Page 96 of Kings of Sherwood

Zayn blinks. “I hear you, but—”

“You wanna be sheriff? Then you’d better cozy up to a lot of boring white people,” I mutter.

“Oh, and you’re an expert at that, little Miss Rosie the Riveter?”

“I can do a thing or two,” I say. “Watch me.”

“Sold!” the auctioneer cries, smacking his gavel, “to gentleman number 64 here.” He smiles. “And with that, we’ll take a little intermission before the remainder of the live auction. Eat, drink, enjoy the hospitality—”

I tune out the rest of what he says and straighten my shoulders—tricky to do, in this gown, but I manage. Bare shoulders are tasteful, Jack informed me, especially in something like black velvet, “andespeciallywith that a gorgeous piece like that solitaire of yours.”

I touch my finger to the diamond resting in the hollow of my throat. Glad it’s there. Glad it’s mine.

I suck in a breath.

Here goes nothing.

“So good to see you,” I cry, and descend on a white-haired matron in a spangled evening jacket who smiles politely, if uncertainly, at my greeting. “Maren de Mornay,” I go on, as if reminding her. “We met at the last auction?”

“Oh...yes,” she says, after a moment. “Yes, of course.”

I don’t know this woman from Eve. But I’d bet folding money she was there, and go double-or-nothing that she recognizes my last name, at least.

“I wanted to introduce you,” I say, seizing Zayn by the elbow, “to a good friend of mine. Zayn Rashad”—I all but shove him forward—“this is—”

“Mrs. Frederick Kitteridge,” she fills in for me, offering a veiny, beringed hand, which Zayn shakes—though not without staring like he might be expected to kiss it, first. “But you can call me Kitty. Everyone does.”

“Kitty,” he says. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Behind us, I can feel Nick goggling. I step ever so slightly to the side to block him from ruining our facade.

“Deputy Rashad,” I explain, “is running for county sheriff.”

“Oh my.” Kitty’s water-blue eyes go wide. “Brave man, I take it.”

“Or very foolish,” Zayn says, giving a nervous laugh. “I’m hoping I can do my part, is all. I have great respect for the office.”

“Mm.” Kitty presses her lips together, clicking her dentures. “That’s more than could be said about the outgoing administration. Never liked that Wheatley, myself. Not surprised he’s gotten tangled up in all that...unpleasantness.”

“I certainly hope Deputy Rashad can count on your support,” I butt in. Zayn flashes her his best politician’s smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—lovely to see you again.”

I seize Zayn by the arm, give our new friend Kitty a little wave, and turn sharply on my heel to take our leave.

“Nice work,” I mutter in his ear, squeezing his biceps. “Feeling good?”

“I feel,” he says through a clenched-teeth smile, “like an asshole.”

“Then you’re fitting in.” I smile at him, and toast with a champagne coupe I scoop off a passing tray. “You’re doing great. This thing’s in the bag.”

Zayn huffs. “It’s basically a one-man race now. I’d have totryto lose.”

“So don’t try.”

Someone appears at my elbow—Tuck, in a peach-colored jacket and matching pale glasses frames, which I happen to know conceal a very slim, very discreet CCTV relay right to the lenses.

“Hey, we need you.”

I frown. “Everything okay?”

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