Page 66 of Captive of Outlaws

It’s a simple piece, just a single diamond pendant with a delicate white gold chain, gently resting on the black velvet stand. But I’d know it anywhere.

My eyes dart to the description, and my stomach turns.

Ladies’ necklace. Single princess-cut diamond, 1 carat, G grade with VS1 clarity. Starting bid $5,000. Donated by John Lackland.

That means two things.

One, Uncle John is here somewhere.

And two...

That bastard. That absolute ratfuckingbastard.

Giving away my mother’s necklace like it’s just another knickknack. The necklace she was supposed to beburiedin, for Christ’s sake. And donating this instead of something he cares about because heaven forbid he ever make a sacrifice.

“Such a lovely piece, isn’t it?”

The voice is smooth, male, and directed at me. I glance up, heart pounding, expecting to see Tuck, but he’s slipped away. Instead, I’m staring into the face of someone tall, dark, and...unfamiliar.

I don’t recognize him, I don’t think—although the black silk mask around his eyes doesn’t help in that department—and I’m not sure he knows who I am either.

“You have to love the understatement,” he goes on, gesturing with his wineglass. “Let the jewelry compliment the woman’s beauty, not the other way around, if you ask me.” Hesmiles. He must be late twenties, early thirties at most. Dark hair, handsome, at least if the bottom half of his face is anything to go by—square jaw, light stubble—and he knows it.

I need tonotbe talking to him. Or to anyone. But I’m crowded by the press of people around the table, no easy way to step aside.

“I’m not much for jewelry,” I say.

“That’s a shame.” He purses his lips. “This would suit you, I think.”

My cheeks flame.

“You look...familiar.” He cocks his head at me. “You weren’t at the alumni mixer in Charlottesville last weekend, were you?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say hurriedly, “I—”

“My mistake, then.” He smiles. “Guy. Guy Gisbourne. Pleasure to meet you...?”

“Ma—” I catch myself right before I say my literal, actual name out loud.Idiot.“Matilda,” I finish, hopefully smoothly. “And we’ll see about that.”

“Oh, will we?” The guy—well, Guy—flashes a dentist-whitened smile, bends over the table, and scribbles something on the bid card. When he straightens up, I see what he’s written down.

Guy Gisbourne—$10,000

“Wish me luck,” he says. “If I win, it’s all yours”—he pauses—“Matilda. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Before I can say anything, he slips off into the crowd to meet whoever was calling for him, and I turn around and smack right into—

“Who the fuck was that?”

LJ, of all people. I’m eye-level with his bow tie, closeenough to smell the woodsy scent of his cologne, to feel the warmth of his body.

I have the weird impulse to throw my arms around him. Like I need protection all of a sudden, after that creepy encounter with Mr. Guy.

But I don’t. Obviously.

“No one,” I say quickly. “And keep your voice down,” I add, darting a look around the ballroom. Everyone seems pretty pickled, but I’m fairly sure none of them would use the phrasewho the fuck was thatin polite company.

“Bullshit,” LJ says. And he does, to his credit, lower his voice. “He was talking to you.”

---