Meanwhile, in a sprawling private orchard on the northern edge of the city, stood a two-story, vintage manor.
Behind an arched window was an Italian-style living room. Wesley sat at the dining table, his left hand cuffed to the arm of his chair. Two burly men stood guard not far behind him.
“What’s wrong? Is the food not to your liking?”
Shane descended the stairs and, seeing the untouched meal, chuckled. She motioned to one of the guards. “Clear this away and tell the chef to make a new meal. Keep remaking it until Mr. Rayburn is satisfied.”
Just as the guard was about to clear the table, Wesley finally spoke. “That won’t be necessary.”
Shane waved the guards away and pulled out a chair to sit down. “I knew you had a soft spot for others.”
“It’s not a soft spot. Forcing people to do your bidding is just a twisted form of entertainment for you. It’s an interest I don’t share,” Wesley said coolly.
“How am I forcing anyone? I paid him. He took the money and is providing a service. Isn’t that perfectly normal?”
Shane draped an arm over the back of Wesley’s chair, leaning in close. “You manage the Rayburn Group. You don’t feel pity for employees who can’t meet their sales targets, do you?”
“You have a talent for twisting logic.”
She sat up straight, smiling. “But it’s the same principle, isn’t it?”
Wesley shifted his left hand, the handcuff clanking dully against the chair. “You’ve taken me hostage, yet you’re cuffing me here with good food and wine. Is your plan to simply keep me prisoner?”
She rose slowly and walked over to open a bottle of red wine. “It’s been a long time since we’ve sat together and talked this calmly, hasn’t it?”
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