Unraveled by Her Read Online Free Page B

Montblanc. My memory of Mont Blanc itself, the mountain that looms over Geneva, is tarnished by that terrible night on which Robert and I were so blissfully happy, and then that mysterious purple funeral wreath was delivered to him bearing a warning against me.
    A purple mausoleum. A purple wreath, which sowed bitter distrust of me in Robert’s heart, and shattered our romantic idyll.
    “So did you send Robert the wreath, Georgiana? Or was it you, Tamara?” I blurt out, before I can stop myself.
    “Gigi sent it,” Tamara says, and smirks.
    Gigi? Gigi—the beautiful doe-eyed Geneva boutique assistant who couldn’t keep her hands off Robert even as she helped select the spectacular designer wardrobe he bought for me. Why on earth would she want to send Robert the purple funeral wreath that drove him away from me and almost destroyed our love forever?
    “But why in the hell would she send that wreath to Robert?” I ask.
    “Very simple: Tammy, Gigi, and I all attended Les Orchidées finishing school in Switzerland together, and, like the Three Musketeers, we made a pact that for the rest of our lives we would look out for each other, come hell or high water,” Georgiana says.
    The next moment, she swiftly removes my restraints with the expertise of someone accustomed to locks and chains.
    Le Château. I wonder . . .
    But before I can follow my train of thought to any kind of logical conclusion, she massages my wrists until the blood flows painfully back into them.
    My hands are free now.
    Shall I go for her eyes? Her throat?
    Just as I am weighing the possibilities, I hear a ferocious bark and brace myself to be attacked by the Rottweiler or Doberman I assume is slavering outside. Tamara jumps up and flings open the mausoleum door—whereupon the tiniest and cutest miniature white poodle I’ve ever seen in my life charges toward me.
    A miniature poodle! The evil Mrs. Hatch has a miniature poodle! Then again, Hitler loved his dog, Blondi . . .
    Tamara scoops the poodle up with one hand. “There, there, Pluto, Mommy will take care of you,” she says, and showers him with kisses.
    Out of the blue, Georgiana produces a pair of thin latex gloves, puts them on, and passes the other pair to Tamara, who follows suit.
    Then Georgiana places a large piece of beige writing paper in front of me, and I stare at it, nonplussed.
    “Write exactly what I tell you,” she says.
    “I’m a ghostwriter, Georgiana, not a secretary. I don’t take dictation,” I snap, before I can stop myself.
    I feel the muzzle of the Glock dig into the back of my neck, and my blood freezes.
    “You do now, bitch,” Tamara says, ramming the Montblanc into the palm of my hand and closing my fist around it in an iron grip.
    The pen feels like a lead weight in my hands. But perhaps I could scratch her eyes out with the nib . . .
    Though if I do, she’ll probably go into shock and fire the Glock straight at my head.
    Or else Georgiana will grab it from her and shoot me on the spot instead.
    “Just tell me what to write,” I sigh, resigned, at least for the moment, to the sheer hopelessness of my situation.
    “That’s more like it. You and I have so much in common—not just our look, but a certain Mr. Robert Hartwell as well. Nonetheless, I must warn you not to defy me, otherwise there will surely be tears at bedtime,” Georgiana says.
    Defy you, bitch? I’d rather stomp all over you.
    “Now, Miranda, I know only too well that your writing isn’t the most legible . . .” she goes on, and polishes the amethyst mirror with her handkerchief.
    How does she know that? More to the point, why does she want me to know that she knows?
    “In this case, sweetie, it’s crucial that you do your best and write as clearly as you can. So take your time, and concentrate on the task ahead of you,” she orders.
    I’m tempted to reply, “Yes, Pamela”—the alias she used when she worked at Le Château as a professional submissive—just to show