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The shimmering heat of the Las Vegas nighttime enveloped her as she stepped into it, calming as always. It tamed the shivering in her chest and limbs. Filled her lungs with sagescented comfort, like on long-ago evenings spent in her mama’s lap in an old secondhand rocker in a tiny patch of garden behind their mobile home.
“Please,” she said when they hit the parking lot. “Slow down. These shoes aren’t really meant for walking in.” Or maybe her knees still needed to recover from that Prince Charming nonsense.
He halted, glancing down at her four-inch-heeled glass slippers, which sparkled back at him in the reflected streetlamps.
Ah, jeez. The symbolism was just too damn perfect. She felt herself going beet red in embarrassment.
“Really, th-thanks for your assistance,” she stammered, “but I’d prefer to take a cab home.”
She turned toward the fenced perimeter and the street beyond and realized with a sinking feeling that taxis would be few and far between in this neighborhood, even during daylight hours. And it must be three in the morning by now. She’d have to go back inside and have them call—
Suddenly she found herself swept up in Conner’s arms, her wrist looped around his neck.
“Hey! What are you doing?”
“Kick them off.”
“Huh?”
“The shoes. Lose them. They’re ludicrous.”
“And expensive! No way!”
He made a face. “Lord, you’re stubborn.”
She mirrored it right back. “God, you’re obnoxious.”
They glared at each other for a moment.
“Fine,” Conner said. “Keep the damn shoes.”
“Thank you, I will. Now if you’ll please put me down.”
He actually snorted at her. “Can’t you just accept my help gracefully?”
Before she had a chance to respond, he was carrying her toward a midnight-blue convertible sports car sitting in the first slot of the parking lot. It was the most dazzling car she’d ever seen in her life. And totally intimidating. Low, sleek, catlike in grace and Transformer-like in technology. It had to have cost more than she earned in a year. Or two. His hand moved and a couple of beeps sounded. The two car doors rose up like the wings of a giant bird.
“Holy moly. What is this, the Batmobile?”
“No, a Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren Roadster.” He lowered her into the passenger seat. She sank down into the buttery leather and it hugged her backside like a lover spooning her body. Softly firm and enveloping. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s, um…” Luxurious. Flashy and unreasonably sexy, like its owner. Totally out of her league. Like its owner. “Nice.”
“Nice, huh?” He gave her a lopsided grin as he dropped down to sit on his heels next to her car door. He pulled the seat belt over her lap, leaned over and fought with the airy poofs of her faux wedding dress for a moment finding the socket to snap it into.
She heard the click. But his arms stayed lost in the voluminous folds of the gossamer fabric. Almost like he was looking for something else. His fingers suddenly touched her legs. A shiver of unwilling excitement shimmered through her body. Under the white silk skirt she was still only wearing her thigh-high stockings and a G-string. If he wanted, he could slip his hands up under and touch her. For one crazy second she almost opened her legs to let him.
Good grief, what was wrong with her?
Instead, his hands glided down her calves. Slowly. Deliberately. As though he were memorizing every inch of the descent. Her heart pounded. When he reached her ankles he paused, then wrapped his fingers around her crystalline shoes and tugged them off.
With a flick of his wrist they sailed into the narrow space behind the driver’s seat. “There. That’s better.”
She couldn’t decide if she felt more outraged, or breath-lessly aroused. “Do you manhandle all your clients like this, Mr. Rothchild?”
“Only the ones who need handling,” he said with a completely unrepentant smile. He came around and slid behind the wheel. “And it’s Conner.”
“Not if you’re my lawyer, it isn’t.”
“What, because I’m your attorney we can’t be friends?”
She searched his eyes. Which were the exact color of the morning desert, she noticed for the first time. A morning desert in the springtime, when the landscape was at its most beautiful. Falcon brown with flecks of rich green. Surrounded by long, dark lashes, and a sensual tilt to arched brows that matched his movie-star-perfect brown hair.
He was dazzling.
And so colossally out of her universe it made her stomach do crazy somersaults.
His smile widened. “I’ll take that as a yes, we can.”
Huh?
The engine revved and they took off, were waved through the FBI guard post and drove out onto the street. As they gained speed, the billowing skirt of the wedding dress fluttered up around her shoulders, filling the open convertible.
The night was dark and desert-warm, the winking lights of the Strip just ahead. Rusty mountains ringed the city, sometimes a cozy cocoon that circled the city in its own private haven, sometimes menacing omnipresent watchers of the multitude of sins that went down there in Vegas.
But for now, the bright lights reigned supreme, shiny and colorful, lending the city its famous carnival atmosphere.
As soon as they reached downtown, it started—the honking horns and the shouts and thumbs-up. Tourists waved and whistled. Obviously everyone thought she and Conner were newlyweds, coming straight from some outlandish Las Vegas wedding chapel with a preacher dressed as Elvis or some other zany impersonator.
She wanted to sink right through the soft leather seat and disappear forever. “Damn. I should have changed clothes,” she said, chagrined. “Sorry.”
Conner waved back to a blue-haired old lady walking with an equally old guy in a pair of screamingly loud plaid shorts. “Don’t be. Haven’t had this much fun since I drove the UNLV homecoming queen around the football field at halftime.”
Figured he did that.
Probably dated her, too.
Probably last year.
Damn.
“How old are you, anyway?” she asked, suddenly irrationally, absurdly and completely inappropriately jealous.
The flashing neon lights of the Strip glinted back at her from his eyes as he smiled. “Thirty-three. You?”
“Twenty-four.” Her mouth turned down. “Obviously a little too old for you.”
He chuckled. “More like a little too young. I generally prefer my women older, more experienced. Fewer misunderstandings that way.”
Red alert, girl. Well. At least he was honest about it. “I’m sure.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
She sank farther into the seat and scowled. “Not at all. Very considerate of you not to break all those young, impressionable hearts flinging themselves at you. I suspect you could do some genuine damage.”
“Hmm. Sounds like you’ve had yours broken by some insensitive older guy.”
The lawyer was too perceptive by half. She shrugged as casually as she could manage. Her heart was none of his damned business.
“I apologize on behalf of all older men,” he said. “The jerk must have been a real idiot.”
“Which one?” she muttered.
“Ouch.” Somehow his hand found hers in the folds of her dress and squeezed it. “Every last one of them.”
Their eyes met, and again that weird feeling sifted through her. Part longing, part relief, part visceral hope.
Totally insane.
She pulled her hand away. As seductions went, his technique was pretty low-key. But pretty darn effective. And very dangerous. Already she was wondering what it would feel like to be curled up in his arms, warm and replete after making love to him. To have those amazing feelings of tender belonging she’d gotten just a glimpse of, as they lay skin-to-skin and…
And heaven help her.
He stopped at the red light at Flamingo Road, just up the block from the faux Eiffel Tower. A clutch of tipsy tourists tumbled across the street in front of them. Naturally, the whole group noticed her white dress and started to cheer and clap.
“Kiss the bride!” one of them shouted. Soon they were all whistling and yelling, “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
He turned to grin at her.
Oh. No.
“Don’t you dare even think ab—”
But his lips were already on hers. Warm. Firm. Tasting of sin and forever. She sucked in a breath of shock as his tongue touched hers, and he took the opening in bold invitation. His hand slid behind her neck and tugged her closer. His other arm banded around her, pulling her upper body tight against him. His tongue invaded her mouth, his fingers held her fast for a deep, lingering kiss the likes of which she’d never, ever experienced.
Oh. No.
The cheers of the onlookers faded as the world around them spun away. Wow. The man could really kiss. She was light-headed, dizzy with the taste of him and the feel of his body so close to hers. She couldn’t help but want more. She wanted to crawl up into his lap and hold him tight and never let him go.
All too soon his lips lifted and the blaring of car horns and wolf whistles all around invaded her consciousness. She moaned. Unsure if it was the loss of his nearness or the reality of her immense stupidity that made the desperate sound escape her throat.
Oh, what had she done?
And, damn it, now he had that look on his face again. Like she was some kind of apparition or two-headed monster he couldn’t quite believe he’d just kissed.
Nope, she sighed, as a slash of hurt ripped her heart once again. Nothing quite so dramatic. Just an ordinary exotic dancer…make that stripper… from the wrong side of the tracks.
Way to go, Mancuso.
He revved the engine, and the car leaped forward. It took about three excruciating minutes to reach her gated apartment complex, where he zoomed into the underground garage and squealed into her parking spot. She was still too flustered and mortified to wonder how he’d known her address—or which slot was hers. He’d only opened his mouth again to confirm that she still lived with Darla. He shut off the engine and the headlights. The dim overhead garage fluorescents flickered and hummed.
She struggled to get the seat belt unfastened but naturally her fingers refused to work. Mentally she scrambled to prepare her Don’t-Worry-I’ve-Already-Forgotten-It-Happened speech when he came around, reached in and unsnapped the belt. Then once again she was swept up in his arms.
“Conner!” she squeaked, clutching her bag of belongings to her chest uncertainly. “I can walk by myself!”
“Not with those ridiculous shoes, you can’t. Pure instruments of torture.” He looked down at her, an inscrutable look on his face. “Believe it or not, I am a gentleman.”
His tempting, downturned mouth was dangerously close.
No.
No.
No.
The man had horrified himself by kissing her. Clearly, he didn’t want her. She was so not going to embarrass herself even further.
He saved her the decision by looking away. And strode through the dark garage toward the lighted elevator without giving her a chance to protest. Her dress billowed. Her heart thundered. He didn’t look like he wanted to seduce her. He looked like he wanted to devour her alive. And not in a good way.
The elevator whooshed open, and he carried her into it. He pressed the correct button for her floor—the penthouse, of course. Nothing but the best for Darla.
Darla, who wouldn’t be home to run interference for her tonight. Was that why he’d asked?
Oh, great.
She was all on her own. To fend off this overpowering attraction for the most inappropriate man alive. Or…to let him in to break her heart.
She had to get a grip. Fast.
She was just under some weird, arrest-induced erotic spell. This wasn’t like her. Not at all. She didn’t do flings, or men she’d just met. She didn’t even do men she knew well. How could she consider making such a fool of herself over this one who obviously didn’t—
“Key,” he broke into her chaotic thoughts before they reached the top floor. You couldn’t get off at the penthouse without a special key. Naturally, he’d know that.
She juggled her purse out from the bag. Except—
“This isn’t my purse. It’s Darla’s.” Her sister must have grabbed the wrong one in her haste to get out of the club.
“Does she have a key?” he asked, his voice deep and dark. Something in his tone sent a shiver tripping down her spine.
She looked up at him. His eyes were smoldering. She faltered and dropped the belongings bag, but managed to hang on to the purse. What was going on here?
“Yes,” she stammered, fumbling through its contents. “I—I th-think so.”
“Let me have it.”
Her pulse jumped a mile. “Conner,” she managed, digging out the key and handing it to him. “You’re not planning to come in, are you?”
“What do you think?”
He really didn’t want to know what she was thinking…
“Please. This is really not a good idea.”
“No damn kidding,” he shot back. But then his mouth was on hers and she couldn’t turn him away if her life depended on it. She moaned in surprise, opening herself to him, and wound her arms around his neck. This was so not a good idea. He swung her down so she was sitting on his forearm, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.
The elevator doors opened, and they kissed madly, all the way across the square marble foyer to the penthouse entrance. Her back slammed up against it, and a moment later the door swung open and he followed the solid wood around with her, keeping her back pressed up to it as he devoured her mouth.
The sound of Velcro ripping apart was followed by a whoosh of cool air on her legs and bottom. A billow of white floated to the floor. Another rip and her breakaway top joined it. He groaned, pulling away to look at her spilling out of her lace corset, then his hands found her bare flesh.
They kissed and kissed, and he touched her everywhere. They ground their bodies together in a frenzy of desire. His fingers slid between her legs and parted her blossoming folds. She cried out as he found the center of her need and touched her there.
“That’s right, give it to me,” he whispered into her mouth. His fingers circled, driving a moan from her. “I want it all.”
“Conner,” she cried. “Please, I—Nhh…”
It was no use. He was too skilled, too perfect, and she was too aroused to stop the tidal wave of pleasure that crashed over her. She arched, her body shuddering over the edge, and surrendered to the sensation.
He drew it out as long as it would go, playing her flesh like a professional gambler caressed his cards.
By the time he let her slide to her feet, she was trembling so hard she could hardly see straight. So at first she didn’t even notice.
But when he demanded huskily, “Where’s your bedroom?” and they turned into the living room, both of them halted dead in their tracks.
The place was in a complete shambles.
“Omigod,” she whispered, barely catching her breath.
Someone had broken in. And ransacked the apartment.
On the wall, big sloppy letters had been scrawled in bright red paint.
GIVE IT BACK BITCH OR YOU’LL DIE NEXT.
Chapter 6
Conner took one look at the destruction in front of him and instantly visions of Candace’s murder scene slammed through his brain. The wreckage. Her pale face lying in a stain of blood.
Oh, no, please not another victim.
He grabbed Vera and whisked her back out the door and pushed her against the foyer wall.
“Don’t move,” he admonished as he whipped out his cell phone and Lex Duncan’s card from his pocket. “Someone may still be in there.” Like Darla. Sprawled dead on the floor as Candace had been. Though he hadn’t seen any blood or body in the quick visual scan he’d done. Thank God.
Vera looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Someone like who?” she asked in a strangled croak, grasping his suit jacket sleeve with both hands.
“Whoever did this,” he answered, punching buttons on the phone and trying not to think about what he’d just done with those same fingers. What he’d been about to do with them. Damn.
“Duncan.”
“It’s Conner Rothchild. Vera and Darla’s place has been broken into,” he told the FBI agent. “It looks bad.”
Duncan swore. “Darla?”
“Not here that I could see.”
“Exit the apartment and wait for me outside,” he ordered, then hung up.
“I don’t understand,” Vera said, her voice cracking. Her eyes filled as he pulled her fully into his arms. “Why would anyone write something that horrible on my wall? Give what back?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. Though he knew damn well. Silver had received a nearly identical message scrawled on her mirror about being the next one to die—just before someone maliciously brought a scaffolding down on her head. That someone must still be after the Tears of the Quetzal. And didn’t know it was now in FBI custody. Until the culprit was found, Vera could be in danger.
Conner gathered her up in his arms again, heading for the elevator. “Let’s get you away from here.”
For a second she looked like she wanted to object. But then she just put her arms around him and clung to him. Not in a sexual way—despite the fact that she was nearly naked and just moments ago had all but given herself to him—but like a frightened woman would hold a man who made her feel safe.
His stomach roiled into a clot of opposing emotions. Anger at whoever had done this. And a strange, completely alien sense of wanting to protect her from all harm.
Okay, that and a gnawing sense of panic.
Something was going on deep inside him, in his heart, that he did not understand. Did not need. Definitely did not want.
The elevator opened and he swept in, pushed the button for the ground floor.
“Vera,” he said. “I know you didn’t want me as your lawyer, but I’m hoping you trust me as a friend, after—” He stopped, suddenly feeling awkward. Damn. If not for the break-in, they’d be in bed by now, naked, and he’d be deep inside her. Making love. He was still aroused, still aching for relief. Still wanting her like she was the last woman on earth and he hadn’t had sex for at least a decade.
He cleared his throat. “In light of…what happened between us, I’ll be turning over your case to my assistant in the morning. Meanwhile, I hope you believe I have your interests as my top priority in this incident.”
For once she didn’t argue. She bit her lip and nodded. It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that her sister might be inside hurt—or worse. He didn’t intend to enlighten her. But there were also other issues at hand.
“Here’s the thing. The FBI is on its way. Vera, think hard. If there’s anything, any reason at all, they shouldn’t go into your apartment, you need to tell me now. Before they arrive.”
She gazed up at him, her green eyes wide and uncomprehending. Man, she was guileless. Did that mean his instincts were right about her?
“You mean…like drugs or something?” she asked.
Again he cleared his throat, not understanding why it was so damn important to him that she be innocent. “For example, yeah.”
She continued to worry her lip. “Um. Darla might not want them in her room. There could be…some illegal substances.”
He nodded. No shock there. “They’ll probably look the other way on that, this time. Anything else?”
“Like…?”
“Did Duncan tell you any of his suspicions about your sister?” he asked carefully.
“Suspicions of what?”
Okay, apparently not. “I’m not really sure how much I should be revealing to you, but since you’re still my client, I feel I should be up-front and warn you. That ring you were wearing isn’t the only thing Darla is suspected of stealing. There may be more.”
“Stolen jewelry?” she asked, her jaw dropping. “That’s not possible. Darla is rich! An heiress. Why would she ever…” Vera’s words trickled to a stop.
He gazed down at her. “Could it be true? Because if the FBI finds stolen goods in your apartment, it could get really ugly.”
“I don’t know,” she said worriedly. “Really. I wouldn’t have thought so, but…Darla is…Well, sometimes she gets these crazy ideas. For thrills, she says. Or to get back at our father. For his neglect. I suppose…” She looked miserable. “I suppose it could be true. I just don’t know. But I don’t think anything would be kept here. I would know.”
“Fair enough.” The elevator doors opened and suddenly he remembered what she was wearing…or rather, not wearing. He was about to slip off his jacket to give her when he realized the bag of belongings she’d dropped on the ride up was still lying in the corner of the elevator.
He grabbed it and pressed it into her hands. “Here. Better get dressed before someone sees you.”
“Oh, jeez,” she said, glancing down at herself. “Not exactly street attire.”
More’s the pity. He admired how she was so totally comfortable in her own bare skin. The women he knew would be dying of embarrassment to be seen like this in public, every last one, convinced their bodies were too fat or too skinny or had some other terrible imagined flaw, making them unduly self-conscious. Women could have such hang-ups about their self-image. It was refreshing to be around one who so obviously liked how she looked.
She quickly pulled on the jeans and T-shirt. He forced himself to concentrate. “You stay down here in the lobby and wait for Duncan. I’ll go back to the apartment and take a quick look around. If there’s anything that shouldn’t be found, I’ll deny him permission to search there. Okay?”
Fear leaped into her eyes. “You’re leaving me alone? Why can’t I go with you?”
“Just in case,” he said, and she looked even more panicked. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Duncan will get here in a few minutes.” Unable to help himself, he bent down and kissed her. The taste of her lips swirled on his tongue, and a painful ache of arousal swept through him again. Too good. He pulled away.
“Conner, wait,” she began. She glanced down at his mouth, and then his body, and something shifted in her expression. Uh-oh, trouble ahead. “I, um, don’t—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shh. We’ll talk later, all right? I’ve got to go up.”
She nodded reluctantly. “What if someone’s up there with a gun?” she asked nervously.
“Anyone’s probably long gone,” he assured her, then led her out of the elevator, gave her a last kiss and got back on.
Watching him unhappily, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “Please, be careful.”
He smiled, touched by the sincere worry in her eyes. “Count on it.”
Once up in the apartment, he was able to give the whole penthouse a cursory search before the FBI showed up. No Darla, thank heaven. Nothing else out of the ordinary was visible in the piles of debris left by the break-in or in any of the bedrooms, either, so granting Duncan and his CSI techs access would not compromise his client.
He took one last look around. If the place hadn’t been such a mess, it would have been really nice. If nothing else, Darla had good taste. At least in interior decorating. In friends and lifestyle, maybe not so much.
Of course, an exotic dancer would normally be included in his general condemnation. In the Las Vegas legal community, aside from his take-no-prisoners ruthlessness in the courtroom, Conner was known for a generous pro bono policy toward the homeless, drug addicts and sex workers. But he’d never considered them his equals in any sense of the word. His family would disown him if they even suspected he was considering a serious liaison with a stripper…even if she was the illegitimate daughter of billionaire Maximillian St. Giles.
Hell, especially if she was the illegitimate daughter of Maximillian St. Giles. Or any other woman not in his social class or better. The key word there was illegitimate. His father had given Uncle Harold a lifetime of grief for marrying beneath him. More than once. Conner had no intention of repeating that mistake and lowering his father’s respect for him. Or giving his blue-blood family any reason to question Conner’s loyalty to their highbrow ideals, even if he thought they were at times silly and sometimes destructive.