Las Vegas: Scandals

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MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover Page

About the author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

NINA BRUHNS credits her Gypsy great-grandfather for her great love of adventure. She has lived and travelled all over the world, including a six-year stint in Sweden. She has been on scientific expeditions from California to Spain to Egypt and Sudan and has two graduate degrees in archaeology (with a speciality in Egyptology). She speaks four languages and writes a mean hieroglyphics!

But Nina’s first love has always been writing. For her, writing is the ultimate adventure. Drawing on her many experiences gives her stories a colourful dimension and allows her to create settings and characters out of the ordinary.

A native of Canada, Nina grew up in California and currently resides in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband and three children. She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at PO Box 2216, Summerville, SC, 29484-2216, USA or by e-mail via her website at www.NinaBruhns.com.

To Dorothy McFalls, Judy Watts and Vicki Sweatman: wonderful friends, insightful critiquers, amazing writers and rockin’ concert buddies!

Chapter 1

“Hey, Vera, whatcha think?”

Vera Mancuso—or as the patrons of the Diamond Lounge gentlemen’s club knew her, Vera LaRue—glanced over at her friend Tawnisha and nearly dropped her makeup brush.

“My God, Tawni! Kinky Cat Woman?”

When she looked closer, she did drop her jaw—all the way to the floor beneath her own four-inch crystal-clear heels. Why she continued to be surprised by her friend’s outrageous outfits she’d never know. Vera had worked at the club for nearly four years now and Tawni’s daring outfits still managed to shock her. Tawni always teased her for being too naive for an exotic dancer. Maybe she was right.

“Too much?” her friend asked.

Vera choked on a laugh. “Uh. Maybe too little?” Yikes. “Aren’t there parts missing?” The black latex Cat Woman costume—complete with whip—was minus several strategic bits. The outfit left pretty much nothing to the imagination.

But then again, Vera reminded herself, that was the whole idea here, wasn’t it?

Tawni grinned. “Only the important parts.”

“Too hot to handle, girl!”

“Just the reaction I’m going for.” Tawni wiggled her hips in imitation of what she’d be doing onstage in a few minutes. “Rumor is there’s a real hottie out there tonight.”

Vera grinned. “Loaded, too, I hope? Because I could seriously use a few good tips tonight.”

“You and me both.” Tawni crooked her fingers playfully. “Come to mama, baby. Let’s see you boys flash those twenty-dollar bills.”

“Twenties? Damn. That outfit’s gonna bring out the fifties.”

“What I like to hear, girlfriend,” Tawni said. “Those poor slobs don’t stand a chance.” She gave the mirror a final check, winked and strutted out of the dressing room.

Ho-kay, then. Great news for Tawni. Bad news for Vera. If the punters tossed all their cash at the Kinky Cat Woman during the first set, there’d be nothing left for Vera’s Naughty Bride half an hour later. No, not good. Joe’s retirement home payment was due in a few days, and after her vintage Camry finally broke down last week she was still three hundred bucks short, let alone her own expenses for the month.

Unbidden, her eyes suddenly swam at the thought of her once-burly stepfather lying in his antiseptic white room. He’d been so full of life, had so many friends, before. Now…she was his only visitor, and he hadn’t even recognized her two nights ago.

She blew out a breath, fanning her misty eyes. Don’t go all weepy on me, Mancuso. Spoil your makeup and forget about those big tips. Buck up, girl!

Besides, tears wouldn’t help—they never did.

And if she got really desperate, she could always borrow the money from Darla, her sister. Well, half sister. Except Darla had taken off, and who knew when she’d be back. Maybe Tawni could help out if worse came to worst. If her friend hadn’t already spent all her money on some outrageous new costume by that time. The woman went through expensive stage outfits like Vera went through romance novels.

Not that Vera should be complaining about the costumes. In fact, she was very grateful for them. Tawni was one of the big reasons the punters kept coming back night after night—and telling their friends back home in Des Moines about the great club they’d found in Vegas on their last business trip. Diamond Lounge: Women in the rough, perfect and polished. Yeah, that’s what it actually said on the playbill out front. Seriously. With a sigh, Vera rolled her eyes. Lecherous Lou’s idea, of course. Who else? Now there was a loser. Why couldn’t he get Alzheimer’s and forget all about Vera and his relentless campaign to get her to sleep with him?

Anyway, Tawni was one of the rough girls. Supposedly, according to Lecherous Lou. And Vera was polished. She snorted. Ha. Tawnisha Adams had graduated from UCLA magna cum laude and was one of the smoothest operators she knew. Vera was the only trailer trash around here, living the life her mother had lived before her. Mentally kicking and silently screaming.

Ah, well. It was what it was.

She leaned forward toward the big lighted mirror that covered an entire wall of the dressing room and critically examined her already generous eye makeup. Maybe a bit more mascara.

There was a fine line between virgin and whore. In her act, she was supposed to be a blushing, innocent bride who revealed her inner bad girl on her wedding night. Right. Like a real virgin would ever know those moves she did onstage. Hell, she barely did. But whatever. The punters loved it. Which kept Lecherous Lou from firing her even though she steadfastly refused to “do the dirty” with him, as he disgustingly referred to it. That’s all that really mattered. Keeping her job.

At least until her Prince Charming came to sweep her away from all of this. Maybe tonight would be the night.

Uh-huh.

She sighed. More mascara it was.

“Vera!”

Her sister burst through the dressing-room door and skidded to a halt against the vanity counter, scattering bottles of nail polish and hair products willy-nilly.

Darla’s expression was wild. “Thank God you’re here!”

“Whoa!” Vera jumped up and steadied her. “Sis, what’s wrong? Where have you been all week? You have to stop disappearing like that. Tell me what’s going on!”

“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Darla said, yanking open her purse.

Darla’d done one of her runners two weeks ago. Which in itself wasn’t unusual. Her ditzy sister took off for parts unknown all the time, at the drop of a hat. But she always came back happier and even more relaxed than she normally was, never looking like hell warmed over. Or agitated.

Like this.

“Darla, you look something the cat dragged in,” Vera said, genuine worry starting to hum through her. “Seriously, are you all right?” She’d never seen her chronically anesthetized and laid-back half sister so upset. Well, not since their poor excuse for a father had tried to throw Vera out of Darla’s penthouse apartment for being a, quote, “money-grubbing gold-digging daughter of a streetwalker.” But that was a whole different story.

“Yes. No! Oh, I don’t know,” Darla wailed. “Where the hell is it?” Stuff spilled all over the dressing table as she clawed desperately through her designer purse. A new Kate Spade, Vera noted. The real deal. Not like the knockoff Vera was carrying today, sitting on the counter next to Darla’s purse. What a difference.

She caught a lipstick that went flying. “Sis, you’re talking crazy. Where’s what?”

“I gotta get out of town for a while, Vera. And I need you to do something for me—Yes! Here it is!”

Triumphantly, her sister held up a ring. A big sparkly one. Jeez Louise, was that a diamond? Nah, had to be fake. Even rich-as-Ivanka-Trump Darla St. Giles wouldn’t have a rock that huge.

Darla thrust the ring at her. “Can you hide this for me back at our place somewhere?”

Despite their father’s objections, Vera shared Darla’s penthouse apartment, for which—at Darla’s insistence—she paid a ridiculously small amount of rent. Amazingly generous, and a true godsend. Without it Vera’d be living in some lowrent dive in the burbs, an hour from work. Or on a sidewalk grate.

Half sisters, Vera was a product of their playboy father Maximillian St. Giles’s legendary philandering. It pleased Darla—whom he basically ignored in favor of her older brother—Henry—to no end to throw their father’s many faults and mistakes in his face. Sharing a penthouse with his by-blow ranked right up there. Why should Vera feel guilty about that? The man had treated them both like crap. And it was fun having a sister, even if Darla was a bit out of control at times. Okay, most of the time. They even looked alike. Superficially, at least. Darla meant a lot to her. She’d do anything for her sister.

She looked at the diamond ring in her hand. “Omigod, it’s gorgeous! Where’d you get it? Why do you want me to hide it?” Vera asked, instantly drawn in by the astoundingly beautiful sparkling jewel.

Darla scooped her stuff back into her Kate Spade. “Just as a favor. Lord, you’re a lifesaver. I—” Her sister turned and for the first time noticed what Vera was wearing. Her eyes widened and a fleeting grin passed over her lips. “Dang, sis. Great corset. Man, that’ll have ‘em whackin’ off in the aisles.”

Darla always did have a way with words.

“Thanks, I think,” Vera said wryly. Another thing about Darla: she might be an unholy mess, but she was an honest and genuine unholy mess—and never, ever judged Vera. About anything. “It is pretty spectacular, isn’t it? I had it made to match my bride costume. What do you think? I designed it myself.”

Seeing the fake wedding dress hanging from the mirror, a lightbulb went off behind eyes that looked so much like Vera’s own. “Oh, it’s fabulous,” Darla exclaimed. “Hey! The ring’ll blend right in! Go ahead, put it on,” she urged.

She didn’t have to ask twice. Vera slid the flashy ring onto her finger. “Wow. A perfect fit. It is so incredibly beautiful.” And Darla was right. It went great with the bride outfit.

Again Vera’s eyes were dazzled by the kaleidoscope of colors swirling in its center—green and blue and violet. Like one of those pinwheel whirly things used to hypnotize people in bad movies.

She shook her head to clear it of the weird feeling. “Seriously, what’s the deal with the ring?”

A noise sounded out in the hall. Her sister darted a panicked glance at the door, then gave her a smile she knew darn well was forced. “No deal,” Darla said. “Just hide it for me, okay?”

“Okay, but—”

“And whatever you do, do not talk to Thomas.”

As in Thomas Smythe? Darla’s ex-boyfriend? Before Vera could ask anything more, Darla pulled her into a quick, hard hug, then grabbed her Kate Spade and vanished out the door as quickly as she’d arrived.

Okay, that couldn’t be good. Something was up.

Darla was never like that—all twitchy and in a rush. Darla never rushed anywhere. Or panicked over anything. Possibly because of the drugs she used far more than she should, but no doubt also because she had learned long ago that money could solve anything and everything. Even a messed-up life.

Tell her about it. Vera only wished she’d had the chance to learn that particular lesson.

Speaking of which, she’d better get her butt moving. If she missed her cue to go onstage, Lecherous Lou would pitch a fit. And have one more excuse to hit on her and expect capitulation. Gak. As if.

Luckily, because of her close association with the wealthy St. Giles family, Lecherous Lou—along with everyone else at the Diamond Lounge—was under the mistaken impression that Vera was loaded, too, and didn’t need this job. That she just played at exotic dancing as a lark, to piss off conservative parents or whatever. Thank God for small favors. She knew other girls at the club didn’t have that kind of leverage against Lecherous Lou to resist his overtures. Or other, shadier propositions. She’d heard about the “private gentlemen’s parties” he ran off the books. It was really good money, and she’d been sorely tempted a time or two, but in the end, the thought of what else she’d be expected to do—according to those who did—made her just plain queasy. She shuddered with revulsion.

She might really, really need this job…and she might not have had sex in so long she’d probably forgotten how to do it…but she would never, ever, ever—

No. Way.

Hell, she wouldn’t even do lap dances.

Brushing off the sordid feeling, she carefully shook out the satin skirt of her faux wedding dress and wrapped it around her waist, fastening it over the sexy white, beribboned corset she was wearing. Then she slid on the matching satin bolero-style jacket that made her look oh, so prim and proper, just like a blushing bride. Gathering the yards and yards of see-through veil—the punters particularly liked when she teased them with that—she attached the gossamer cloud to a glittering rhinestone tiara that held it in place on her head.

There.

She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The dress was actually gorgeous. In it, she felt like Cinderella stepping from the pumpkin coach. Every man’s fantasy bride come to life.

For a split second, a wave of wistfulness sifted through her at the sight of her own reflection. Too bad it was all just an illusion.

She sighed. Oh, well. Maybe someday it would happen for real.

Sure. Like right after Las Vegas got three feet of snow in July.

Face it, Prince Charming was never going to sweep her off her feet and marry her. Who was she kidding? She knew when she got into this gig that no man she’d ever want to marry would look twice at her in that way again. Not after he found out where she came from, and on top of that, what she did for a living. It didn’t matter that she’d graduated high school at the top of her class and could have gotten a full ride to any college—even Stanford. Wouldas and couldas didn’t matter to men. Only perceptions. She knew that. Look what had happened to her own mother, a woman as smart and loving as any who’d ever lived, bless her.

She knew it would kill Mama, absolutely eviscerate her, if she were alive to see what Vera was doing.

But what choice did she have?

A mere high school graduate could not find an honest, decent job that paid enough to keep Joe in that pricey retirement home. And she’d be damned if she let the best man she’d ever met waste away his last years parked at some damn trailer park day care because she couldn’t afford to pay for a proper assisted-living facility. No sirree. Never. Not as long as Vera had breath in her body. And boobs and an ass that could attract fifty-dollar bills. Heck, even the occasional hundred.

So. Off she went to the stage. And truth be told, she didn’t even mind that much. Honestly. She liked her body. She’d been born with generous curves, and it did not bother her a bit to use them to her advantage. She’d never been shy. And if looking at her nude body could bring a few moments of pleasure to some lonely businessman jonesing for his far-off wife or girlfriend, well, hallelujah. Maybe she’d saved their marriage. Because men could look all they wanted, but they could not touch. That was a firm and fast rule. Both for the club and her personally.

“Two minutes!” Jerry, the bored UNLV senior and part-time stagehand, called from the hallway.

Pursing her bright red lips, she blew a good-luck kiss to the framed photo of Joe and Mama that sat at her spot on the dressing-room vanity, then hurried out and up the stairs toward the black-curtained wings of the stage. Tawni was just coming off.

“How’s the house tonight?” Vera whispered.

Smiling broadly, Tawni shook a thick bundle of green bills in her fist. “Hot, baby, hot. Some real high rollers tonight. And, oh, those rumors were true. There’s one singularly fine-lookin’ man out there. You go get ‘em, girl. Knock their little you-know-whats off.”

Vera giggled. “You are so bad.”

Tawni waggled her eyebrows and snapped her Cat Woman whip so it cracked the air. “And lovin’ every minute.” She raised a considering brow. “Though, Mr. Handsome didn’t pay me no nevermind, so maybe he’s ripe for a more frilly feminine type.”

“One can only hope.” And that he was rich as Croesus.

“Ten seconds, Miss LaRue.” That came from Jerry.

Tawni gave her a wink, and Vera stepped up to the curtain.

“And now, gentlemen—” Lecherous Lou’s smarmy, fake-Scottish accent crooned over the club PA system. Her music cued up with a long note from a church organ. “—you are in for a verra special treat, indeed. This next lass is guaranteed to make all you confirmed bachelors out there want to slip a gold ring on her finger and take her home for your verra own fantasy wedding night.”

Stifling a yawn, Jerry stood with his nose buried in a textbook, curtain in hand, timing her entrance to exactly when the applause and male howling peaked. He didn’t even look up. She didn’t take it personally. Jerry’d just come out of the closet. Besides, he had exams this week.

“The Diamond Lounge is verra proud to present…”

She took a deep breath. The stage went black.

Showtime.

“Miss Vera LaRue!”

Chapter 2

Defense attorney Darius “Conner” Rothchild couldn’t believe his luck.

What were the chances he’d go out on a little fishing expedition for the Parker case and end up running into Darla St. Giles, the very woman he’d been trying to track down for two weeks? At a strip joint, of all places…called, of all things, the Diamond Lounge.

The superb irony of the name did not escape him. Nor did the amazing coincidence of running into her there. Normally, Conner didn’t believe in coincidences. But this just might be the genuine article.

Peeling a twenty from the roll of various bills he always carried in his pants pocket, he paid for another beer and scanned the dark club again.

Talk about two birds with one stone.

Being a Rothchild, a full partner in the family law firm of Rothchild, Rothchild and Bennigan, and independently wealthy, all allowed him to take on a number of pro bono cases in between his paying clients. The Suzie Parker case was one of his current charity projects—a sordid affair concerning organized prostitution, unlawful coercion and sexual harassment. Several club managers on the Strip had gotten it into their minds to make their more desperate dancers attend infamous “gentlemen’s house parties.” Nothing more than sex parties. The girls were made to do disgusting things, often against their will, according to Suzie Parker. Unfortunately, the same reasons that led them into the coercion kept them from talking to Conner. And if he couldn’t prove Suzie was telling the truth, she’d go to jail for prostitution, and her abusers would go scot-free.

But Darla St. Giles had nothing to do with the Parker case.

No. She was going to tell him what had happened to the missing Rothchild family heirloom, the Tears of the Quetzal, a unique chameleon diamond ring worth millions. She’d tell him, or he’d personally wring her spoiled-little-rich-girl neck. Or better yet, have her tossed into jail where she belonged.

He just had to find her first. Where had she disappeared to?

As Conner made a second circuit of the club looking for her, his mind raced over the facts of this case. Going into the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department headquarters last week, he’d literally run into Darla, one of two heirs to Maximillian St. Giles’s billion-dollar fortune. Though they’d met many times socially because their families ran in the same lofty circles, Darla hadn’t given Conner a second glance. She’d been too busy arguing with a cop on the sidewalk across the street from Metro headquarters. The pair of them had sounded like they were furious at each other, lost to the world in the throes of their disagreement. There’d also been something about the cop, Conner remembered thinking, something that didn’t quite fit—other than his disgusting cheap cologne—although Conner hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

At the time he’d dismissed the incident as one of Darla’s notorious public tantrums and continued on the errand his uncle Harold had sent him on: attempting to retrieve the Tears of the Quetzal diamond from police custody. The priceless ring was being held by LVMPD as material evidence in a high-profile murder trial—the victim being Conner’s own cousin Candace Rothchild.

Her murder had hit the whole family hard, especially Conner’s uncle. Hard enough to make Harold set aside a lifelong animosity and deliberate distancing of himself from all things connected with his rival brother—including his two nephews—in order to beg Conner for a favor. Get back the ring, or Harold was absolutely convinced terrible things would befall everyone in the family, due to some ancient curse connected with the ring. His daughter Candace had apparently been killed when she, against her father’s strict orders, had “borrowed” the ring and worn it to a star-studded charity function at one of the big new casinos. She was just the first to die, Harold had warned. The man seemed genuinely terrified, convinced the so-called curse was real. He had become obsessed over retrieving the ring…especially after the near-fatal accident that befell his other daughter, Conner’s cousin Silver, a few weeks back. An accident her new fiancé, AD, now suspected was a murder attempt.

Conner didn’t believe in curses, but he did believe in family. He had a good relationship with his own parents and brother, but relations with Harold and his various offspring, Conner’s cousins, had been more than strained for as long as he could remember.