WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) by Victoria Danann Read Free Book Online Page A

and refill the wine.
    Charlie got prime rib. Robert got sea bass. Ivan got lamb lollypops with mint sauce. Harper got lobster. After seeing these expensive delicacies delivered to my peers, I laughed out loud when I was presented with tomato-sauce covered meatloaf. I don’t know how they got my mother’s recipe, but by damn, that was what I wanted more than anything else at that moment in time. I just hadn’t known it until they put it in front of me.
    The other guys looked at me and my plate when I laughed out loud. The waiter looked worried. “Is everything alright, Mr. Draiocht?”
    “Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s beyond perfect.”
    As soon as everyone was served, the wait staff withdrew, the guitar music faded, and the screen lit again. This time the camera was focused on a guy returning tennis balls as fast as the ball machine launched them his way. He wore new-style bright tennis clothes and had a red bandana tied on his head. When the ball machine stopped, he jogged over to a mark in front of the camera.
    The tennis court was set high on a hill with a two-hundred-seventy-degree view.
    “I’m Stefan,” he said with an accent that suggested Eastern European.
    The guy looked to be taller than average, but he had a tennis build, strong and wiry. His tan looked like he spent a lot of time on the court and his dark hair and eyes reminded me a little of Rafael Nadal.
    “I was a winner seven years ago.” He looked over his shoulder. “I like playing, but I didn’t like the stress or politics of the pro circuit. Now I play for fun and teach kids. You’d have to be a lunatic to ask if I have regrets.”
    The camera moved backward as Stefan walked forward. “Is it Camelot here? I guess that depends on what Camelot is to you.” He climbed a set of wide stone steps to another level opening onto an infinity pool with an even more spectacular view. “Everybody has their own idea of what that means.”
    As Stefan turned, the camera turned with him so that he was backed by a view of a breathtaking white columned Grecian-style villa, three stories high with flagstone patios, bronze statues of deer, and filmy gauze drapes on the veranda. It was probably the most romantic thing I’d ever seen. What I mean is, I would probably think so if I was a woman.
    Stefan’s arm swept behind him to encompass the building. He smiled like the cat who got the canary and said, “But this is pretty good.”
    I had to agree with Stefan. The promise of life like that is what turns people to crime.
    As Stefan’s smile faded from view, the image was replaced with a set of wide iron gates bearing the same WW crest I’d seen all around the building in which I was presently having dinner.
    A female narrator with a velvety, seductive voice said, “This is the entrance to our little colony. Of course access is invitation-only.” As the camera panned up, we saw that there were quite a few white palaces dotting hilltops and hillsides. “Residents are encouraged to pursue whatever interest is at the center of their heart’s desire. While you’re finishing dinner, we’ll give you a taste of local life in Wimberley. It’s not just for us, you know. It’s also an artists’ colony.”
    Strains of acoustic guitar returned to create audio backing for a video of galleries. Each showed people viewing paintings or sculptures, conversing with the artists, or negotiating terms for purchase.
    It would have been really interesting, an artists’ colony in an area as remote as Wimberley, but the video suggested they draw enough visitors from San Antonio and Austin, or elsewhere, to keep them thriving.
    If I was fitting the puzzle pieces together correctly, this was some kind of contest of would-be suitors. The winners would, apparently, spend the rest of their days kept in the lap of luxury by sugar mamas. In exchange for what? Being sex slaves to somebody who had to go to these lengths to find a man? I would say I was about to hit rock bottom, but