The men behind her moved, and Novalee flinched. "Okay," she said quickly. "Okay, I'll sit."
She walked to the table on legs that felt like they might give out at any moment. The chair Dante pulled out for her was ornate, completely out of place in this grimy warehouse. She sat, and he pushed it in with the courtesy of a gentleman.
The irony was nauseating.
Dante took his own seat across from her, his movements unhurried. He picked up a bottle of wine—expensive, judging by the label—and poured two glasses.
"I don't drink," Novalee said.
"You'll drink tonight." He slid a glass toward her. "It's a 2008 Bordeaux. Excellent vintage."
She didn't touch it.
Dante's smile thinned. "Novalee, I'm trying to be civilized here. The least you could do is cooperate."
"Civilized?" The word burst ou
