Page 11 of Princess of Thieves

The chime of the grandfather clock interrupts my thoughts. It’s just slightly out of tune, as if on cue. My stomach grumbles too. I look at myself in the mirror, knowing a bra would present the same problem, given that they’re all matching.

“Fucking fine,” I mutter.

I grab a peach-colored cardigan from the clothes and shrug it on, just in case it’s cold down there. The last thing I need is Guy staring at my tits.

One final adjustment to the pearl barrette, and I’m off down the stairs—but not without a small smile at myself in the mirror.

I’ve never felt pretty before, but I think I like it.

“DINNER IS SERVED.”

And fucking how. The dining room is spacious and elegant, absolutely packed to the gills with food. It’s a classic Southernfeast—stewed greens, cornbread dressing, black-eyed peas—and my mouth waters as soon as the aromas hit me.

There are only two place settings, one at each end of the table, and the view is blocked by the massive floral arrangement in the middle. Still, Guy smiles and gets up from his seat when he sees me.

“Is this just for the two of us?” I blurt out.

Guy chuckles. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he says. “I wanted to make it up to you, and I realize you probably haven’t had a proper meal in days.” He glances at the spread. “Do you like shrimp?”

“I like anything that smells that fucking good,” I say before I can stop myself.

Guy smiles a wry smile. He’s dressed a little more businesslike in a white button-down, charcoal slacks, and polished shoes. The gleam of his watch catches the light as he sips from a bowl-like glass of wine. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that foul language from that pretty mouth.”

In spite of myself, I blush. Am I letting this guy charm me? He smashed my cell phone, I remind myself. He basically stalked me and had his guys chase me out of the garage the night I ran away from Uncle John.

Yes, but he also paid Uncle John off, another voice argues back, and that cell phone was given to you by literal criminals who were trying to imprison you and who—

I don’t let myself finish that thought.

“Penny for your thoughts, Maren,” Guy says, swirling his wine glass. “Oh, but I’m so rude. Are you drinking?”

“I don’t see why not,” I say. “I’m not on antibiotics or anything.”

Guy laughs. “I’ll pour you a glass.” He moves toward the bar cart, but I stop him and grab his elbow. I take the glass from his hand and pull it to my chest.

“I’ll take this one,” I say.

Guy smiles again. “Maren, I’m not going to poison you.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “Can you blame me for being cautious after what I’ve been through?”

He pauses, frozen in place, then shakes his head. “I suppose I can’t.” He goes to the bar cart, pours himself a fresh glass, and hits a hidden button that sends soft jazz music playing through the dining room.

“I hate to be rude,” he says, “but I’m absolutely starving. So, if you don’t mind us getting to dinner...”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “Let’s eat.”

He pulls out my chair—because, of course, he does—and I sink into it. No sooner does my ass hit the cushion and my chair scooch forward than Rosa appears, ready to serve. Five seconds later, my plate is piled high with everything from every serving dish. As Guy watches carefully, there’s some sort of unspoken communication between them—a lift of the brow here, a slight nod of the head there—to indicate what should or shouldn’t end up on my plate and how much. But I just sip my wine and wait until it’s all finished so I can attack it with a fork.

When Rosa is done serving me, she does the same for Guy, assembling a plate that I can’t help but notice is considerably heftier in its portions. I survey my setting and remember to use the outermost utensils first. Thank you for that, Titanic, and I shake the napkin into my lap. I’m about to dig in when I notice that Guy has his head bowed at the other end of the table.

“If you don’t mind,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling like an asshole. “Sure.”

I’m not much for religion. We never were growing up. The church in Sherwood was always more of a place to gossip than to do anything spiritual, and Daddy and Mama knew that more than anyone. But I figure it never hurts to ask anyone who mightbe able to help. So I bow my head and interlace my fingers all the same.

At the other end of the table, Guy mutters something I can’t hear or distinguish until he says, “Amen.”

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