Unraveled by Her by Wendy Leigh Read Free Book Online

tell me exactly how you go about ghosting an autobiography for a celebrity,” she says, and my jaw drops.
    â€œWhy the fuck should I tell you anything, when yesterday you made me tell Robert that I conned him, never loved him, and never want to see him again!”
    Her eyes narrow.
    â€œI’m not asking you, Miranda, I’m telling you. And you don’t have any choice except to answer my question, and right now,” she says, and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from hitting her.
    But what do I do now?
    â€œWhen your enemy is stronger than you, evade,” Sun Tzu once said.
    Thanks for nothing, Sun Tzu. How the fuck can I evade my enemy when she’s got me chained up in a marble mausoleum, even if by a very long chain?
    â€œWipe that scowl off your face, Miranda, because this really is your lucky day! I’ve got some wonderful news for you; I’ve chosen to afford you the unparalleled honor of ghosting my autobiography!” she says, and to my shame, at that moment the professional ghostwriter in me suddenly kicks in; Miranda Stone, best-selling ghostwriter to the stars, forever on the lookout for her dream gig ghosting an autobiography that is destined to become a massive global bestseller.
    And—although I can’t believe that I’m actually having this thought—the story of Lady Georgiana Hartwell’s disappearance, the way in which she faked her death, how she came back to life again, her sensational memoir in all its tabloid glory, will outsell every book published since time began!
    Then I come to my senses; there’s no way in the universe that I should, even for a nanosecond, contemplate ghosting a book for this insane woman, this global icon—dead or alive.
    I blush with shame at my own professional wantonness.
    â€œPussycat got your tongue, cupcake?” she says, then flicks an imaginary speck of dust from her shoulder, as if she were swatting a fly, and the symbolism is not lost on me.
    I shake my head.
    So this is why I was kidnapped and brought here; Georgiana needs a ghostwriter and has bizarrely opted to pick me.
    One mystery solved.
    I am just mulling what exactly that means to me and how I can somehow use my ghostwriting skills to break out of here when the mausoleum door bursts open, and in bounds a rain-­sodden Pluto with Tamara in hot pursuit.
    â€œPluto, baby, let Mummy dry you, baby, please!” she says, and grabs him.
    Whereupon Pluto wriggles out of her arms and races over to me. Quick as a flash, I slip some waffle crumbs into his mouth. He swallows them and then licks my face and neck.
    Crazy as this may be, I am flooded with warmth at the thought that in the midst of all this insanity, I’ve actually made a friend, an ally, who—against all odds, given his evil owner—is sweet and gentle.
    â€œGimme him,” Tamara says, and yanks Pluto away from me.
    â€œBad dog!” she says, then glares at me, attaches a collar and leash to Pluto, and attaches the leash to a table leg opposite me while he whines pitifully.
    Chained up in a mausoleum by a crazed witch? Who can fucking blame him!
    Georgiana switches on the tape recorder and gives me an imperious look. “Ask me your first question, Miranda.”
    â€œOkay, Georgiana, here it is: Why do you want to publish your autobiography?” I say, hoping against hope that her answer will give me an insight into her crackpot plan to railroad me, of all people, into ghosting her autobiography.
    She throws back her head and laughs her tinkling laugh.
    â€œOh, my dear little cupcake! I can’t believe that you are stupid enough to think that I want to publish my autobiography! Why on earth would I possibly want to do that?” she says.
    â€œThen why the hell did you kidnap me and drag me here to interview you for it?” I say, feeling my temperature escalate.
    â€œBecause I want you to ghost my autobiography. An autobiography that will never be