherwise you wonât be able to stand this..
But the truth is that no matter how many good times Robert and I have in our past together, after what I did he walked out on me and probably isnât in love with me anymore, and never will be again. And because of that, Iâll never be happy or complete again, either.
If only he were here with me, I could explain, I could make him understand. But he isnât, and I donât know what to do next, except to board the Andrew J. Barberi , yet again, bound for Manhattan. As the ferry pulls away from the dock, ahead of us in the distance the sunlight shimmers over HGM Towers, the New York headquarters of Hartwell Global Media. Even seeing the name Hartwell from so far away, and in such an impersonal context, hurts me more than I can express. So I turn away from HGM Towers and, instead, fix on the far horizon.
A helicopter whirs above the ferry and for a secondâa wild, passionate, joyful secondâmy heart skips a beat; Robert! He hasnât left me after all, he hasnât abandoned me, heâs forgiven me for failing to tell him the truth about Lady Georgiana, that she is alive and wants him back.
But as the helicopter moves closer to the ferry, no matter how passionately I long for Robert to be in it, I can see that someone else is piloting it solo, and that Robert is not there. So I have to face the fact that he is probably already ensconced in Hartwell Castle, steaming with anger at me and at my betrayal.
Or, even worse, he is
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