Page 66 of Backwoods
Westbrook spun on his heel and ambled to the large oak liquor cabinet. Using a crystal decanter, he poured a finger of liquor each in two glasses.
“I trust my staff has treated you well during your stay.” He returned to her and offered her the drink.
“They’ve been . . . fine,” Amiya said, picking her words carefully. This man, or whatever he was, was the last one here that she could trust. “Quite accommodating.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He settled onto a nearby chaise lounge made of a smooth velour material. He patted a space next to him. “Sit, please.” He flashed his predator’s grin. “I don’t bite.”
Despite his assurances, looking at his mouthful of sharp teeth, it was much too easy for her to imagine him literally tearing her flesh apart, tendon by tendon, and consuming her raw. She had to forcibly eject the gruesome image from her mind.
Trying not to spill the drink because her hand was trembling, Amiya eased onto the furniture. She crossed her legs and balanced the glass on her knee, bracing it in both hands.
“Not much of a drinker, are you?” he asked. He chuckled, took a small sip from his glass. “Have a sip, sugar. It’s excellent bourbon, distilled by a former business associate of mine.”
She levered the rim of the glass against her lip, tilted it slightly, allowing the barest amount of liquor to touch her tongue. It was good whiskey as he promised, but she needed to keep a clear head.
“Nice,” she said.
Westbrook nodded with approval. He unfolded his body across the chaise lounge, one of his legs only inches from hers.
“I keep a wine cellar as well,” he said. “A large quantity of Bordeaux, top of the line quality. You look like the kind of lady who might appreciate that sort of thing.”
“I enjoy red wine,” she said, an honest answer.
“We’ll open a bottle for dinner, then,” Westbrook said. “I like a lady who appreciates the finer things in life that I can offer.”
Amiya offered merely a brief smile and a nod. In her adult life, she had been on dates with dozens of men, and Westbrook reminded her of an older, wealthy gentleman that she’d once agreed to have dinner with when she was in her early twenties. Like Westbrook, he continually reminded her of his material possessions, the fine things he could bestow upon her, as if such things were all she cared about. She had smiled and nodded her way through the evening but generally kept him at arm’s length, concluding the encounter by allowing him only a chaste kiss on her cheek.
She doubted the same strategy would work with Westbrook. He kept stretching and expanding his body, inching into her personal space. He knew she couldn’t run away. She was in his world, and the penalties for rejecting his advances were severe.
As he was chatting about his wine cellar, he casually let his hand drop onto her thigh.
Amiya stifled a scream—but she couldn’t resist stirring. His cold touch sent a current of ice through her bloodstream.
“Touchy, are you?” He grinned, but withdrew his hand into his lap. “I must apologize, lady. You’re so beautiful you’ve made me forget my manners.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “This is all so overwhelming.”
“I understand,” he said, though his flat eyes showed no awareness of her emotions. “You’re here in this magical place, and you’re wondering how is it all happening? Did you slip into a dream?”
Amiya said nothing, let him continue.
“I fade into sleep at dawn every morning and I don’t remember a thing about it when I wake at sunset,” Westbrook said. “Terrible things happened here, on my property, as you may have surmised, but the evidence of such things is washed away nightly. It’s the blessing that we receive.”
“The blessing?” she asked, and couldn’t hide her sarcasm.
“The blessing,” he repeated, and took a sip of whiskey. “You could have a highly regarded position in this house of mine. You could retire to your room and sleep away the day, and awaken to a dream each night. A dream of rich, sumptuous things and handsome gentlemen eager to please you.” Chuckling, he made a sweeping gesture. “I have such pleasures to show you, my lady.”
As if on cue, someone knocked on the doors across the room that led to the kitchen, and the doors swung inward on oiled hinges. A dapper young man entered. He pushed a small cart laden with silver and covered dishes.
Westbrook flashed a hungry smile and rose to his feet.
“Dinner is served,” he said.
44
Nick spotted the Westbrook estate from hundreds of yards away, the lighted mansion floating like an electric cruise ship on a black sea. At the sight of it, he sucked in an involuntary gasp, as if he’d been kicked in the ribs.
“Yeah, that’s what I was telling you about,” Raven said, beside him. “Here, everything changes at night.”
