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The young man pours a sip in my glass for my approval. I lift the glass by the stem, swirl the wine, observe the way the crimson liquid trails down the sides of the crystal. I take a sip. Warm, earthy, a hint of floral and the promise of relaxation.
“It’s wonderful.” I give a nod. “I’d love a glass. Thank you.”
A grateful smile crosses the server’s boyish face as he tips the linen-wrapped bottle, giving me a generous pour.
I take another, longer sip.
I need the warm liquid to loosen the tension I’m feeling from sitting so close to him, and a girl with Cristal dreams on a Kim Crawford budget knows better than to turn down the kind of wine this family serves their guests… and prisoners, apparently.
Wine they keep carefully stored in their temperature-controlled cellars. One of their magnificently trained staff members gave me a tour of the heavenly, white-walled space, our voices and high-heeled steps echoing through the cellar as we explored its depths. She informed me the island has its own sommelier who creates and updates their wine lists, collaborating daily with the chef to ensure proper meal pairing.
The staff that work here are immaculate and impressive. I glance around at the staff my captor has assembled in the dining room, the gold family crest sparkling from their black blazers.
I bring the glass to my lips. “Your staff are amazing. They’ve made me feel so welcome. They seem so eager to please.”
He grunts, mumbling something incoherent which I don’t catch, other than that the statement is about me.
I almost choke on the wine. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Eager”—he lifts his eyes to mine— “to please you.”
His words confuse me.
His staff go out of their way to do their job to the best of their abilities. From my research, I know how well the Bachmans pay the people they trust enough to employ. Of course, they work hard.
“Please me?” I ask. “What do you mean?”
He rests his back against his seat, sinking his massive shoulders into the plush upholstery as he crosses his bulging arms over his chest.
And just stares at me.
His glass-green eyes burn into me, and I shrink back against my chair. Under his heavy, heated gaze, I suddenly remember where I am. This isn’t some dream vacation with a generous stranger.
I’m a prisoner here.
And the last thing on earth my captor wanted to be doing right now is deal with me.
I’m shocked when my bottom lip begins to tremble. I press my tongue flat against the roof of my mouth, a trick I was taught to stop yourself from crying when you lose it. Am I overwhelmed by guilt for interrupting his trip?
Fear of what he plans to do to me?
Get it together, Linds.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, looking down at the table. I lift the napkin delicately from my lap, dabbing at my lips. “About all this. Everything. Crashing your life. Interrupting what seems like a family emergency. Here I am, drinking your expensive wine, acting like a guest when…”
I feel so stupid. Wearing this dress. Using my manners.
Playacting.
He shifts in his seat, obviously uncomfortable by my impending tears. He clears his throat. “Don’t cry. God. Please don’t cry.”
I bring the napkin to my eyes, patting at my silly tears. I take a deep breath, gathering myself.
“I invited you here tonight,” he reminds me. “Are you hungry?”
Now calmer, I remember my hunger. “Yes, I am, actually.”
“Good.” He lifts an arm in the air, giving a beckoning wave of his hand. The simple gesture sets the crew in motion. People swirl around us, topping the table with baskets of bread, filling our dishes with salads, and serving a delicious-looking pasta.
