Las Vegas: Scandals
Prince Charming
for 1 Night
Nina Bruhns
Her 24-Hour
Protector
Loreth Anne White
5 Minutes to
Marriage
Carla Cassidy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Prince Charming for 1 Night

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.

Growing up, the deceased Candace and her coven of siblings and half siblings—Natalie, Candace’s twin, who was now a Metro detective; Silver, the former pop star who’d recently made a stunning comeback; Jenna, the Vegas event planner; and the newest addition, Ricky, the devil child—every one of them used to bait him mercilessly about being born into the “wrong” side of the Rothchild family. Conner’s highly respected attorney father, Michael Rothchild, was worth millions, but not billions like casino magnate Uncle Harold. Of course, that side of the family didn’t even get along with each other, especially tabloid-diva Candace. Things had only gotten worse when she’d married and divorced a drunken loser drummer in a would-be rock band, leaving two beautiful but very neglected children in the constant care of nannies.

Wasn’t family wonderful.

But to everyone’s credit, things had changed dramatically after Candace’s murder. Olive branches had been extended. Although, to be honest, he’d been reconciled with his cousins Natalie and Silver for a while now. They’d actually become good friends over the past few years…much to the chagrin of Uncle Harold. But he had changed now. And this was Conner’s big chance to help bring the whole Rothchild family—imper-fect as it was—back together. He did not intend to blow it.

Which was why he’d agreed to try to retrieve the ring from the police. Technically, the Tears of the Quetzal belonged to the entire family, having been unearthed in the Rothchild’s Mexican diamond mine by his grandfather over five decades ago. But Uncle Harold had always been the ring’s caretaker. And now with the ring’s disappearance, he was obsessively worried it would bring danger to the family.

Although Conner still dismissed the ridiculous notion of curses, he did agree the diamond was not secure, even surrounded by hundreds of cops. As a lawyer, Conner knew firsthand that evidence disappeared from police custody all the time. Lost. Tampered with. Deliberately “misplaced.”

And wouldn’t you know it. Two weeks ago when he’d gotten to the evidence room, minutes after running into Darla St. Giles, he’d discovered, to his frustration, the unique and unmistakable chameleon diamond ring had vanished. Switched. Replaced with a paste copy that had gone missing from Harold’s current wife’s jewelry box. At Metro police headquarters, the theft had been pulled off by a cop who had apparently simply walked in and checked the real ring out of the evidence room on the pretense of having it examined for DNA, and left the clever fake in its place when he returned it an hour later.

Conner had gone ballistic. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they check ID? His cousin Natalie, the LVMPD detective, had led the search.

Then he’d remembered Darla arguing outside with that not-quite-right cop only ten minutes before he’d discovered the theft. And that’s when he’d figured out what was wrong with the guy. His boots. They’d been brown and scuffed up. Regulation was black and spit-polished.

Conner was absolutely convinced that phony cop and Darla St. Giles were responsible for the theft of the ring from police headquarters. Damned unexpected, but not outside the realm of possibility. According to the tabloids, Darla had been scraping the proverbial bottom of the barrel of late, friendwise and behavior-wise. Dating fake cops, stealing jewelry and hanging out at strip clubs would be right up her alley.

The question was, was the pair also involved in his cousin Candace’s murder? He couldn’t believe it of Darla. She was a wild party girl and definitely sliding down a slippery slope. A thief, yes. But a murderer? He could be wrong, but he didn’t buy it. Still, he owed it to the family to find out for sure.

Naturally, after Conner raised the alarm, by the time Natalie had launched a search, Darla and the man had been long gone. Just in case, Conner had spent hours on the computer with Natalie by his side, looking at photos of every single police officer in Las Vegas. The man he’d seen was not among them. Therefore his instincts had been right—the culprit was not a real cop.

On that same day Darla had dropped out of sight completely, confirming his suspicions of her guilt. Despite Natalie assigning an officer to stake out her penthouse apartment 24/7, other than a single roommate, no one had seen hide nor hair of her there, or anywhere else, since.

Until now.

At least, ten minutes ago…But he’d lost her.

With mounting frustration, Conner had searched the Diamond Lounge from top to bottom for the illusive Darla. Twice. And come up empty.

Where the hell was she?

“Can I get you something, doll?” one of the waitresses asked him with a sultry smile. She was pretty. Blond. And topless.

Hello.

He glanced around, catapulted back to the present by the sight of so much skin. Whoa. Where had his famous powers of observation vanished to?

The Diamond Lounge was an Old Las Vegas landmark, a throwback to the times when total nudity was permitted along with serving alcohol. Naturally, he’d vaguely noticed the naked woman dancing on the stage. But how could he have been so angry and distracted that he hadn’t noticed the all but naked women prancing around him carrying trays of drinks?

“You looking for someone special?” she asked, her smile growing even more suggestive.

Oy. He slashed a hand through his hair, composing himself. One always learned more playing nice than coming off like a demanding nutcase. And, hell, she was hot. No hardship there.

He smiled back. “Yeah. I thought I saw a friend of mine. Darla St. Giles. You know her by any chance?”

“Oh, sure,” the waitress said, interest perking. He could practically see dollar signs flashing in her baby blues. As one of the rich and reckless, Darla’s male friends were sure to be rich and reckless, too. Emphasis on the rich part. “She’s in here all the time.”

Popular landmark or not, that surprised him. “She is?”

“Uh-huh. To visit her sister. She works here.”

He-llo. A St. Giles? Working at the Diamond Lounge as a topless waitress? Hell’s bells. O1’ Maximillian St. Giles must be spitting disco balls over that one. Except now that Conner thought about it, he had never heard of a second St. Giles sister. There was a brother, Henry, but not…Unless…He tipped his head. “Are you sure they’re sisters?”

“Half sisters, if you know what I mean. Although that’s all hush-hush.” The waitress waggled her eyebrows and leaned against the bar, folding her arms under her bare breasts so they pushed up toward him. Oh. Subtle. “Guess she likes walkin’ on the wild side, or somethin’.”

Or something. Whoa. All Conner’s stress just oozed out of him. A deep, dark St. Giles secret, eh? A secret so hidden that Darla felt safe coming here tonight, even when she hadn’t been to her apartment in two weeks and hadn’t called her own family. Hell, all he had to do was put a watch on the secret sister and sooner or later Darla’d turn up here.

The Tears of the Quetzal was as good as found. And Natalie could bring her in for questioning about Candace’s murder as well.

Damn, he was good.

“How ‘bout you, doll?” the waitress asked, interrupting his thoughts again.

“Me, what?” he asked.

“You like walkin’ on the wild side?”

He smiled at her. “Maybe.” Then took a second look at what the blond waitress was offering up. He was used to women throwing themselves at him, one of the perks of his looks and his famous last name. Normally he was just too damn busy to take advantage. But what the hell, it had been a long time; maybe the Parker case could wait another night. But first…“Darla’s sister, she around?” Just so he’d know who to look for. Tomorrow.

“Sure, she’s coming on right now. That’s her.” The waitress pointed toward the stage.

The stage? He tore his eyes from her and turned. “You mean she’s a—”

He froze, literally, instantly oblivious to everything else around him.

The sister…At first Conner thought it was Darla; they looked so much alike. But then she stepped into the spotlight, and all resemblance vanished. The woman was the most amazingly, lusciously gorgeous thing he’d ever seen in his life. She glided out on the horseshoe-shaped stage to the tune of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Eyes cast demurely down, she was dressed in a frothy, whipped-cream wedding dress, complete with a long poofy veil covering her face and spilling over her shoulders and back clear to the floor like some kind of gossamer waterfall.

Wow.

Normally, the merest glimpse of a wedding dress made him break out in hives and sprint hell-bent-for-leather in the opposite direction. Not this one.

“Her?” he asked the waitress, totally forgetting that just seconds ago he’d been contemplating—

Never mind. What waitress?

Was he actually hyperventilating?

“Yeah. How about we—”

“What’s her name?” he asked, his eyes completely glued to the perfect vision onstage.

The waitress was not pleased. He could tell by the way she huffed and turned her back on him. Working on autopilot, he dug out his ubiquitous roll, peeled off a bill and held it over his shoulder for her. “Her name?”

She gave a harrumph and snatched it. “It’s Vera. Vera LaRue.”

Vera…Wait. Wasn’t that the name Natalie had said belonged to Darla’s roommate? The sister was the roommate?

The churchy organ music morphed into a slow, grinding striptease number. Conner watched, beguiled, as Vera LaRue slowly started to move her body in a sinuous dance. And, damn, could the woman ever move her body. Her eyes were still cast innocently at the floor doing her vestal virgin bit, but there wasn’t a man in the place watching her face.

Conner pushed off the bar and signaled a passing waitress, peeling off another few bills. Without saying a word, he was shown to a table, front and center. He sat down, and a glass of champagne appeared in his hand. Vera paused just above him on the stage. Oh. Man. She was close enough to touch. He was more than tempted to try.

She raised her lashes and looked down at him.

He looked up at her.

Their eyes met.

And sweet holy God. He was struck by lightning.

Or maybe just blinded by the flash of seven carats of chameleon diamond on her finger as she slowly unbuttoned the top of her gown. He almost fell off his chair. That was his seven carats of chameleon diamond! She was wearing the Tears of the Quetzal!

Well, hot damn. If this was Harold’s so-called danger, bring it on.

The top of the white gown slid provocatively off Vera LaRue’s pale, pretty shoulders. Conner watched her slowly tug the sleeves down her arms, inch by tantalizing inch. For several moments his brain ceased to function.

Until he gave himself a firm mental kick. What was wrong with him?

She couldn’t be nearly as innocent as she appeared, clutching the top of that dazzling white gown to her breasts like a blushing virgin. Hell, she must be involved with Darla in the theft of the ring. The evidence was right on her finger!

Logic told him she had to be innocent of involvement in Candace’s murder. Only a complete, brainless idiot would kill someone, or even be remotely connected to a murder, and then flash the evidence in front of a room full of people. Obviously, she couldn’t know of the link between Candace’s murder and the ring she was wearing.

Come to think of it, maybe she didn’t even know the ring was stolen. Now, that would make more sense. It could easily be she was just being used. Or set up.

In which case, he had to give Darla props. Hiding the unique ring in plain sight, as part of her sister’s stage costume, was brilliant.

Too bad he was even more brilliant.

Brilliant and ruthless.

And did he mention intrigued as hell? Who was this Vera LaRue, Darla St. Giles’s gorgeous, secret, illegitimate half sister?

And who’d have ever thought Conner Rothchild would be so captivated by a stripper? His snooty family would have a cow, every last one of them. Especially his dad, who’d always held Uncle Harold in contempt for his questionable taste in multiple women.

But thoughts of family vanished as Vera LaRue stopped in front of him and slanted him another shy glance. She held his gaze with a sexy look as she pulled at the waist of her wedding gown and the whole thing slid down around her trim ankles in a pool of liquid silk.

For a second he couldn’t breathe. Sweet merciful heaven. All that was left was the most erotic, alluring bit of lace he had ever seen grace a woman’s body. Parts of it, anyway. And a veil. Straight out of Salome.

Please don’t let me be drooling.

Then, with a sultry lowering of her eyelashes, she scooped up the dress and let it fall provocatively right into his lap. Her eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.

Okay, seriously wow. A challenge? Clearly, she did not know him. Conner didn’t lose. And if there was one thing he never lost, it was a dare.

Oh. Yeah.

He looked up at her and conjured his most seductive smile.

Still moving to the music, she knelt down on the stage. Right before him. With those melting eyes and amazing milelong legs…encased in white thigh-high stockings and impossibly sexy crystal-clear high-heeled shoes. She dropped to her hands and knees. Just for him.

His brain pretty much disintegrated. The rest of his body was set to explode. He was hard and thick as one of those columns at the Forum. The real one in Rome.

The Rothchild heirloom flashed on her finger. His family’s ring. A smile curved his lips.

She wanted his family jewel? Well, then. He just might have to be a gentleman and give it to her.

Oh, yes. This curse could prove to be very, very interesting, indeed.

Chapter 3

The applause for Vera LaRue was deafening. Conner watched mesmerized as she took her final bow and swished off the stage.

He let out a long, long breath. Lord, have mercy.

By the time she’d finished her incredible dance of temptation, she’d made her way all around the stage, weaving her erotic spell over the dozens of men who were pressed up to the edge like pathetic dogs panting for a treat. But Conner was the only one who’d rated personal attention from her. It was like she’d danced for him alone, even when she was all the way across the stage. Of course, probably every guy there thought exactly the same thing. That’s what a good stripper did to a guy. Or maybe she singled him out because he was the only one who hadn’t attempted to put his hands on her. Hadn’t tipped her. Hadn’t done anything but hold her sultry eyes with his and silently promise her anything she wanted. Anything at all.

On his terms.

She’d ended up gloriously, unabashedly naked. Or, as good as. Down to a G-string, stockings and those take-me heels…and the Quetzal diamond. Oh, yeah, and a thick layer of fluttering greenbacks stuck into her G-string, making it look like a Polynesian skirt gone triple X.

Her bridal veil was around Conner’s neck. He was still sweating over the way she’d put it there.

Da-amn. The woman was Salome incarnate. But Conner fully intended to have her dancing to his tune before the night was over. Singing like a lark about how she’d ended up with his ring on her finger…without even benefit of dinner and a movie. Not to mention if she knew anything about Candace’s death.

Conner was a damn good lawyer, skilled at making witnesses trust him enough to spill their guts. It was all about the approach. So…how to best approach this one…?

He looked around the room. And almost laughed out loud. The answer was beckoning from the back of the club. Aw, gee. He’d just have to sacrifice himself.

Throwing back the last of his champagne—not that he needed the Dutch courage—he signaled his waitress.

“I’d like Miss LaRue to join me,” he told her as the fickle crowd roared for the new cutie who’d just come out onstage.

The waitress took the dress and veil from him. “Sure, hon. I’ll have her come to your table.”

He pulled off another bill. “No, somewhere private.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid Ms. LaRue doesn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Private parties. She’s strictly a stage dancer.”

“Really.”

Now, that was interesting. Apparently being a St. Giles let her pick and choose her jobs. Normally the private VIP rooms upstairs were where the big money was made by these women. And the big thrills. Personally, he’d never gotten into the whole lap dance thing. A nice sensual session in the privacy of your own home with a woman you knew and liked, sure. But an anonymous grind for cash? A bit sleazy if you asked him.

“Well,” he told the waitress, “then it’s good I only want to talk to her.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure you do, hon.”

He could understand her skepticism. Hell, he was skeptical, and he knew he only wanted to talk to her. Honest.

He peeled off a few more bills and pressed them into her palm. “Tell Miss LaRue I have information about her sister. And that I’ll match whatever she just made onstage.”

Where she’d practically seduced him, by the way. But the woman didn’t do lap dances. Something didn’t add up about that picture.

The waitress shrugged. “You’re wasting your time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She beckoned him with a crooked finger.

He strolled along behind her to the back of the club and followed her up the red-carpeted stairs to the second floor, where the inevitable small, “private entertainment” VIP rooms were located. Though gentlemen’s clubs weren’t Conner’s favorite hangouts, one couldn’t be a defense attorney in Vegas without doing a certain amount of business in them. Especially since his frequent pro bono work tended to involve hookers and runaways. So he was fairly familiar with the standard club setup.

Because of its enduring fame, Old Vegas reputation and pricey cover charge—and thanks to a complete renovation in the nineties—the Diamond Lounge wasn’t too bad, compared to most. Clean. Sophisticated decor. Unobtrusive bouncers. Nice-looking, classy ladies. He supposed if you had to work in a place like this, the Diamond Lounge was definitely top drawer.

But once again he wondered why über-conservative Maximillian St. Giles let his daughter work at all, let alone take off her clothes for money. Even if she was illegitimate, and as far as he knew, unacknowledged, a negative reflection was still cast on the family.

Not that Conner was objecting to her taking off her clothes. Hell, no. The woman had an incredible body.

She also had his family’s ring.

He wanted it back. That was his primary objective here. And nailing down Darla’s involvement in his cousin’s murder. Not nailing Vera LaRue. But if in the course of things, he ended up close and personal with her, well, who was he to protest? Especially considering the unmistakable signals she’d given him from up onstage. She had to be expecting this.

Handing the waitress his credit card, he did a quick survey of the tiny, soundproof room, then sprawled onto the heavy, red leather divan that took up most of one wall. Soft music played in the background. Scented candles littered the surfaces of two low tables at either end of the divan, as well as on the heavy wood mantel of the fireplace across from it. The tasteful cornice lighting was recessed and rose-colored, lending a pastel glow to Oriental rugs over cream-colored carpet and gauzy curtains that looked more like mosquito nets draped all around the walls of the room. It was like being cocooned in some exotic Caribbean bordello.

Oddly arousing.

The curtains over the door parted, and Vera LaRue suddenly stood there, holding a sweating champagne bottle and two crystal flutes. She’d put the wedding dress back on.

Hey, now.

“Hello,” she said, her voice throaty and rich like a tenor sax. “I understand you wanted to speak with me about my sister.”

Suddenly, talk wasn’t at all what he wanted.

Wait. Yes, it was.

“Why don’t you come in and open up that bottle,” he suggested, indicating the champagne in her hand. The hand with the Tears of the Quetzal diamond on it. Focus, Conner.

“I, um…” She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t think so. Truth is, I don’t do this.”

He hiked a brow. “Drink champagne?”

She blinked. Flicked her gaze down to the bottle then back to him, even more flustered. “No. I mean yes, I drink champagne. Of course I drink champagne. Everyone does. But I don’t do lap dances. I only came because you mentioned my sister. Now, what was it—”

“I understand,” he cut in agreeably. Not having to endure her gyrating on his lap without being able to touch her was probably a good thing. If maybe a little disappointing. Fine, a lot disappointing. “Let’s have some bubbly and then we can talk.”

She gave him a look. What? She didn’t believe him, either? “Sir, I’m serious. It’s nothing to do with you. You seem like a nice guy. I just really don’t—”

“Please. Call me Conner. If you don’t want to dance for me, Ms. LaRue, that’s fine. As appealing as that might be, it’s not why I’m here.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Here. I’ll open it.”

When she still balked, he stood up. That made her jump. But she recovered quickly. She gave him the bottle and pulled back her hand a little too fast. As though she were…afraid to touch him?

Impossible. The woman who’d practically had sex with him with her eyes from the stage could not possibly be nervous about physical contact, regardless of what he might or might not have had in mind for this tète à tète.

Which was just to talk.

Honest to God.

Or…did she perhaps realize who he was? That hadn’t occurred to him. Had Darla warned Vera someone might come looking for the ring? Maybe asking questions about a murder? Was this modesty thing all a big ploy to throw him off?

Nah. If so, she would have run away, not flirted mercilessly and then locked herself and the ring in a tiny room with him.

The cork flew, startling her into raising the flutes to catch the golden liquid. Her satiny gown rustled against his legs as he stepped closer to fill the glasses. The scent of her perfume clung to the air around her—sweet and spicy. Very nice.

Suddenly, the most insanely irrational thought struck him. What if she really were his beautiful bride, that this really was their wedding night and he really was about to peel that bridal gown off her and—

Whoa, there, buddy. Hold on.

Where the hell had that come from?

Totally inappropriate temporary insanity, that was where. Obviously he’d gone without sex for far too long, and it was somehow damaging his brain’s ability to function in the presence of a beautiful woman.

He eased a flute from her stiff fingers and clicked it with hers. Back to business.

But instead of a trust-inducing get-to-know-you question, what came out of his mouth was, “You do have some amazing moves, Ms. LaRue.”

To make matters worse, his rebellious gaze inched boldly down her delectable body, all of its own volition.

Help.

“Um, thanks, Conner. I appreciate your…um, appreciation. But now you really need to tell me whatever information you have about my sister, or I’ll be leaving.”

Damn, she looked good. And so sweetly uncomfortable, he pulled out his roll, thumbed off two C-notes, held them up, and confessed, “Okay, you were right. I would like to see you dance up close.”

Okay, way to go, you total moron. What was wrong with him? This was not the way he conducted business.

“I knew it.” She shook her head, taking a step backward, away from him. “Look, I’m really sorry, but this is not happening. I’ll just go find someone else—”

An incredible thought flew through his mind as she chattered on about getting him another girl. Could this befuddling change in his self-control be the mysterious power of the ancient Mayan legend-slash-curse Uncle Harold was always talking about? The part he was obsessed with portended terrible things would befall anyone who possessed the ring with evil intentions. But the other part said the spirit of the Quetzal would bring any truly worthy person within its range of influence true, abiding love.

For a second he just stood there, stunned.

He-llo?

Had he gone completely insane?

Mystical powers? True love? With an exotic dancer?

He gave himself a firm mental thwack.

And smiled at her. “No, it’s you I want, and the room is already paid for.” By the quarter-hour, no less. He held up his money roll. “Tell me, what did you make in tips onstage? I promised to match it.” To talk, he tried to compel his mouth to say. But the words just wouldn’t come out.

She didn’t even blink. “That’s very nice of you, but no. Thank you. As I said—” She launched into her spiel yet again.

But he wasn’t listening. It was like he was standing next to himself watching as he was being taken over by pod people. He should be taking it slow. From arm’s length. Gaining her trust. Not trying to jump her bones. Certainly not until after he’d gotten his answers. And his family’s ring back. He knew that. But she was simply too delicious to resist.

Ah, what the hell.

He surrendered to it. Changed tactics. Her first. Answers later. Then the ring.

Yeah, that worked.

Determined, he thumbed out several more bills, bringing her chatter to a stuttering halt. He didn’t doubt for a second she’d eventually capitulate. One thing his ruthless family had taught him—everyone capitulated. It was all just a matter of negotiation. “Four-hundred? Five?”

She swallowed. “Really. I don’t think you under—”

He started peeling and didn’t stop till he reached ten. “Let’s say an even thousand, shall we?”

That really shut her up. She stared at the money, then shifted her gaze to stare at him for an endless moment. “Why?” she finally asked.

Good freaking question.

Vera LaRue was so different from the type of woman he was usually attracted to…this was completely unknown territory. Sure, he frequently worked with hookers, dancers and runaways in his legal practice. Worked. But he was definitely not attracted to them. Never slept with them. Ever.

So what was different about this woman? What made him want her? And no—hell, no!—it had nothing to do with mystical powers or curses.

A matter of pride maybe? Conner Rothchild wasn’t used to being denied. The only time he took that without protest was in court.

Okay, bull.

Not pride. Not some stupid Mayan curse.

But chemistry. Sexual chemistry. Plain and simple. He wanted her in his bed, naked and moving on top of him. She was the sexiest woman he’d met in decades. Was this rocket science?

He wanted her. A lap dance seemed like a damned good way to convince her she wanted him, too. It was a start, anyway.

“Why?” he echoed. And gave her his best winning jury smile. “Let’s just say you intrigue me.”

She regarded him for another endless moment, her eyes narrowing and filling with suspicion. “Who are you, anyway?”

Uh-oh.

But as luck would have it, he never got the chance to answer. Because just then the door whooshed open and the mosquito net curtains blew aside as though from a strong wind. Two men in suits strode through and halted right inside, looking so much like federal agents that just on reflex Conner was about to warn Vera to not to say a word.

One of the men stepped forward. “Miss St. Giles?”

With a frown, Vera turned to the newcomers in confusion. “What?”

Conner frowned, too, when Forward Guy spotted the Tears of the Quetzal diamond on her finger, looked grimly smug, then officiously snapped up an ID wallet. “Special Agent Lex Duncan, FBI.”

Oh, come on. Seriously?

But it was Special Agent Duncan’s next words that really seemed to confuse the hell out of Vera. And him, too.

“Darla St. Giles, I am hereby placing you under arrest.”

Chapter 4

“You can’t do that!” Vera exclaimed as an honest-to-goodness FBI agent spun her around, grabbed her wrists and snapped handcuffs onto them. “Hey! Watch the dress!” she cried. “What the heck—”

“Ms. St. Giles, you have the right to remain silent—”

“What? Are you kidding? I am not—”

“Vera,” Conner, her would-be john, cut her off over the drone of the FBI agent—what was his name? Lexicon?—reciting her rights, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of this.”

Not only was the man annoying but he was a real buttinsky, too. “You don’t understand. I’m not—”

“I know you’re not,” Conner cut her off again. “But obviously they think you are.”

“Move away from the suspect, sir,” her second would-be arrestor admonished her would-be lawyer briskly, with just a touch of disdain in his voice, as Agent Lexicon continued his recitation. Great. Already with the attitude.

All at once his words registered. “Suspect?” she echoed, horrified. “Me? I’m not a suspect!” she insisted, growing more frustrated by the second. And more worried. She could see a crowd gathering outside the door. If Lecherous Lou got wind of this, her butt would be fired for sure.

One thing a club in this city did not need was bad publicity of any kind. Kept the tourists away. And her boss had just been waiting for a good excuse to fire her. Mainly because she refused his disgusting advances, but also because she wouldn’t get involved in that shady business he was running on the side with a few other club managers, providing high-class dancers for private parties.

“That’s right. You’re no mere suspect,” Agent Attitude agreed. “You’ve been caught red-handed, sweetheart, guilty as hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.” He snickered at his own lame joke.

“What do you mean, guilty? I haven’t done anything!”

“Vera,” Conner headed off her impending tirade, “do not say another word.” She snapped her mouth shut in irritation as he turned to Lex Luthor. “I’m Conner Rothchild, the lady’s legal counsel. She is invoking her right to silence and to an attorney.”

Wait. Oh, no. Conner what? Did he just say his name was—

“And by the way,” Conner continued, “this woman is not Darla St. Giles. So if you would kindly take off the handcuffs and let her go?”

Rothchild! As in—

Agent Lucifer whipped around and peered closer at her. “Then who is she?” he demanded.

Rothchild! Oh, no. No way, Jose. She knew the reputation that went along with the name Conner Rothchild. She’d heard plenty of horror stories from his own cousins, tabloid-diva Candace and pop star Silver, who used to be two of Darla’s best friends. Not only was Conner a sleaze-bag shark of a defense attorney according to Candace, but according to Silver he was also possibly the biggest skirt-chaser in the state.

“She’s—”

Hell, no. “I’m terribly sorry, but this man is not my attorney,” she jumped in indignantly. “And I can answer for myself, thank you very much. My name is Vera Mancuso, and Darla St. Giles is my—”

“Stop!” Conner-freaking-playboy-of-the-year-Rothchild cut her off again with an exasperated glare. “I said not another word! I am her attorney, but since she is not the person you are looking for—”

“Oh, she’s the right person, all right,” the Devil’s agent said resolutely. He pointed an accusing finger at her left hand. “Whoever she is, she’s in possession of material evidence stolen from police custody. Therefore, Vera Mancuso, is it? I am placing you under arrest—”

“What?” The rest of his words faded out as Agent Attitude pried the ring from her finger and dropped it into a small Ziploc bag. “Oh. My. God. I cannot believe this.” Her incredulity continued to pour out of her mouth all on its own as desperate thoughts bombarded her mind even faster.

Stolen? From the police? Oh, Darla! What have you gotten yourself into this time? Wait a second. Darla, nothing. Heck, what had her sister gotten her into this time? Now Darla’s request to hide the ring made perfect sense. Stolen! She could go to jail!

Despair swept over her as the FBI agents pushed her out into the main part of the club, where every single person stood and gaped in avid interest as she was led through the room in handcuffs, tripping over the bridal gown because with the restraints she couldn’t hold it up to walk. Even the new girl onstage stopped gyrating and stared wide-eyed. And, damn it, there was Lecherous Lou, looking murderous as he watched her being taken away.

Great. So much for that job.

What would she do for money now? How would she pay for Joe’s retirement home from prison? Too bad she hadn’t accepted gazillionaire Conner’s proposition earlier…and gotten paid up front. That thousand bucks would at least have bought her a week or two respite. Then, oh, darn, got arrested, can’t do the lap dance. Sorry, no refunds.

Yeah. Like her conscience would have let her do that, even if a thousand bucks to this man was merely a night’s meaningless amusement. Honesty was such a bitch.

“You have a change of clothes in your dressing room?” Mr. Persistent Attorney asked as she was herded through the club’s front door. She glanced back at him. And wondered what his real agenda was. He couldn’t possibly care what happened to her.

Yeah, like she couldn’t guess.

Conner Rothchild was a blue-blooded playboy who made the gossip columns nearly as often as Darla and Silver and their jet-setting, hard-clubbing cronies. Always with a different woman on his arm. He probably thought slumming it with Darla St. Giles’s exotic-dancer sister would be a hoot. For about five minutes. Meanwhile, she’d be outed to the world at large, and good ol’ Maximillian would be furious.

“I’ll grab your purse and follow you,” Conner said when she deliberately didn’t answer. “Don’t say anything until I get there. Nothing. I mean it.”

“Look,” she made one last stab at reasoning with him as she was being stuffed into the back of an unmarked SUV. The white frothy wedding dress filled the entire seat, and she had to punch it down. “Please don’t bother following me. You can’t be my attorney. I have no money to pay your fee, and even if I did, I—”

“Don’t worry about the fee,” he responded with a dismissive gesture.

Uh-huh. A girl didn’t need a telescope to see exactly where this was going. “And I don’t pay in kind!” she yelled just before the door slammed.

He grinned at her through the window. And had the audacity to wink.

She groaned, closed her eyes and sank down in the seat. Swell. Just freaking swell. Broke. Fired. Arrested by the FBI. And pimped out to the city’s most charming keg of sexual dynamite.

What the hell else could go wrong today?

Special Agent Lex Duncan was being a real pismire.

Conner folded his hands in front of himself to keep from decking the jerk. They were standing in the observation room attached to interrogation out at the FBI’s main Las Vegas field station. Vera was sitting at a table on the other side of the one-way mirror, looking tired, vulnerable and all but defeated. She hadn’t started crying yet, but Conner felt instinctively she was close. Very close. Duncan had been interrogating her hard for over two hours, asking the same questions again and again. He hadn’t even let her change out of that sexy breakaway bridal gown into the jeans and T-shirt Conner’d brought for her along with her purse from the dressing room. Pure intimidation. The bastard.

“Listen to me. She’s not involved,” he told Duncan for the dozenth time. He wasn’t sure when he’d started being a true believer, but he was now firmly in the Vera-isn’t-involved-in-the-ring-heist-or-Candace’s-murder camp. In fact, he was pretty convinced she wasn’t guilty of a damn thing, other than a crapload of bad luck.

“And you know this how?” Duncan asked, brow raised.

“It’s my family’s damn ring, and my own murdered cousin we’re talking about. Not to mention possibly the same person nearly bringing down a theater scaffold on my other cousin Silver. Don’t you think I want the guilty party or parties caught and fried?” he asked heatedly.

He and Candace might not have gotten along all that well, but she was still family. He’d see the killer hanged by his balls, no doubt about it. “But I want the right person caught and punished. Vera Mancuso is a victim of her half sister’s bad judgment. Nothing more.”

Duncan pushed out a breath. “Okay. Just for sake of argument, say I agree with you. My problem is, the stolen evidence was right on her finger.”

“And she explained how it got there. About fifty times. I, for one, believe her story.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to release her just because you have a damn hunch? Or more likely, have the hots for her and want to impress her with your prowess…as her attorney?”

Conner clamped his teeth. Okay, he might have the hots for Vera, but that would have ended abruptly if he’d still had the least doubt she was part of either the ring’s theft or his cousin’s murder. And, yeah, maybe he didn’t have any real solid reason to believe that, but there you go. A man had to trust his gut instincts. Especially if he was a lawyer.

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Just release her.”

Duncan started to shake his head. “No can do.”

“I have an idea,” Conner said, thinking fast. “We can use her. To get her sister. That’s who you really want to question about the ring.”

Duncan exhaled. “I’m listening.”

“Darla trusts her. She gave Vera the Tears of the Quetzal for safekeeping. Believe me, she’ll be back for it.”

“And?”

“And when she shows up, I’ll call you and you can come arrest her. You can get to the real truth. The real perps.”

Duncan briefly considered. “Even if I went along with this, what makes you think Ms. Mancuso will let you stick around that long?”

Conner shrugged modestly. “I’m not without my charms.”

The FBI agent’s eyes rolled. “And yet, she keeps telling me you’re not her lawyer. Besides, wouldn’t your representing her be a conflict of interest?”

“Not if she’s innocent.”

And, damn, she really did look innocent sitting there in that bleak, gray interrogation room, holding back her tears by a thread. Innocent, and incredibly brave. While Duncan questioned her, Conner’d had his legal assistant do a quick workup on Vera Mancuso. Her background had been far from easy. He’d been all wrong about her relationship with her biological father, Maximillian St. Giles. The man didn’t want to know her, was openly hostile to his illegitimate daughter and kept her existence deep in the closet. The scumbag.

Duncan raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the FBI is not in charge of your cousin’s murder case. That’s strictly Metro at this point.”

Conner glanced at him in surprise. “Then why didn’t they arrest Vera?”

“Because of that ring. My current investigation is a series of high-end interstate jewelry robberies for which Darla St. Giles is a prime suspect, along with a couple of her friends. Possibly even a family member,” he added pointedly. “I got a tip from an informant that Darla was seen entering the Diamond Lounge, so we closed in. I thought she might be fencing some of her stolen goods. The manager there’s had some illegal dealings in the past.”

“So when you saw Vera wearing the Quetzal…”

“I recognized it right away. And she looks enough like Ms. St. Giles to have fooled me for a minute. I have good reason to believe Darla’s gang had targeted the Rothchild diamond on the night your cousin was killed. You seeing her with that phony cop at the police station, and the ring showing up in her half sister’s possession are both pretty strong evidence to connect her to the theft.”

“But what about the phony cop I saw her with?” Conner said. “And didn’t you say Luke Montgomery’s new wife was there at the casino the night of Candace’s murder, and was later stalked by someone wanting the ring?”

Duncan crossed his arms. “All true. But even if I agree with you in theory, my hands are tied. Until Darla is in custody and corroborates Ms. Mancuso’s story, and Vera’s alibi is checked out, I’d be insane to let the only suspect I have go free.”

Conner stuck his hands in his pockets. “Okay, I see your point. Still, keeping Vera in custody is probably the best way to drive Darla so far into hiding you’ll never find her. She certainly has the means to disappear for a good long time if she feels threatened.”

“So what do you propose I do?”

“Let Vera out on bail. I’ll pay it. Then we use her as bait, like I suggested.”

Both of them turned to contemplate Vera through the mirrored window. She’d put her head down on the Formica table and buried her face in her arms. Had she finally broken down? Conner’s heart squeezed in sympathy.

“If I agree to this crazy scheme,” Duncan finally said, “I’d want something in return.”

“Like what?” Conner asked.

“I’d want your help figuring out exactly who is part of the jewel theft ring I’m investigating. You move in the same social circles as Darla St. Giles. You go to the same parties and charity events, know the same people. I’d want you to nose around, ask questions. Narrow down my list of suspects.” He turned to look Conner in the eye. “Help LVMPD figure out if your cousin’s death was a jewel robbery gone bad, or something else entirely.”

Conner raised his brows. “Kind of a tall order, isn’t it?”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.” Obviously, Vera wasn’t going to get a better offer. Nor was he. “I’ll take it.”

Chapter 5

They were letting her go.

Vera couldn’t quite believe it. But she wasn’t about to question her good luck.

Right up until the devil’s Agent Lex Luthor—whose name actually turned out to be Duncan—said to her as he handed over her bag of belongings, “Your attorney, Mr. Rothchild, has posted your bail and personally vouched for your whereabouts until the arraignment. As a condition of your release, you must agree to check in with him at least three times a day.”

She stopped dead. “You can’t be serious.”

“Bear in mind you are a potential murder suspect, Ms. Mancuso,” the agent said sternly. “Personally, I’m opposed to releasing you at all, but the Rothchild name wields a lot of influence—”

She handed him back her bag. “Forget it. If that’s a requirement, I’ll stay arrested, thanks.”

The FBI guy’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“No one ever listens to me. I’ve told you over and over, he’s not my—”

“Actually, he is.” Duncan held up a paper. “Court appointed. I have the order here if you need proof.”

She blinked. Oh, for crying out loud. The man was totally relentless. “Let me see that.”

It didn’t matter that for some mysterious reason she found the loathsome Conner Rothchild so incredibly, toe-curlingly sexy that every time she looked at him she practically melted into a limp noodle at his feet. Or that the whole time he’d sat in the audience at the Diamond Lounge—before she knew who he was—she’d girlishly pretended he was the only man in the whole room, and danced for him alone. When had that ever happened before? With any man? Never, that’s when.

But even so. She wasn’t about to trade sex for lawyering. Or anything, for that matter. She knew what he must have in mind, and she wanted none of it. Well. Not like that, anyway. She probably wouldn’t say no under other circumstances or if he were anyone else. But selling herself? No way. Regardless of how mouthwateringly and wrongly tempting he was. And how much she really wanted to find out what it would be like to lie under his ripped, athletic body and—

Oh, no. Banish that thought.

She looked over the paper that Duncan had handed her. Sure enough, it was a one-paragraph court order appointing Conner as her legal counsel.

What. Ever.

At least she didn’t have to pay him. Or owe him in any other way. That was a huge relief.

But did she want to have to check in with Mr. Cutthroat Playboy Attorney three times a day like she was one of his low-life parolees? Heck, no.

“Have you ever been to prison, Ms. Mancuso?” the federal agent asked. Apparently mind reading was part of the FBI arsenal.

“Of course not.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t enjoy it.” He took back the paper and slid it into her file. “Mr. Rothchild seems like a decent attorney. Let him help you.”

She regarded him. “Special Agent Duncan, if I were your little sister, would you be saying the same thing?”

He gazed back steadily. “If you were my little sister, you wouldn’t be in this mess, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be stripping for a living. You might think about what kind of future you want for yourself before choosing sides, Ms. Mancuso.”

With that, he put her bag of belongings back in her hand, took her arm and hauled her down the hall and out into the reception area where Conner Rothchild was waiting.

Why, the arrogant bastard! She’d never been so—

“Everything okay?” Conner asked, eyeing the two of them. Vera was so mad she didn’t trust herself to answer. Who knew what would come flying out of her mouth, landing her in even worse trouble?

“Just peachy,” Duncan said, and unceremoniously handed her arm over to Conner, like a recalcitrant child turned over to her father for disciplining. “Make sure you know where she is at all times, Rothchild. If I were you, I wouldn’t let her out of your sight.”

“I’m sure we’ll come to an understanding,” Conner said, his face registering wary surprise.

“Just don’t forget our agreement,” Duncan admonished him, then without another word, he turned and stalked off.

“Okay, then,” Conner said when he was gone. “What was that all about?”

She didn’t know why she was so upset. This sort of thing happened all the time, whenever anyone outside the business found out what she did for a living. She could call herself an exotic dancer all she liked. To everyone else she’d always be a stripper. She should be used to the disdain by now. But it still hurt every darn time.

“He doesn’t approve of me,” she muttered.

The lawyer frowned. “He said that?”

Some people could be so righteous and judgmental. They had no clue about the vicious cycle of poverty a woman could so easily fall into. She was one of the lucky ones who’d found a way out. Or at least a way to stay above water.

She sighed. Get over it, girl. “No. He said I should trust you.”

“Well, you should,” Conner said, brows furrowing. He glanced after the FBI agent. “Listen, if he said anything inappropriate, I’ll go back in there and—”

“No, please—” She reached out to stop him…and got the shock of her life. The second she touched him, a spill of tingling pleasure coursed from her fingers—her ring finger to be exact—down her arm and through her torso, straight to her center.

She gasped.

He looked just as stunned.

She jerked her hand back. Too late. A flood of emotions washed through her. Not just physical desire, though God knew that came through strong and clear, but also a disconcerting mix of tenderness and trust. And…a kind of soul-deep recognition. That this man was her man. The man she’d been waiting for all her life. Her Prince Charming.

She swallowed heavily. Okay, so yikes. It was official. She’d totally lost her mind.

If only he’d stop staring at her like that. Like she had two heads or something.

“I’ll take you home,” he said abruptly.

“No,” she said. “I can take a cab.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and ushered her out the front entrance and into the night nearly as quickly as Duncan had dragged her through the field office’s brightly lit inner corridors. Conner must have changed his mind about her, too. That was quick. Maybe that jolt knocked some sense into him. Too bad it hadn’t for her. More like the opposite. He kept getting more and more attractive every minute that went by.

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.

He’d seen firsthand what those kind of elitist notions could do to families. Look at Candace. He was convinced she’d still be alive today if she hadn’t been summarily dismissed from the family fold after marrying Jack Cortland, the druggie rock-star boy. Those two poor kids of hers. God only knew what would become of them without the support of family, with only a questionable father to raise them, stuck out on some ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Anyway. Under all the broken glassware and china, disheveled books and shelf items and knife-slit, unstuffed cushions and furniture, Conner recognized a beautiful living space, subtly sophisticated and timelessly chic. He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. Pleasantly so. Some of Darla’s wealthy upbringing must have rubbed off on her, after all.

He gave a wry sigh. That probably explained why she’d gone after the Tears of the Quetzal. The ring was the classiest piece of jewelry he’d ever laid eyes on. And now it had passed from Vera’s finger straight into FBI custody. Forget about retrieving it any time soon. That place was like Fort Knox. Uncle Harold was not going to be pleased.

The sound of the elevator approaching pulled Conner back to the situation at hand. He went out to the foyer and met Special Agent Duncan as he exited the lift, followed by two other men in white jumpsuits carrying CSI cases. Vera popped out like a nervous jack-in-the-box.

“Are you okay?” she asked him before Duncan could open his mouth. “Did you see anyone? Any more messages written on the walls? Talk to me!”

“Whoa, slow down,” he admonished gently and put an arm around her shoulder. “No more graffiti. No sign of the intruders, ” he told Duncan, and gave a surreptitious shake of his head at the agent’s silent query about Darla.

Duncan looked relieved, then gave Conner’s protective arm a brief, disapproving frown.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Conner said to stave off any comments, “but I’m turning over Vera’s case to an associate so there’s no conflict of interest.”

Duncan’s frown deepened as he signaled the CSI techs to proceed into the penthouse to get started. “That wasn’t part of our deal,” he said.

“What deal?” Vera asked.

“Nothing’s changed,” Conner assured him. “Can we just—”

“What deal?” Vera asked again, more insistently. She turned under his arm to look up at him.

“Never mind—”

Duncan addressed her. “For your release.”

“What about it?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

Damn. So not good.

“Rothchild agreed to help us bring Darla St. Giles into custody. He promised to call us when she contacts you.”

Ah, hell.

Shock went through her expression. She stepped away from him angrily. “Oh, really. What makes you think she’ll contact me? And even if she does, what makes you think I’ll tell you? How dare you! What would make you agree to such a thing?” Her voice was getting louder and louder.

“Vera, please believe me, it was for your own good.”

“My own good?” she spat out. “Are you kidding me? Betraying my sister?”

“He’s right,” Duncan interjected stonily. “You were apprehended with the Rothchild’s diamond on your finger. Until it can be established exactly how it got there, you are our—”

“Wait just a cotton-picking minute!” Her expression went even more furious. She glared at Conner. “The Rothchild’s diamond? That was your ring?”

He was in such deep trouble. “My family’s, yes. But—”

She looked like he had slapped her across the face. Hard. “And you were going to tell me this little detail when?”

“Vera, who the ring belongs to is not what’s important here.”

“My God, Conner! If that’s not a conflict of interest, I don’t know what is! And you expect me to trust you? What else are you lying to me about?”

It was his turn to be indignant. “That’s not fair. I never lied to you.”

“I may not be some rich, fancy-schmancy lawyer, but even I know what lying by omission means,” she ground out. “And to think I—” Her mouth snapped shut, and she squeezed her eyes closed.

He fisted his hands on his hips, ignoring the all-too-personal dig. “Do you recall in the club when I said I had information about your sister? I was going to tell you then, but was interrupted when…let’s see…oh, yeah, you got arrested!”

“Speaking of which.” Duncan stepped between them. “Why exactly were you at the Diamond Lounge in the first place, Rothchild? Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” The FBI agent’s tone was neutral, but his meaning was unmistakable.

Conner tamped down on his quickly rising hackles. Forced himself into composed, professional lawyer mode. “Are you by any chance asking me for an alibi?” he asked coolly. “For this?” He swept a hand toward the mess in the apartment.

Duncan lifted a shoulder. “It occurs to me that a Rothchild would have the strongest motive to search Miss St. Giles’s home. Missing family heirloom, and all. And you being convinced she stole it.” He looked smug. “It would also explain your presence at the Diamond Lounge. You didn’t find the ring when you searched the apartment and Darla had disappeared, so you took a chance her sister might know where she went.”

Damn. It all sounded far too plausible.

Except it was all bull, and Duncan knew it. They both knew whoever did this was the same person who’d stalked and almost killed Silver. And possibly Candace. But, okay, he played along.

“Just one thing wrong with your theory,” Conner said evenly. “I had no idea Darla had a sister. Oh, and the fact that I do have an alibi. I was working another case. The Parker case, if you want to call my firm. I spent the whole afternoon asking questions of the dancers up and down the Strip. At least a couple hundred witnesses, plus video surveillance, I’m sure. The Diamond Lounge was my next stop.” He held up a hand. “And, yes, I do have a checked-off list to prove it. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

At least Duncan cracked a smile. Vera was still glaring at Conner.

“Okay,” Duncan said. “I’ll get that checked out, but I believe you’re telling the truth. Meanwhile, I still have the problem of Ms. Mancuso. Because if you didn’t do the break-in…”

Conner nodded. “It was most likely the same guy who’s been after the ring since it disappeared from Candace’s hand the night she died.”

Duncan nodded, too. “A thief whom Darla seems to have double-crossed. And since the FBI now has the ring in its custody—”

“He didn’t find it in his search. And since Darla has disappeared—”

“He’ll be looking for Ms. Mancuso next, thinking she knows where to find her sister, and therefore the ring.”

Vera had been watching the back-and-forth like a spectator at a tennis match, but now she finally caught on with a gasp. “Are you saying…I could be in danger?”

“Did you read the message he left on the wall?” Conner queried.

“This man has already gone on the attack for the ring,” Duncan said. “Don’t take any chances with your safety.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Ms. Mancuso was released into your recognizance, Rothchild. ” Duncan turned to remind him. “And the terms of her bail still stand. But if you prefer, I’ll take her back into custody. I can’t risk losing my only suspect. In any manner.”

“What? Hold on!” Vera exclaimed. “His recognizance or police custody? There has to be a door number three here.”

“I respect your dilemma, Ms. Mancuso,” the agent said. “But the only reason you are not in a cell right now is because of Mr. Rothchild’s spotless reputation as an attorney and his formidable social standing in the community. I’ve already stretched the law as far as I’m willing to go in that regard. He stays with you or you come with me.”

There was a pregnant pause, the silence in the marble foyer only broken by the sounds of the CSI techs’ cameras clicking inside the apartment.

“Fine,” she said at length, but obviously mad as a hornet. “I’ll move a futon for him out into the vestibule.” She rounded on Conner. “You can set it up in front of the elevator so there’s no way I—or anyone else—can slip past—”

His brows shot up. Excuse me? He shoved aside the insult. “You want to stay in a ransacked apartment?”

“Like I have a choice?” she fired back.

“Sorry,” Duncan interrupted. “Not possible. No one’s allowed into the apartment until the techs are finished processing for trace and fingerprints. That’ll take at least a few hours.”

“She’ll stay at my place,” Conner said through clamped teeth, ready to strangle the woman. A freakin’ futon? He didn’t think so.

She opened her mouth to protest but he nipped it. “I have plenty of room. And can provide an armed guard,” he added pointedly.

“Good,” Duncan said, passing Conner his notebook. “Write down the address and phone number.”

Almost sputtering, she crossed her arms over her ample chest. Sending an untimely reminder through his body that he was still more than half-aroused. But her vehement, “I am not going anywhere with you,” jerked him right out of his momentary hormonal stupor.

Which probably made him point out more sharply than strictly necessary, “I happen to know you have no money and nowhere else to go.” He ignored her gasp and went on, “And if you think I’m paying for a hotel when I have ten bedrooms sitting empty at my house, you’re dead wrong.”

She blinked and her eyes shuttered. He realized too late he’d reacted like a defense attorney, trampling her objections like a charging rhino. And he’d hurt her.

Well, too damn bad. She’d hurt him first.

He pushed out a calming breath, chagrined at his childish outburst.

God.

Was he actually whining like a two-year-old?

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “That was a thoughtless and unnecessary remark. But the reality is, it’s my house or jail.”

She looked like a Nile cat chased into a tree by that charging rhino. Angry. Cornered. But undefeated. “In that case,” she said with chin held high, “I’ll take jail.”

Chapter 7

Vera stared up at the stunning mansion in front of her.

Holy mackerel.

The rising sun was just peeking over the desert horizon, spreading a magical spill of golden light over the soft coralcolored adobe walls and arches of the Southwest-inspired manor house and surrounding lush green lawns and gardens.

“You live here?” she asked her jailer. “Alone?”

They were the first words she’d spoken to Conner Biggest-Bully-in-the-Universe Rothchild since she’d grudgingly hunched into the passenger seat of his ridiculously ostentatious car to be driven here. To his house. Where he lived.

How she’d let herself get talked into going anywhere with the lying jerk, let alone his own home, she’d never know.

Okay, not true. It was the work of the usual catch-22: absence of money, family or personal influence.

Story of her life.

“Alone, yes. But I have a lot of friends who visit,” he answered her rhetorical question.

She just bet he did.

Never mind that ninety-eight percent of the women in the state of Nevada would kill to take her place. Or that Las Vegas Magazine’s official Most Eligible Bachelor was undoubtedly the sexiest, most attractive man breathing on this earth. Vera knew very well when she was outclassed, outplayed and miles out of her comfort zone. About ten-and-a-half miles to be exact—the distance between the mobile home park where she’d grown up and Conner Rothchild’s sprawling, multimil-lion-dollar neighborhood.

No, Vera Mancuso had no freaking business being in this place, with this man.

“Must be nice,” she responded as he drove through the ten-foot-tall iron security gate, which closed automatically behind the car. “And you have a lot of family, too, from what I hear. Quite the Las Vegas dynasty, the Rothchilds.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids,” he said, pulling to a stop under the entry’s porte cochere.

“I don’t,” she assured him. “My information comes straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Oh?” He gave her a mildly curious hike of an eyebrow as he opened the car door for her and helped her out.

“Darla was good friends with your cousins Candace and Silver. I still have lunch with Silver occasionally.”

“Ah.”

She stopped suddenly and turned back to his car. Before leaving the apartment, the CSI techs had packed her a small overnight bag, including a pair of flip-flops, but she needed her stage shoes for work tonight. They were still behind the seat where he’d tossed them back at FBI headquarters. “I’d like my shoes back, please. From last night.”

“Of course.” He leaned over the side of the car to fish them out.

Oh, boy.

His suit pants stretched over his tight backside, revealing every luscious dip and muscle of that tasty bit of anatomy. She had to stuff her hands under her armpits to keep from touching.

He handed her the glasslike shoes with a wry smile. “Don’t lose one, Cinderella,” he teased.

She made a face and snatched them from his hand. “You know, she talked about you all the time. Your cousin Candace.”

“Did she, now.” He took her overnight bag and led her up the mansion’s sweeping front steps.

“She didn’t like you very much.”

“Now there’s a shock.” He did something with his key chain, and the ornately carved entry door swung open.

“She said you’re mean, stubborn and ruthless and will do anything to get your clients off.”

“Never a good thing in a lawyer,” he said dryly. “After you.”

She met his amused gaze, so strong and confident. Not to mention devoid of shadiness or deceit. With a sinking feeling she suddenly knew Candace was completely wrong about him.

She shouldn’t be surprised. The rivalry between the Rothchild family cousins was legendary in Vegas, where each sought to outdo the other in glamour, media notoriety and wild living. Conner was no exception. He regularly figured in the gossip columns.

But Vera, of all people, was acutely aware that a public image did not always reflect the real person. Although she got along with Candace okay, and Darla adored her, Candace always did have a family ax to grind.

“Touché,” Vera acknowledged, thinking just maybe she’d been wrong about Conner, too.

Not good. She did not want to like this man. Bad enough she was so hopelessly attracted to him physically. How depressing would it be to have him turn out to be honorable and principled, too?

He ushered her in. “Welcome to my home.”

Said the spider to the fly.

“Wow,” she murmured, stepping into a stunning showplace of glossy, contemporary elegance. Clutching her shoes in her hand, she walked from the soaring foyer into a grand salon and did a slow three-sixty, totally awestruck. She’d decorated Darla’s penthouse because when she’d moved in it had white walls and hotel furniture, and she’d been darn proud of the results. But this…this was utterly gorgeous. “Nice place,” she managed.

He chuckled. “Apparently I live for nice.”

Just then, an older woman in a fuzzy robe hurried into the room. “Oh, Mr. Conner, sir! I didn’t expect you back tonight.”

“Sorry to wake you so early, Hildy,” he said in warm apology. “This is Vera. She’ll be spending a few days with me.”

Days?

“Certainly, sir.”

The housekeeper didn’t even bat an eyelash. Obviously not unusual for her employer to bring home women at the crack of dawn and announce they’d be spending more than one night chez Conner. Vera ground her teeth. Well, what did she expect?

“Will you be needing anything, sir? Coffee, or…?” Hildy asked.

“No, nothing, thanks. Just sleep.” He handed her Vera’s overnight bag, and the woman turned to go.

“Uh,” Vera interjected before it was too late, “by ‘with me’ what Mr. Rothchild really meant was ‘here.’ As in ‘here,’ but in a separate bedroom. And ‘here,’ but as far away as possible from where he sleeps.” She pasted on a smile.

This time Hildy did blink. And glanced at Conner for confirmation.

His mouth quirked. “As the lady says. You can put her in the guest cabana. That should be far enough away.”

Hildy’s eyes met hers for a split second, and Vera could have sworn the older lady was holding back a smirk. Vera wondered idly if she’d just joined the ranks of Too-Stupid-To-Live, or Girl Folk Hero…

“Oh, well. I need the sleep anyway,” he said philosophically when the housekeeper had gone. “You’ll like the cabana. It’s very private out there. But don’t get any bright ideas about escaping. I was serious about the armed guard. I’ve already called the security company.”

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. “Don’t worry. I took Agent Duncan’s warning to heart.”

Before leaving the penthouse, the FBI man had cautioned her against going anywhere alone, or without Conner’s permission, for her own safety. After finding out about the connection between the stolen ring and the murder of Candace Rothchild and attack on Silver Rothchild, the whole ‘Give it back or you’ll die next bitch’ thing was plenty to convince Vera not to take any chances.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just let Duncan put me in jail,” she said without thinking.

Then she remembered.

Whoops. Yeah, she did know. Because Conner’d expected to have sex with her, that’s why. Which would surely have happened had it not been for the timely interruption of the break-in and the subsequent revelations into his motives for seeking her out in the first place.

She’d so totally lost her mind in that elevator. Thank God she’d found it since.

More or less.

Though being reminded of the delicious things he’d done to her during her temporary insanity wasn’t helping.

She looked up and realized he was gazing at her sardonically, his thoughts as transparent as hers apparently were.

“Forget it.” She wagged a finger. “No bodyguard necessary. Literally or otherwise. I saw the size of the fence around this place, and the only person I’m in danger from here is you.” And possibly herself.

“Only thinking of your safety,” he said amenably.

“Sure you are.”

Seeking a distraction, she glanced around the glamorous room, filled with the trappings of wealth, and was suddenly struck with a pang of regret. What would it be like to be part of this world, even for a few days…or nights? Would it be such a sacrifice to sleep with him, to find out?

God, no. Not in the least. The man was to die for. And she’d be using him just as much as he was using her. But…

“I’m sorry, casual sex isn’t something I do.” She felt the need to explain, but it came with a belated inward wince. “Embarrassing evidence to the contrary.”

He smiled. “Nothing embarrassing about it. In fact, it was pretty damn hot if you ask me. For, you know, not being casual sex.”

She actually felt a flush work its way up her throat to her cheeks. Good grief. When was the last time she’d blushed?

Help.

“You said something about a guest house? I really should get some sleep or I’ll be a mess at work tonight.” She sighed. “Assuming I still have a job.”

He looked surprised. “You’re going back there?”

“Hell, yeah. If the boss will let me. I have no choice, Conner. I have bills to pay. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” She glanced around again. “Well, for some of us anyway.”

He ignored the barb and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Okay. I guess I can do that.”

“You? What do you mean?”

“So quickly they forget.”

“Oh. Right.” They were stuck like glue until Special Agent Duncan decided to arrest her. Which meant Conner’d have to come to the club with her.

A memory washed over her, of him sitting in the front row sipping champagne like a dissolute sultan, watching her take off every stitch of clothing. And—oh, God—how turned on she’d been. By him. By his negligent air of wealth and power. And the hungry look in his eyes as his gaze had caressed her nude body. No wonder she’d gone off like a rocket when he touched her later on.

She swallowed. “I suppose you’ll insist on going with me.”

“Oh, absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.” He winked.

That’s what she was afraid of.

That, and the nutcase who might now be after her because of that damn ring. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea he went with her, after all.

Bad enough she’d invaded his dreams all night like some kind of teasing succubus, but even now, the next morning, sun shining, birds singing, the little witch was still torturing him. Deliberately. With malice aforethought.

Conner frowned, taking in the sight that had nearly made the tray of coffee and croissants he was carrying spill all over the Mexican patio tiles. The French doors to the cabana had been flung open. Sheer curtains billowed out from them in the hot desert breeze. Inside the dim room, the scene was straight out of one of the erotic dreams he’d been haunted by all night.

Vera. Nude. Sprawled on her stomach across her bed…Except in his dreams of course it had been his bed. Sheets in a tangle. Her skin moist with a sheen of sweat. Her hair in a mess as though from his fingers…Except his fingers had unfortunately been nowhere near her last night.

Seeing her like that, he’d been shocked enough that his first thought was that she was dead. Lying there brutally murdered, like his cousin Candace. The memory of that crime scene had streaked through his mind, nearly tipping the tray in his hands. Thankfully she’d stirred immediately at the sound of the rattling dishes so he knew she was okay, or he would really have lost it.

As it was, he was now close to losing it for an entirely different reason.

The woman was a sensual vision. Her hot body even sexier than in his dreams.

Easy, boy.

She’d made it clear last night she was no longer interested in sex with him. He’d honored her wishes and hadn’t pushed it, although he was pretty sure he could have changed her mind with very little effort. They obviously had chemistry. Potent chemistry. And lots of it.

But this…this was unfair.

Or maybe it was an invitation? Had she gone to bed naked, hoping he would come to her?

What an idiot. He should at least have tried…

“Conner?”

He started at the sound of her throaty, sleep-muzzy voice. The dishes rattled, and he had to catch the tray for the second time to keep from dumping it.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

She turned over in the bed, and he gripped the tray even harder. Pure torture. “What have you got?”

Besides a hard-on? “Breakfast,” he croaked. “Interested?”

“Mmm.” Her arms rose in a languorous stretch. “Coffee, I hope?”

Lord, help him.

“Yep.” He reached a nearby patio table just in time, depositing the tray on the round glass top with a clatter. After righting the cups and returning the croissants to the plate, he turned, ready to abandon all pretense and just go in and devour her, when she strolled by with another stretch, heading for the pool.

“I feel divine! Haven’t slept so well in ages,” she declared, pushing her mane of chestnut hair back from her face. “I love sleeping with the doors open, with the warm air and the smell of the desert. Haven’t been able to do that since I sold the mobile home.”

He paused, nonplussed. Okay. Obviously not an invitation. He grappled for a thread of conversation that didn’t involve the words condom or go down. “Mobile home?” he asked.

She shot him a look, stopping at the edge of the pool and dipping a toe into it. A toe that was bare, just like the rest of her. “I grew up in the Sunnyvale Mobile Home Park, just outside of town.”

He knew that. He was just momentarily brain-dead. “No air-conditioning?” he ventured.

She smiled. “No.”

She executed a perfect dive into the water. He let out a long, long breath, and for a few minutes he watched her expertly cut through the water, the joy in her movements contagious. He wanted to join her in the worst way, but in a sense it would have been like some fool painting daisies into a Monet. Perfection spoiled. He forced himself onto a patio chair, peeled off his shirt because he was suddenly far too warm and poured coffee instead.

She bobbed up at the side of the pool, folding her arms along the coping. “Hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t resist a quick dip. We have a pool in our apartment building, but it’s indoors.” She wrinkled her nose as though that were a cardinal sin.

“Take all the time you like. I’m enjoying the view.”

She tilted her head. “Not misinterpreting, I hope.”

“I’ll have to admit,” he said, taking a sip of strong black coffee to jolt his mind back up where it belonged, “your…lack of inhibition did take me in a certain direction. I now stand corrected.”

She smiled and lithely hoisted herself from the water and onto the deck in one fluid movement. Like Venus rising from the sea. She padded to the table with water flowing from her lightly tanned skin like drops of molten gold, and reached for his cup. She put it to her lips with eyes closed and long lashes sparkling with water droplets. He had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from surging to his feet to lick them off. Along with the rivulets trickling down her perfect breasts.

He stifled a groan.

She set the cup down on the table. “Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll get dressed.” Then she disappeared into the cabana.

He cleared his throat, found his voice and called after her, “Don’t bother on my account!”

And he knew then if he hadn’t before—which deep down he had, but up until this very moment had chosen total, blind denial. One thing was for damned certain.

He had to have her.

Really have her. All to himself. For a few days. A week. Maybe even a month. Long enough to explore that chatterbox mouth with its guileless smile, that amazingly sensual body and the wonderfully sassy woman inside it.

Oh, yeah. He’d have her, all right.

He’d find a way to make her want him.

And the sooner the better.

Or he might just go completely out of his mind.

Chapter 8

“I have a proposition for you.”

Vera halted her coffee cup halfway to her mouth and glanced at Conner. “What kind of proposition?” she asked. Like she couldn’t guess.

Frankly, she’d been expecting this. She was actually surprised he’d managed to hold out as long as he had. Nearly a whole hour. While they’d talked of her childhood, his crazy relationship with his famous cousins and what it was like to stare up at the night sky out in the vast desert and see a billion gazillion stars up there and wonder if there was any other life in the universe.

Nevertheless, disappointment sifted through her. For some unfathomable reason, she’d thought he might be different from all the other men who tried to get in her pants. She’d hoped he was different. He’d been lost in thought for the past few minutes, and she’d really believed he was adjusting his perception of her. Starting to see her as a whole person and not just a nude body onstage or an easy seduction in an elevator.

Oh, well.

“More like an exchange of services,” he explained.

“Uh-huh.”

Her expression must have betrayed her skepticism, because he rushed to say, “I’d pay you, of course.”

She set down her cup very, very carefully. “For what, Conner?”

He exhaled. “You know that deal I made with Duncan for your release? Well, there was more to it than just reporting in on Darla’s movements.”

Okay, he’d managed to surprise her. Not that this sounded much better than some kind of sexual favor. “Like what?” she asked cautiously.

“I promised I’d help him find out about the jewel theft ring Darla’s allegedly part of. Try to narrow down suspects for him.”

“I told you I don’t know anything about that.”

“But I’d like your help investigating.”

“Me?”

“I’ve been thinking about how much you look like Darla. It’s obvious you’re her sister. You could get people to talk to you. A lot easier than I could.”

“But I don’t know anyone involved,” she said. “Who would I talk to?”

“That’s what I need your help figuring out. I’ll bet someone from her circle of friends is either in on the jewelry thefts or knows something about the ring of thieves doing them. You’ve met most of her friends, right?”

“Well. Not really. Only the ones who’ve been to parties at our apartment or who we’ve occasionally gone out with together, like to casinos or clubs. But that doesn’t happen very often. And very few know I’m her sister. We’ve mostly passed off our resemblance just as a fun coincidence.”

He tilted his head. “Really? And she didn’t invite you to other people’s parties? Social events? That sort of thing?”

She glanced away. To her credit, Darla had invited her to lots of things. Vera had even gone. Once. And stood in a corner the whole time paralyzed with feelings of inadequacy. “I don’t really fit into her social stratosphere.”

He regarded her for a moment. “Her evaluation or yours?”

“Mine,” she admitted with a shrug. “And my father’s. He threatened to disown Darla if she spread it around that he’d spawned an illegitimate child. He’d make my life hell if it got out.”

“I assume you’re talking about Maximillian St. Giles.”

“Daddy dearest.” She sighed. After twenty-four years, you’d think she’d be used to the hurt. But it still cut like a shard of glass to the heart when she thought about his categorical rejection.

“What could he possibly have against you?” Conner asked, echoing the question she’d asked herself a thousand times. Always with the same answer.

She looked back at Conner. “I take my clothes off for a living. And I suppose I remind him of his vulnerability. Or failings. Or both.”

“And whose fault is all that? Not yours.” He shook his head. “The man’s a dolt. If I had a daughter as smart, gorgeous and determined as you, I’d be showing her off to everyone, not hiding her away like she was something to be ashamed of. I wouldn’t care how she came into the world.”

Vera blinked, blindsided by the sincere indignation in Conner’s voice…on her behalf. No one had ever defended her honor so vehemently. No one.

She swallowed the lump that welled up in her throat. “Thanks. Too bad he’s not quite as broad-minded as you are.”

“That settles it,” Conner said, folding his arms over his chest and surveying her with a resolute smile. “No argument. You’re coming with me.”

Alarm zinged up her spine. “Where?”

“The Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball on Friday night.”

He had to be kidding. The Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball was the biggest annual charity fund-raiser in the city; everyone who was anyone went—provided you were a gazillionaire or a famous star of some sort.

“What, me? No! Hell, no. Are you nuts?”

“All of Darla’s friends will be there. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to ask questions. Hey!” he exclaimed with growing excitement. “Maybe the thieves are planning to work the event and we can catch them in the act.”

“One small problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Aside from the fact that I’d never in a million years be able to pull it off, I work Friday. It’s our biggest night.”

He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I’ll pay you better. Name your fee.”

“And I have nothing to wear that doesn’t fasten with Velcro,” she added wryly.

“With a clothes allowance.”

God, so tempting. He waggled his eyebrows, and for a nanosecond she actually considered it. Then she shook her head. “I can’t. Honestly. I’d be lost at one of those fancy society bashes. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do or how to conduct myself. People would laugh—”

He took her hand in his over the table and gazed intently at her. “Trust me, no one will laugh. Not after I’m done with you.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Ever see My Fair Lady?”

She gave him a withering smile and yanked back her hand. “Yeah, and look what happened to Eliza Doolittle at the horse race. I rest my case.”

He chuckled. “The difference being, you wouldn’t need to change a single thing. Just be yourself as you ask around after Darla. Say she’s disappeared and as her roommate, you’re worried about her.”

“I wouldn’t be lying. I am worried.”

“Good. Then you’ll do it.”

She pushed out a breath, still unconvinced. “What if my father shows up?”

“You leave Maximillian St. Giles to me. C’mon, Vera. Take a chance. Be Cinderella for a night. Hell, you’ve even got the perfect shoes.”

She laughed at his handsome, open face and charmingly amused smile. And felt herself weaken.

She shouldn’t.

God knew, she had no business even pretending to belong at a highbrow event like that. Let alone with a man like Conner Rothchild.

“You’re wrong about Darla,” she said. “If I go to that ball, it’s only for one reason. To prove my sister isn’t a criminal.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “It’s a deal.” He looked at her triumphantly. “So, when can we go shopping?”

Silk. Satin. Lace. Bamboo, for crying out loud. When had they started making clothes out of bamboo, anyway?

Vera had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Not even the first time she’d gone onstage at that seedy titty bar five years ago and taken off every stitch in front of a pack of drooling men had she felt this vulnerable. At least onstage she was in control.

“Utterly stunning,” the duchesslike boutique owner said with a satisfied smile at her creation. Meaning the slinky, floor-length evening gown clinging to Vera’s every curve. “What do you think, Mr. Rothchild?”

He considered. “I think the neckline could be lower.”

“No way,” Vera muttered. “Any lower and you’d have to call it a waistline.”

“So charming,” the duchess cooed. “Your lady friend’s modesty becomes her, my dear.”

Get me out of here.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “It’s one of my favorite things about her.”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” she said evenly, shooting him a warning glare.

“Well, which gown do you like best? The blue, the red, the gold or the white?” he asked with an unrepentant smile, motioning with a twirled finger for her to spin around one more time in the blue one she was wearing. She grudgingly obliged.

She’d tried on about a thousand different dresses over the past three hours at a dozen or more trendy boutiques before finding a designer Conner approved of, and he had narrowed it down to four choices. Vera hadn’t dared voice an opinion other than about the ones she didn’t care for, because she had no clue what was expected at the Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball. Each event on the Vegas social calendar had its own dress code, known only to the city’s Chosen Ones. If you violated the Code, people knew and smirked at you behind your back. Or so she’d surmised from the stories of fashion faux pas Darla had come home telling with a superior air of glee.

“They’re all exquisite,” Vera said. And meant it. “And all far too expensive.” And meant that, too. The dresses in this store were so expensive they didn’t even have price tags. “You should donate the money to the charity instead.”

He signaled the boutique owner to give them a minute alone, then smiled at Vera indulgently. “I’ve already made out the check, and trust me, this wouldn’t even put a dent in it. Besides, I want my assistant to be the most stunning woman there.”

Assistant? Oka-ay.

“You wouldn’t deny me that satisfaction, would you?” he asked.

She ignored the deliberate hint his slight emphasis on the word that carried. “So I take it this isn’t a date,” she casually said.

“Definitely not. I’m paying you,” he said oh-so-reasonably. “I wouldn’t want there to be any…misinterpretations.”

Ha-ha. The man was hilarious. And transparent as glass.

“Good,” she said with a quick smile, not falling for the ploy. “Keeping it business is for the best.” Though that did make her stomach sink a little with disappointment. “And since this is on your dime, boss, you choose which gown you like best.”

“Very well. If you insist.”

He studied her again from head to toe, taking so long she was in danger of melting under his scrutiny. The man had a way of undressing her with those dreamy bedroom eyes that made her toes curl and her mouth go dry. Which was a pretty good trick, considering her profession.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he said at last and looked up with a funny little smile.

Surprise washed through her at the heartfelt compliment. “Thank you,” she said, flustered by the admiration lingering in his eyes as he continued to gaze at her. “For everything.” She went up on her tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss on the mouth. “You’re being so generous, I don’t know what to say.”

He smiled and kissed her back—a gentle, easy kiss. Then pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “You’ve said it. Thank you is plenty.”

“I really do feel like Cinderella getting ready for the ball.”

His smile went roguish. He brushed his knuckles down her bare arms, producing a shower of goose bumps. “So, if you’re Cinderella, who does that make me?”

He was so fishing. “My fairy godmother?” she suggested impishly.

He made a face. “Not exactly what I was going for.”

She grinned, her heart spinning in her chest. “I don’t recall reading anywhere that Cinderella was Prince Charming’s assistant.”

“And I don’t remember her being such a smart-aleck.” He tapped her on the end of the nose. “Get changed and I’ll settle up.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me which dress you chose?”

“Nope. It’ll be a surprise.”

“No fair.”

He winked. “Who said anything about fair?” Then he was gone from the dressing room.

She eased out a long breath to slow her fluttering heart. Who, indeed? Nothing was fair about this whole situation. Not Darla involving her in felony theft. Not having to go to this stupid ball and make a fool of herself. Certainly not the fact that she was falling hard and fast for Conner Rothchild, a man so breathtakingly wrong for her it defied all odds. Talk about a fairy tale! Too bad Cinderella was just a story. The kind that didn’t happen in real life.

She really had to make herself remember that. Because after Conner was finished with her, no longer needed her help to fulfill his obligations to the FBI, she knew darn well the magical bubble she’d been floating in would morph back into a pumpkin. It would leave her standing alone, right back where she’d always been. And the only glass slippers she’d be trying on would be on a stage along with a fake wedding dress.

But in the meantime, she had no choice. She must go through with this. Darla would be the one to suffer if she wimped out and didn’t help prove her sister’s innocence.

No, she was well and truly stuck in this crazy situation. So she may as well try to enjoy the ride as best she could. Prince Charming and all.

She just hoped she could hang on to her heart—and not let Conner Rothchild steal it along the way.

Chapter 9

Traffic was a bitch. Parking was even worse.

“Just drop me off,” Vera told Conner after glancing at the dashboard clock for the tenth time in as many minutes.

He knew she was worried about being late for her shift, convinced her boss was looking for an excuse to fire her after she’d been hauled off by the FBI yesterday. To tell the truth, Conner wished she would get fired. She was better than that job. Did not belong at the Diamond Lounge—or anywhere else she had to bare her breasts to make a decent living.

Oh, she’d told him all about her lack of education and her stepfather’s Alzheimer’s and thus the need to keep him in an assisted-living facility. Conner understood her reasons. He did. He was just unconvinced she had no other recourse. She’d simply had no one tell her about other options.

He planned to. As soon as they’d put this FBI mess behind them, he’d show her how she didn’t have to continue in the same vicious cycle as her mother’d been stuck in. There were ways out. To that end, this afternoon he’d paid the bill for the retirement home for the next month. Call it a bonus for her help. That would give her a few weeks’ breathing room to help him. It was the least he could do.

Actually…it was far more than he should be doing. More than he’d ever done for a client before. He’d always prided himself on staying aloof from the all-too-unfair predicaments life had heaped upon many of his clients…hell, most of his clients. He was a defense attorney. People who did crimes had myriad reasons for committing them, but none of those reasons were fair or happy. Like a doctor with his patients, a good attorney needed to distance himself from the world of hurt he dealt with every day. Treat everyone as a case number, even as he helped them.

But Vera was different. She affected him like no one ever had. As a representative of the law—and as a man. She was incredibly smart, grounded and determined. Not to mention the hottest woman he’d ever met.

He was in deep trouble here.

“Seriously,” she said, “I can walk to the club. It’s just a couple of blocks. It’ll be faster than this mess.”

No doubt correct. Sundown on the Strip was a giant traffic jam. “All right,” he said, though he didn’t like the notion of her being on her own for even a minute. Whoever was stalking the Tears of the Quetzal was still out there. Conner had checked in with Lex Duncan, but no new leads had turned up. “Promise me you’ll go in through the front of the club, not from the alley.”

“You know I have to use the stage door,” she said as she ducked under the car’s gull-wing door as it rose to let her out. “Lecherous Lou will have a fit if I—”

“Tell him you have a new sugar daddy who’s coming to spend lots of money in his club—but only if you walk in through the front entrance.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled her garment bag from the backseat. “Sugar daddy?”

He shrugged with a grin. “Sounds better than fairy godmother. ”

She laughed. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

Yeah, about her. “More so every minute.”

He watched her walk away on the tourist-crowded sidewalk in a simple pencil skirt and blouse, and a pair of sexy, do-me shoes that should be illegal, her hips swaying enticingly. Leaving a trail of turning male heads in her wake.

He wanted to jump out of the car and strangle every one of them for looking at her that way.

Damn, he was in such deep trouble.

Traffic barely inched along, so he fell farther and farther behind her. For a moment he lost sight of her in the moving throng. His pulse jacked up. He didn’t like this. He shouldn’t have let her get out of the car. To his relief, she got stuck at a Do Not Walk sign at the next corner and actually obeyed it. Meanwhile his lane jerked forward half a block so he almost caught up with her. She didn’t know it, though, and he smiled at her impatient foot tapping as she waited.

Suddenly, he noticed someone else watching her. Closely. From the sidewalk just behind her. A man. Tall, muscular, with an olive complexion, thick black hair and a furtive look about him. A familiar furtive look. The guy stepped closer to Vera’s back. Too close. As the man surreptitiously checked the crowd to both sides, Conner saw high cheekbones that gave him an exotic Hispanic or maybe Native American look.

And then it struck him. It was the man who’d been arguing with Darla! In front of police headquarters!

Alarm zinged through Conner’s insides. Just as Vera’s stance went straight and rigid. Slowly, she put her hands out to her sides.

Holy hell! The bastard had a gun to her back!

Conner leaped from the car and barreled down the street to her aid, knocking people aside, apologizing as he ran. It took him about seven seconds flat to reach her. They were the longest seconds of his life.

“Hey!” he yelled just before flinging himself onto the douchebag’s back. “Get away from her!” A mistake. The man was quick. He spun, saw Conner and took off, just missing being tackled. Conner managed to avoid mowing down Vera, but when he veered, he slammed into the streetlight post. Stars burst in his head.

“Conner!” Her voice echoed like he was in a tunnel. “Oh, my God! Conner! Are you okay?”

He gave his head a shake to clear it as well as his hearing. “Did someone catch that guy?” he demanded, scanning the area around them. Concerned tourists looked back at him blankly.

Damn.

“That was him, wasn’t it?” Vera said, obviously totally freaked out. “The guy who broke into my apartment. He had a gun, Conner! He was going to shoot me!”

The circle of tourists glanced nervously in the direction the man had run, and started to back away. Out on the street, car horns started honking.

“Damn. I left the car running down the block.” He grasped her elbow firmly. “Come on. We’re going back home.”

She dug in her heels. “No, Conner,” she protested. “I have to go to work!”

He towed her along unwillingly. “You were nearly mugged, woman! Or worse. How can you even consider—”

“I told you. I don’t have a choice. I need my job. Please, Conner. Let me go. He just wants the ring, and I don’t have it. I’ll be fine.”

Silver had thought she was safe, too. Right before a thousand tons of pipe and wood had crashed down on her. She was still emotionally traumatized by the attack.

Damn it, he didn’t want Vera in danger, too. But that determined look was back in her eyes. He knew he’d lose this argument. “All right. But I don’t care how long it takes. You’re not walking. Get in the car.”

Thankfully she didn’t argue but slid back into the car, if reluctantly.

“Did you get a close look at his face?” Conner asked her once he’d calmed down enough to think rationally. “Would you recognize him again?”

She shook her head. “No. I didn’t dare turn around when he had his gun in my back. I didn’t see his face at all. Did you?”

“Just from a distance, and I only caught a glimpse of it. But I think I’ve seen him before. I’ll have Duncan pull video from the traffic cam.” He pointed to the unobtrusive camera pointed at the intersection. “With luck, it got a good shot of him, and we can identify the bastard once and for all. At least see if he’s the same guy I suspect of taking the Quetzal from police headquarters. ”

And hurting Silver.

And possibly murdering Candace.

“Damn it! I don’t want you going to work tonight,” Conner said, slamming his fist on the steering wheel. “I’ll pay your salary—whatever you would have made.”

She stared at him for a moment, then smiled weakly. “I know you just want to help, but…I can’t do that.”

“I’m not trying to buy you, Vera.”

“I know that. But, no, thanks.”

It took them ten minutes to drive the block and a half to the Diamond Lounge parking lot. By the time they got out of the car and he escorted her to the stage door, she’d composed herself completely. He didn’t know how she could be so calm. Or so stubborn about accepting his help. A man had just tried to kill her!

Since Conner wasn’t an employee of the club, the guard wouldn’t let him in the side entrance.

“Be careful,” he admonished Vera, giving her a worried kiss. “I’ll be in the audience all night. If you need me just yell.”

She smiled and touched his cheek. “My hero.”

He knew it was just teasing, but her endearment made him feel warm all over. Or maybe it was just the hot Las Vegas night wind. People had given him a lot bigger compliments, accompanied by far more substantial rewards than a smile. So why did every little thing this woman do affect him so deeply?

He made his way around to the front, directly to the head of the line of schlubs waiting to get into the exclusive club. As an Old Las Vegas landmark, the Diamond Lounge was extremely popular with tourists and locals alike. But it didn’t surprise him that the bouncer immediately recognized him, either from the society pages, or because he’d been part of the stir last night.

“Evening, Mr. Rothchild. Welcome back,” the brawny man said, ushering him past the velvet rope.

After paying his exorbitant cover, he was immediately shown to the same table as last night, right in front of the stage. He suppressed a chuckle of amusement. Had Vera really told them he was her sugar daddy? He wouldn’t put it past her. She had a wicked sense of humor, that woman.

This time a whole bottle of champagne appeared on his table, served by a pretty petite brunette who displayed her nearly nude body invitingly for him as she poured.

He was so not interested.

A beautiful redhead came out onstage in a sexy French maid’s outfit and for the next fifteen minutes did a very energetic number with the center pole. The men perched on the bar stools arranged against the edge of the stage cheered and groaned in approval.

Conner drained a glass of champagne and was actually bored. He was only interested in seeing one certain, particular woman take off her clothes. And the thought of her doing it in front of all these clowns was making him want to swallow the whole damned bottle.

He checked his watch. Eight-thirteen.

Vera didn’t come on until eleven.

Hell. It was going to be a really, really long night.

He was out there.

Conner.

Why did the thought of that one man being in the audience put butterflies in Vera’s stomach and impossible feelings in her heart? Feelings of warmth and affection, and sadness and regret, all balled up in one giant knot?

She was falling in love with the man. That’s why.

Despair filled Vera as she prepared to go out onstage. For the first time ever, she didn’t want to do this. Wished she’d chosen a more conventional means of making a living. Hadn’t let a thousand men see her wearing nothing more than a G-string.

Stop it! she told herself.

There was nothing wrong with what she did. And it wasn’t as though she’d had a lot of choice.

As Jerry the stagehand pulled back the curtain for her, she thought about all the times she’d strutted out onstage and enjoyed the heck out of it. She’d loved the power of her female body over the punters. Loved the effect she’d had on them, reducing strong, intelligent men to blithering bundles of testosterone willing to give her everything they had for just one more peek. Loved that she was giving a thrill to those who had no one, and to those with someone waiting for them a reason to go home and give that woman a thrill of her own.

And then she thought of Conner, out there, waiting for her to come out and perform. How terrifying was that? Because suddenly she realized there was nothing she wanted more than to have him take her home and give her a thrill.

She was nothing if not realistic. She knew a man like him would never love her back. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy him while he still wanted her. And he did want her. Anyone with eyes could see that.

So why was she wasting time? The man was out there, waiting, needing to be seduced. Quickly. Before Agent Duncan found Darla and the Quetzal-crazed maniac, and Vera had to go back to her old life.

This life.

Without Conner.

The long chords of her organ music started. Her cue.

She fluffed the skirt of her faux wedding gown and gave her breasts an extra push up.

Okay. This was it.

The man didn’t stand a chance. When she was done with this performance, he’d be putty in her hands.

At least for a little while. Longer if she was lucky. Until life intervened and he came to his senses.

But in the meantime he’d be hers. All hers.

Her very own Prince Charming.

For one magical night.

Chapter 10

Conner sat back in his seat, exhaled a long, long, long breath and willed the goose bumps running up and down his arms to go away.

His body was painfully aroused, throbbing hard and craving satisfaction.

The woman was a witch, pure and simple. She’d bewitched him. Again. Totally. Thoroughly. Unabashedly. She’d danced her dance of the seven veils with that gossamer white wedding costume, and he’d been as lost as King Herod, ready to throw whatever she wished at her feet. Money. Fame. His heart on a platter.

Damn. How pathetically cliché was this? Rich man falling for a much younger stripper, willing to alienate his family, his friends, his entire social circle, to be with her.

How could he even consider it?

He’d be on the front page of every tabloid, laughed at behind his back. His career would suffer. His family would be embarrassed. Probably end up being disowned by his overly socially conscious father.

All because he suddenly couldn’t imagine his life without Vera Mancuso in it.

And yet, there it was.

He wanted her anyway.

He wanted her.

But he just couldn’t. Couldn’t do that to his family. Couldn’t toss aside everything he’d worked so hard to achieve.

There had to be another way.

A way to have her, all to himself, but not expose either of them to the severe downsides of a relationship like theirs.

Relationship.

He shuddered, and even more goose bumps broke out on his flesh. What was he thinking? There must be a—

“Mr. Rothchild?”

With a start, he came back to the present. Vera had left the stage ages ago, and another girl had replaced her. Ever since, he’d just been staring into space, his mind whirling in a chaos of growing panic.

He turned to see a middle-aged man with an obviously expensive but still oddly ill-fitting suit standing by his table. “Yes?”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Lou Majors, the manager, Mr. Rothchild. Welcome to the Diamond Lounge.”

Ah. If it wasn’t Lecherous Lou himself. Conner projected his voice over the bass-heavy stripper music blaring from the loudspeakers, “Thank you. Won’t you join me?” It never hurt to schmooze the enemy.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The manager snapped his fingers at a hostess, who hurried over with another bottle of champagne. This time it was Cristal. Nice.

Also pretty nervy, because Conner was the one who’d end up paying for it. Not that he cared. Beat the hell out of the cheap stuff he’d been drinking.

“Enjoying the floor show?” Lou asked politely, leaning in so he could be heard.

“Absolutely. Some parts more than others.” Conner sent him a knowing, male-bonding-type smile.

Lou smiled back amiably. “Couldn’t help but notice. You’re acquainted with Miss LaRue, I take it?”

LaRue? Oh, right. Vera’s stage name. “Yes. Met her here, actually. Yesterday.”

At the reminder of the disruption, a shadow of annoyance passed through the manager’s eyes but was quickly gone. “Her lawyer, I take it.”

Conner winked lasciviously and leaned in closer. “Who could resist?” May as well go for broke. If the scumbucket thought she had a wealthy protector, he’d never dare fire her. “But I’m no longer her lawyer. I passed her case to a colleague. ” He lowered his voice, confidential-like. “Conflict of interest, if you get my drift.”

He did. Lou couldn’t have looked more pleased if Conner’d just handed him a stack of hundred-dollar bills. Which no doubt was exactly what the old roué had in mind. “I see.” Several seconds went by as the manager regarded Conner. Finally he said, “Mr. Rothchild, I have a very special offer to make you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Lou beckoned, rose and led him through the club to the sweeping red-carpeted staircase that led upstairs. On the way up, he refilled his champagne flute and handed it back. “I think you’ll be very interested in this unique opportunity.”

They ducked into the same VIP room as yesterday. Conner raised a brow questioningly. “What’s this all about?”

Lou cleared his throat. “Are you the kind of man who likes…private parties, Mr. Rothchild?”

His brows rose higher. “That depends on who’s invited.”

“Men such as yourself. Wealthy. Discriminating. Discreet.”

Suddenly, it hit him. Good Lord. If this was going where he thought it was going, the Parker case just got a huge break. “Go on.”

“The ladies are of the highest caliber, of course. Only the best, most beautiful women are in attendance. Women who will cater to your every whim.”

Lou looked at him expectantly, the man’s crude excitement coming through loud and clear. Whether it was excitement over the prospect of the power he wielded over helpless beautiful women, or the prospect of all the money Conner would have to spend to attend that shindig, he couldn’t guess. Suzie Parker had told him the attendees paid five thousand dollars each for an invitation to these exclusive gentlemen’s house parties.

But Conner was a very, very rich man. He could get any woman he wanted for no more than the cost of a drink. His reputation was well-known.

He shrugged, playing it cool. “There’s only one woman I’m interested in catering to me,” he said, feigning indifference to the whole thing. “And I’ve been told in no uncertain terms she doesn’t do private parties. Of any kind.”

Lou’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling. After a brief pause, he said, “What if I could change her mind?”

Whoops. Not the direction Conner’d meant to go. He scrambled for a reason to refuse, but Lou beat him to the draw.

“I’ll make you a deal. If she’ll do a party here in the VIP room with you, you’ll give my other invitation a try.” Because he was so sure after one visit, Conner’d be sucked into the decadence.

Hell, that’s what a man got for cultivating his reputation as a player and a heartbreaker all over town. Which, ironically enough, he’d done in order to avoid breaking hearts. He’d never been interested in hanging with one woman for more than a few days.

Before now.

Temptation loomed large. On both counts.

This was an unprecedented opportunity to help Suzie Parker by witnessing firsthand what she’d been forced to do. To gather hard evidence against the culprits running these parties and shut them down for good. So other innocent girls weren’t caught in the trap, lured by the money into selling themselves short.

Not to mention being able to have Vera all to himself in the VIP room, driving him crazy with her delectable body, dancing up close and personal.

Except she’d be madder than a coyote if Lou made her do it. She’d probably never speak to Conner again.

Which could, of course, solve that other problem. The one where he was about to throw away his whole life to have her. No sense doing that if she wasn’t even speaking to him.

He hesitated. Just long enough for Lou to pull out his cell phone and make a three-word call. “Send her up.”

Oh, crap.

Vera was sitting at the dressing-room mirror touching up her makeup and listening to Tawni prattle on about some man she’d just met. Some computer IT guy from New Orleans.

“Always wanted to visit the Big Easy,” Tawni said. “Do you think I should go?”

“Is he married?” Vera asked.

Tawni flung out a hand. “Who cares? We’re not talking about having the guy’s kid, here, just a little fling!”

“Which can lead to all sorts of heartache for everyone involved, especially if he’s married,” Vera pointed out. “I’d ask before I even considered it.”

Tawni sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Wouldn’t want to have my eyes scratched out by some dumb punter’s irate wife.”

“Very sensible.”

“What about your guy?”

“I have no guy.”

Tawni snorted. “Yeah? Then who was Mr. Tall, Rich and Handsome in the front row drooling into his champagne? For the second night in a row, I might add. The one whose ten-million-dollar mansion you happen to be staying at?”

Vera swiveled on her stool to face her friend. “We haven’t slept together.” Well. Not technically. It didn’t count when only one of the parties got off and there was no bed involved. Right?

Tawni’s eyes bugged out. “Are you insane? What are you waiting for?”

Vera sighed dreamily. “Nothing, anymore. I decided to seduce him tonight.”

“Good plan,” Tawni said in exasperation. “Jeez, girl, the man is worth megabucks. You’ve got to hurry up and soak him for all he’s worth!”

She shook her head, feeling a loopy smile spread on her face. “No. I couldn’t. It’s not like that. He likes me. Respects me.”

Tawni slapped her hands to the sides of her face. “Are you out of your mind? Respects you? Look at yourself in the mirror, Vera May Mancuso. Does that look like the sort of woman a man has any kind of honorable thoughts about? Mark my words, he’s after something you’ve got, but it ain’t R-E-S-P-E-C-T.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter. I’ve decided to give it to him anyway.”

Something in her voice must have given her away. Tawni gasped. “Oh, sweet heaven. You’re in love with the man! My God, girl, you just met him yesterday!”

“I know. Totally insane, isn’t it? I took one look at him, and it was like…like I’d been zapped by a magic wand or something. Bells rang. Stars exploded.” Or maybe that part was just the stage lights reflecting off the incredible ring she’d been wearing. The Tears of the Quetzal. She’d been blinded by its hypnotic brilliance. No wonder some lunatic had become obsessed by it.

Tawni was still staring at her incredulously.

Vera held up a hand. “I know. I’m certifiable. Believe me, I wasn’t going to touch him—” much “—but oh, God, Tawni, I want him. I want to feel what it’s like to be with him. Just once. Don’t worry, I’m not fool enough to think it’ll last.”

Sympathy filled Tawni’s gaze. “Oh, sweetie, you do have it bad. Come here, girl.” She stretched out her arms, and Vera went into them, grateful for a hug, grateful for a friend who knew exactly what she was going through. No matter how jaded they pretended to be, their hearts still broke like everyone else’s.

“You’re right, sweetie,” Tawni murmured. “Don’t you worry about the future. You go for it. Get all the loving you can out of him. Just hang on to that precious heart of yours. Don’t you give that to any man, you hear?”

Vera nodded. “I won’t.”

But it was too late, and they both knew it.

Still, she told herself, at least she’d have some amazing memories.

She pulled back from Tawni’s hug, filling with a jittery kind of excitement. She really was going to go for it.

Jerry poked his head in the door just then. “Miss LaRue?”

She looked up, surprised. She wasn’t on again for another two hours. “Yeah, Jerry?”

“Lecherous Lou wants to see you. Upstairs. Room seven.”

Now what? Lou knew she was absolutely adamant—Okay, wait. Maybe…“Do you know if there’s anyone with him?” she asked Jerry.

“That rich dude’s been panting after your bod.”

Excellent. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.” Jerry left. She met Tawni’s I-told-you-so gaze in the mirror. “Don’t say a word. Not a blessed word.”

“Did I say anything? Here, look, this is me not saying a single damn thing.” Tawni made a zipping motion over her lips as Vera gathered her skirts and headed out the door. “You go get ‘im, girl,” she called after her. “Make the boy wish he’d never been born with that thing between his legs.”

That was the whole idea. For now. But later, after they went home, she’d make him glad again. Oh, so very, very glad.

And her, too.

“There you are, my dear,” Lecherous Lou said when she swept into the VIP room.

Conner was standing next to him, looking too handsome for his own good. Damn, the man was fine, as Tawni would say. Broad shoulders; square jaw; long, hard, muscular legs; strong hands. And those eyes. She’d never known eyes so bone-quiveringly sexy as those hot-as-the-desert hazel ones gazing at her from under his perfectly shaped masculine brows. “Vera,” he said in greeting.

“Hello, Mr. Rothchild,” she said with demure formality. “Lou. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“I think you know what Mr. Rothchild would like, Vera,” Lou said. Subtlety had never been his strong suit.

She allowed herself a coy smile at her would-be lover. “I’m pretty sure that would be illegal. Wouldn’t want to get any of us into trouble with the law, would we?”

Those perfect brows flicked. She’d caught him by surprise. He’d been expecting her to flatly refuse, as she had yesterday.

“Of course not!” Lou blustered. “Nothing illegal. Just a standard lap dance, that’s all. The VS1 Special.”

Which was code for total nudity.

She swallowed.

She’d avoided this for so long that the words almost stuck in her throat. “All right,” she said.

Omigod, what was she doing?

What they both wanted. That’s what.

Lou almost fell over. He’d been expecting a total refusal, too, and to have to threaten her with her job. “Get lost,” she told him. “Before I change my mind.”

He was out the soundproof door, and the gauzy curtains were drawn closed faster than she could blink.

“Surprised?” she asked Conner when they were alone.

The lingering shock and the slight parting of his lips belied his causal stance. “I could have sworn you don’t do lap dances.”

“This isn’t a lap dance.”

“Strange. I’m pretty sure that’s what you just agreed to.”

She smiled. And took a step toward him. “Then, it’ll be our little secret—” and another step “—what we really do.”

That’s when he started to get nervous. And in spite of himself, excited. She could see his body reacting to the fantasies in his mind. The ones she’d planted there. “Vera? What’s going on?”

“I hope you’re prepared, Mr. Rothchild,” she said, lowering her voice to a throaty purr, and with one finger pushed him backward onto the divan. “To be seduced.”

Chapter 11

Vera seduced him slowly, minute by minute, inch by inch, the way she’d done onstage earlier. If Conner had any notion of resisting her, the man could just forget it.

She was an expert at very few things, but this was one of them. She knew how to make a man want her.

Not that he needed any help in that department. He’d made no secret of his desire to sleep with her. He hadn’t pressed her on it, but only because she’d told him no. The man was a true gentleman, just as he’d said.

And now he would get his reward.

Well. Sort of. She knew he’d do his damnedest to follow club rules and not touch her. It would be pure torture on him. Heck, for both of them. But it would make the coming night all the sweeter, once they got back to his place.

She adjusted the music to a low, bluesy song she loved, and took her place in the middle of the small room. He sat sprawled on the divan, looking like a tiger who couldn’t quite believe a kitten had wandered into his cage.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

Making her fall for him all the more.

“I want to,” she assured him. “Just relax and enjoy the show.”

“I already did. You were incredible onstage. It felt like I was the only man in the room and you were dancing just for me.”

“You were.” She smiled and started to sway her hips to the music. “And I was.”

His eyes darkened, his smile going sexy. “What brought on the change of heart?”

“You,” she said simply. And let her body take over.

She knew all the moves, but suddenly they had a whole new meaning for her. She wanted to seduce this man, body and soul. Wanted to entice him. Enthrall him. Make him pant. Make him sweat. Make him never, ever forget this dance of temptation…

Or her.

Slowly, she peeled off her wedding gown. Taking her time. Moving her body to the music. Teasing him. Provoking him. Making the anticipation last and last. Until she was left wearing only the lace corset, stockings and shoes. The G-string of tiny seed pearls she’d selected for tonight hardly counted as attire.

His gaze devoured her, lingering on the special wax job her line of work demanded.

“Like what you see?”

“I’d like it a whole lot better closer up.”

She smiled. “Yeah?”

He looked relaxed, arms lying along the back cushions of the sofa, his legs spread wide. But she knew it was a hard-won facade. There was a film of sweat on his forehead that had nothing to do with the outside night heat, and the pulse on the side of his throat throbbed wildly. Not to mention that solid ridge in the front of his pants. “Oh, yeah.”

She moved closer. He swallowed.

He couldn’t touch, but there were no such restrictions on her. She put a knee to each side of his, kneeling on the red leather divan with her hands on his shoulders, and straddled his lower thighs. Keeping distance between them.

“This better?” she asked.

“Not nearly close enough,” he murmured darkly.

The fabric of his suit was smooth and luxurious, cool to the touch. But the man in it was sizzling. She ran her fingers down his shirtfront. “Mmm. You’re hot,” she observed.

“Burning up,” he agreed.

She peeled off his jacket and tossed it aside. Loosened his tie.

“Take it off,” he ordered huskily.

“Why, Mr. Rothchild…”

“The tie.”

She obliged, using the length of silk like a sex toy. Drawing it off slowly, teasing him with the end, glancing at his wrist debating whether to tie him up to the iron ring attached to the wall above his head.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warned.

She smiled, setting it aside. “Later, then.”

“We’ll see about that.”

One by one, she teased his shirt buttons open. Touched his broad chest. Reveled in the feel of his skin under her fingers. In the soft scratch of the curls of masculine hair. He shifted under her, and she could feel the slight trembling of his thighs.

She wet her lips and brushed them over his. He groaned softly. “You’re killing me here, you know that.”

She put her hands to his chest, rubbed her thumbs over his tight nipples. “Hope you have nine lives.”

He sucked in a breath, lifted his knees and tipped her into his chest. “Not fair,” he gasped.

She tilted her head up, taking her time pulling her body away from his. “Who said anything about fair?”

He gave a strangled laugh. “Witch.”

“Candy-ass.”

“You are so getting a spanking when we get home.”

She winked. “Promises, promises.”

His eyes cut down to hers, darkened to the color of a forest in a storm. “You are a naughty girl.”

“Want to see how naughty?” she whispered in his ear.

“I’m your lawyer. I need to know these things.”

Her corset was held together in front by a row of bows. She reached down, found the end of one of the ribbons, and tugged it almost open. Then she put the ribbon to his lips. With a jerk of his head, he finished the job. Her breasts spilled out of the garment…just enough to be a tease.

She lifted up on her knees a little. Like lightning he grasped the end of the next ribbon with his teeth and tugged that one open, too. Her breasts tumbled out, brushing his face. He groaned, trying to catch a nipple with his tongue and teeth.

“Uh-uh,” she scolded, wagging a finger. Feeling the intimate contact like a wave of shivers.

“Let me,” he pleaded.

“Finish undoing the bows. Then we’ll see.”

His hot breath puffed over her skin, his wet tongue grazed her flesh as he bent to his task. Her nipples spiraled harder. Achy coils of desire tightened around her center.

He made quick work of the bows. Clever man. The corset slid to the floor. On impulse, she unclasped her G-string and let it slither off, too. She wanted to be completely naked for him.

His expression was pure sin as his gaze caressed her.

“You are so damn beautiful,” he whispered.

Still up on her knees, she bent forward, offering him her breasts. She wanted to feel his mouth on her. He latched on like a hungry babe, suckling one then the other, until she was panting with need.

With a groan, she pulled herself away. “Any more and I’ll come,” she murmured.

“Do it,” he urged. “I want to see you come apart for me again.”

“Not here.” She eased out a shuddering breath.

He blinked and glanced around, as though he’d completely forgotten where they were. He’d dug his fingers deep into the divan back, holding on to the cushions with a death grip, but now he eased them off and flexed them. “God. You’re right. What was I thinking?” He nuzzled his lips against her throat. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I still have another show.”

“Forget it. You’re coming home with me.” He stood up, sweeping her into his arms. “Now.”

She didn’t protest, other than to insist on picking up her discarded costume and his jacket and tie. He and Lecherous Lou seemed to have some kind of understanding. Hopefully she wouldn’t lose her job over this.

Not that it would change her mind if she did. She was ready to be his. In every way. More than ready.

Conner drove like a madman, making the trip to his house in less than twelve minutes. He didn’t want to waste a single second. He wanted to be inside her, now, finding release for this volcano of desire roiling inside his body.

Before leaving the club, he’d allowed her to slip back into her pencil skirt, peasant blouse and do-me shoes, but nothing else. He could see her tawny nipples through the almost-sheer fabric of the blouse. He was dying. He needed her under him.

As soon as they got inside the door of his mansion, he had her up against the wall, his mouth to her breast. She moaned, clasping his head in her hands, pulling him closer.

“Conner,” she pleaded, her voice strangled, writhing against the wall as he ground the silk blouse onto her nipple with his wet tongue.

“I’m here, baby.” He threw aside his jacket and practically ripped the buttons from his shirt, ridding himself of it. She lifted her shirt up over her ample breasts, baring them for him. They were breasts a man could lose himself in. Soft, round, full. Perfect.

He could smell the feminine scent of her desire, lightly musky and spicy, an alluring aphrodisiac that made him twitch in an agony of want.

With a growl, he banded his arms around her and carried her into the living room, swept the things off a low coffee table, and lowered her onto her back on it. Wrenching her legs apart, he tasted her, covering her with his mouth and tongue.

She gasped, arched and splintered apart. So fast he didn’t have time to enjoy it. So he did it again.

When he finally climbed up on the table and lowered himself on top of her, she was totally wrung out and he was ready to detonate. He grasped under her knees and spread them.

“Protection?” she managed to murmur.

“Taken care of,” he told her. Thank God he’d tucked a few condoms in his trouser pocket. Just in case.

“Mmm.”

He thrust into her. The feel of her hot flesh surrounding him burst through his consciousness like a kaleidoscope of erotic sensation. He froze. If he moved a muscle he’d be lost. She held him tight, her chest expanding and contracting against him. It wasn’t helping. He groaned.

“Conner?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Other than me being about to shame myself and totally ruin my macho reputation?”

She let out a surprised laugh. Her muscles contracted around him.

Jeez-uz.

“Baby, have mercy,” he begged.

Her eyes softened, joy suffusing her whole face. She was so lovely his breath caught in his lungs. Was it really possible he had done that to her? Made her so happy she glowed with it?

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

So he did. Long and wet and thorough as a spring downpour in the Mojave. She wrapped her legs around his waist and held him tight and used her heels on his backside to push him deep, deep, deep into her. So deep he found he couldn’t hold back.

“It’s okay. Let yourself go,” she whispered into his mouth, her voice low and thready with emotion.

He shuddered, fighting it. Not wanting it to be over so quickly. “Too soon,” he gritted out.

“We have all night,” she refuted breathily.

Which was a good thing, because he had no more strength to resist.

An overwhelming surge of pleasure crashed over him. And he surrendered. Surrendered to the carnal bliss. Surrendered to the emotional rightness. Surrendered to the deep inner knowledge that after this night, he would never be the same man again.

This was just the beginning.

Chapter 12

“No, Dad. Because I don’t—” Speaking on the phone, Conner did not look like a happy camper. In fact, he looked downright angry. “What about Mike? Why can’t he—”

Vera wrapped the silk robe Conner’d lent her a bit tighter around her body and sank a bit deeper into the leather recliner she was curled into, trying to make herself invisible. They were in his study while he’d put out a fire or two at work. This didn’t sound like work, though.

“Yes, Dad. Of course I am. But—”

They’d made love all night. And all morning. And half the afternoon. They’d shared passions and done things together she’d never done with another human being. He’d claimed her body; she’d given him her heart and her soul.

But she still felt like a trespasser in his world.

“Fine, Dad. Yes, I understand.” He slammed the phone down with a curse, a scowl etched on his face.

She didn’t dare ask him what was wrong. Not her place.

“Too early for a drink?” she ventured. It was just past four. Hell, it was five o’clock just down the road in Denver. At least she thought it was. Of course, one never knew with Mountain Time.

He looked up, apparently surprised to see her sitting there. Oops. Should have kept her mouth shut.

“Come here,” he ordered.

She untangled her legs and did as he bid. Normally she wasn’t such a “yes” girl, but last night she’d quickly realized the considerable benefits of doing as he asked.

He patted the desk blotter in front of him, and she duly climbed up and sat.

“Open your robe.”

She smiled. The man was truly insatiable. Okay, this she could do. Her body already quickening, she unbelted the robe and held it open in anticipation of whatever he had in mind to make himself forget the conversation he’d just had with his father.

He didn’t touch her. Just looked. And looked.

“You have the body of a goddess,” he finally said. “You could have any man you want at the charity ball tonight.”

“Why would I want anyone else when I have you?” she asked, reaching out for his hand and raising it to her cheek. She kissed his palm. He frowned.

She knew it was the wrong thing to do. Men didn’t like it when a woman got all clingy after sex. But she just couldn’t help herself.

Heart on her sleeve? Look it up. Her picture would be right there under the definition.

Did she care?

Ask her tomorrow.

She brought his hand to her breast. He cupped her, running his thumb gently over the nipple. Shivers of pleasure went up her spine.

“And you make love like a god,” she murmured.

Abruptly, he rolled his chair forward and leaned her backward onto his arm, bracing her as he took her other nipple in his mouth. Using his tongue, he imitated what his thumb was doing to the first one.

She sucked in a sharp breath, already rushing toward climax. Her body had gotten so tuned to him, physically, all it took was a touch or a kiss and she was practically there.

He withdrew, kissing her on the mouth instead. A sweet, tender kiss.

Her stomach sank.

A goodbye kiss.

Momentarily stunned, her heart squeezed painfully. Wow. That had happened more quickly than she’d thought.

But okay. She was a big girl. She could handle it.

She steadied herself, physically and mentally, for the inevitable.

“Are you ready for the ball?” he asked. “You still okay with what you have to do?”

The question caught her off guard.

In between their lovemaking and occasional foraging trips from the bedroom to the kitchen, they’d talked about what she would do tonight, how she’d go about getting the information about Darla that they needed. How to lure Darla’s accomplices in the jewelry theft ring out into the open. Alleged accomplices.

Vera was still convinced Darla was innocent. But she’d sworn to do her best for Conner and she would. She’d rather know the truth about her sister, either way.

“Of course,” she answered. She was nervous as hell about it but ready as ever. She thought about that phone call. “Why? Has something happened?”

His gaze dropped to her breasts again, and he stroked his hands over them possessively. “No,” he said. “Nothing that affects anything important.”

Now, there was a nonanswer if ever she’d heard one.

“What was that argument with your father all about, Conner?” she asked, a sick foreboding knotting in her stomach. “What did he want?”

Her lover leaned over and pressed his lips to her abdomen, trailing down to her belly button. He flicked his tongue into it. “Nothing important,” he repeated.

Which probably meant it was. So important he didn’t want to tell her. Which probably meant she wouldn’t like it, whatever it was.

His tongue trailed lower still. “Spread your legs.”

“Conner—”

“Open them.”

He was definitely trying to distract her.

It was working.

She moaned as his tongue slipped between her folds, still swollen from hours of lovemaking. It felt warm and silky on her tender flesh. So good.

Ah, well. She’d find out soon enough what the problem was. No sense borrowing trouble.

Meanwhile, she planned to enjoy every minute she had left with him. And this was a very, very good start.

He had to tell her.

Consumed with guilt—and fury at his meddling father—Conner helped Vera into the white stretch limo he’d ordered to take them to the Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball.

She looked like a princess in the strapless sapphire-blue satin gown he’d selected for her tonight. Worldly, sophisticated, stunning. He wanted her to be on his arm. All evening. So there’d be no possibility of other men charming her, dancing with her, tempting her away.

Unfortunately, that was not to be. Dear old Dad had unknowingly made certain of it.

The old bugger’d be even more delighted if he actually knew what he’d done. Conner’s father was a stand-up guy, but completely unreasonable when it concerned the family’s reputation. Dad had tolerated Conner’s rakish behavior—barely—up until now only because he was young, single and male. But he couldn’t imagine Michael Rothchild ever in a million years condoning his son taking a stripper to a high-profile social event like this one. Much less dating one. No matter how amazing a person she was. Or how incredibly gorgeous.

Conner took his place beside her in the limo and tucked her under his arm. She nestled against him, resting her hand on his thigh.

“Nervous?” he asked.

She nodded. “Terrified.”

“Don’t be. You’ll do fine. And you look exquisite.”

She smiled up at him as she had so often today. Happy. Trusting. “Thank you.” Her long lashes swept shyly downward, making his heart squeeze.

“You take my breath away, Vera Mancuso,” he said and gave her a lingering kiss.

“The feeling’s mutual, Conner Rothchild,” she whispered.

He reached into his pocket for the velvet pouch he’d had his secretary deliver to the house that afternoon. From it he pulled a solid gold Byzantine rope necklace that had been his grand-mother’s. “I thought this would go nicely with your dress.”

“Oh, Conner, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, fingering it reverently after he’d fastened it around her neck. “But—”

“There’s more.”

When he pulled out the ring, her eyes went wide as saucers. “My God! Where did you get that? I thought the Tears of the Quetzal was stolen!”

He slipped it on her finger.

“It’s a copy. Paste. The thief left it in place of the original when he stole that from police evidence. Not sure how he got hold of this one. It was supposedly in my aunt’s jewelry box in her bedroom. My grandfather had it made decades ago for family members to wear out in public. Before he decided the ring was cursed and locked it away for good in a vault somewhere. Anyway, LVMPD turned over the paste ring to the FBI, too, and Duncan said we could borrow it tonight, thinking its appearance might help lure the thieves.”

Conner had debated long and hard with himself about this. Having Vera wear the fake Quetzal could potentially put her in danger from the psycho thief. But as long as she only wore it at the ball, where security would be ultratight, and went home with him afterward, she should be safe. It also reassured him knowing that Duncan would have his men watching his property all night, too.

As an extra precaution, Conner had hired a bodyguard to discreetly follow her around at the ball, because Conner wouldn’t be able to watch over her personally.

She held her fingers up to the limo’s overhead light. Even in the dim wattage, the faux chameleon diamond shot off a shower of purple and green sparks, almost like the genuine article. “Wow. If I hadn’t had the real thing on my own finger, I’d sure be fooled. It’s nearly identical.”

“Not many could tell the difference,” he agreed.

Just then, the limo made a turn into a circular driveway. Damn. His time was up.

Vera peered out the tinted windows at the private mansion they’d pulled up in front of. “Where are we?” she asked.

“My brother’s house,” Conner said, steeling himself to meet her eyes. “We’re picking him up, along with his date. And mine.”

She did her best to hide her visceral reaction, but he clearly saw the flash of shock and devastation in her eyes before she managed to mask them. Her lips parted, then closed. “Your…date?”

Damn his father. “The daughter of an important client. She flew in from Paris yesterday and—”

Vera held up her hand. “No, it’s okay,” she said, though she couldn’t quite squelch the strain in her voice. “You don’t have to explain. We agreed I’d be coming as your assistant, not date. It’s more believable this way.”

So much for happy and trusting.

“Vera—” He reached for her, but she scooted away, all the way to the other side of the limo. He moved to go after her.

“Don,’t” she said, just as the door opened.

He halted, torn. She was his lover. He should never have let his father bully him into this farce. And yet…there was a microscopic part of him that was secretly relieved not to have to reveal their relationship just yet—and bear the brunt of social and familial disapproval.

He was such a damn coward.

“Howdy, bro,” his brother, Mike, stuck his head in the door that had been opened by the chauffeur and greeted him. “Hey, now, what have we here?” Mike’s confusion was obvious when he spotted Vera sitting in the corner. Then he really looked at her, and his face lit up. “A threesome? You dirty old man, you.”

Mike, or Michael Rothchild Jr., was the older brother, but acted like a kid sometimes. He had no emotional radar.

“Just get in the damn car,” Conner said evenly.

Mike stepped aside and his striking blond fiancée, Audra, slid into the seat opposite Conner. She leaned over and airkissed him on the cheek. “Hi, Conner. Good to see y—” She also spotted Vera and halted in mid-word. “Hello,” she said, glancing between her and Conner. “This is, um, interesting.”

“My assistant, Vera Mancuso.” Conner cut off her blatant rampant speculation. She was as bad as his brother. The perfect pair. “Vera’s helping me with a case tonight.”

Audra’s brows rose delicately. But she refrained from comment, because Conner’s date had just glided onto the seat next to him. She was model-thin with shiny black hair and long legs exposed by a slit running up the side of her gown. Way up. Aristocratic features, olive skin, a long neck and slim arms dripping with jewelry. The woman oozed class and sophistication.

His father knew him well. She was just his type.

Up until two days ago.

She raised her hand, European style. “Annabella Pruitt,” she said in a cultured voice. “Enchanté.”

He knew he was expected to kiss her hand, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He shook it awkwardly instead, introducing himself, trying to subtly ease his body closer to Vera, who sat primly on the other side of him, maintaining a perfectly blank face.

“Did I hear you say assistant?” Mike queried after he’d climbed in and gotten settled next to Audra. He smiled at Vera when Conner introduced her to him and Annabella. “Just like my little brother to be working a case on a night like this,” he said with good-humored disapproval.

“That’s why he brought me,” Vera said smoothly, the first peep she’d uttered. “So he wouldn’t have to work. Now he can devote all his time to his lovely date.” She smiled genially at the other woman, but Conner knew better than to think he’d been forgiven.

“Now that’s a waste of a beautiful woman,” Mike remarked disgustedly, and Audra smacked him in the arm—but there was no heat in it. “So what kind of case does one work at a fancy ball?” he asked, patently intrigued by the whole situation.

“The confidential kind,” Conner interrupted before Vera could answer. He sat back and folded his arms over his chest irritatedly. This was so not the night he’d envisioned.

Audra hadn’t taken her curious eyes off Vera. “I didn’t know Conner had hired an assistant,” she ventured. “You’re very young. Are you a junior associate in the firm? Paralegal maybe?”

“Confidential informant.” Conner cut off whatever Vera’d opened her mouth to say. “She knows people.”

“You do look familiar,” Mike said with a curious tilt of his head. “Have we met somewhere? At another charity event perhaps?”

Vera’s glued-on smile didn’t waver. “You probably know my sister, Darla St. Giles.”

Mike’s brows shot into his scalp. “Good God. Darla has a sister? How did I not know that?”

“Vera isn’t into Darla’s social whirl,” Conner supplied.

“I prefer to stay out of the tabloids.” She folded her hands in her lap.

And that’s when Mike noticed the fake ring on her finger. His eyes bugged out, and his shocked gaze snapped to Conner.

Annabella apparently noticed it, too. “What an unusual ring you have,” she said. “May I see it?”

“Of course,” Vera said, and held out her hand. Annabella let it rest on her fingers as she examined it. Over his lap. His brother peered at him over their fingers. Conner peered back, grinding his jaw.

“Extraordinary. Where on earth did you get it?” Annabella asked.

“Why,” Vera said innocently. So innocently he knew he was in trouble the second the word left her mouth. “From your date.” Her lips smiled up at him, but her eyes were shooting daggers. “Conner gave it to me earlier tonight.”

Chapter 13

She pretended she was onstage.

That was the only way she could get through this. Being onstage gave her permission to be someone else: a brave, confident woman whose power came from deep within her. Not the terrified, heartbroken, barely hanging on woman she really was.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

The thought of everyone’s shock in the limo when she’d announced Conner had given her the Tears of the Quetzal gave her the boost she needed to pull this off. They’d naturally all jumped to the same wrong conclusion. Oddly enough, Conner hadn’t corrected it. He’d actually glanced at her just as surprised as the others, but she could have sworn she’d seen him hide an amused smirk. Anyway, she’d set them straight herself, five seconds later, by adding, “For the investigation, of course!” in an innocent exclamation. But those five seconds had been glorious.

What. Ever. Now she was on her own, Conner having wandered off with his glamorous date, leaving Vera standing alone in the middle of a huge ballroom full of high-society mucky-mucks. And the uneasy feeling that someone was watching her. Conner had warned her to be on the lookout for the man who’d attacked her on the street. Thank you so much for that.

Damn, she needed a drink.

“Darla?” A surprised male voice assaulted her. “Is that you, babe?”

This one, at least, didn’t sound dangerous.

She turned. Nor did he look like the Hispanic guy from the fuzzy traffic cam photo—but that was fairly useless. He was a raffish man about her own age, all decked out in the latest trendy Eurotrash style, blond hair going every which way.

“No,” she said, taking a breath of relief and putting on her brightest smile. “I’m Vera, her roommate. Have you seen her by any chance?”

“Wow. You sure look like her. I’m Gabe. No, I haven’t…”

And so it started. If she thought she’d be left alone, she’d totally misjudged Darla’s friends. They might be wild and crazy, but they circled wagons for one of their own. She’d met some of them at the apartment already, so she wasn’t totally out to sea. They took her under their wing, pulling her along with the flow as they made the social rounds, laughing, dancing and speculating madly with her over where Darla could have disappeared to this time. No one was worried about Darla. While everyone remarked on her ring, and a few had even read the newspaper reports that linked the ring to Candace Rothchild’s murder, no one seemed overly interested in it other than as a ghoulish souvenir of that tragedy. Unique, expensive jewels with a history were a way of life for these people. And everyone had on their most unique and expensive pieces for tonight’s ball. Hers was just one more fabulous diamond to admire, gossip about, then forget.

And speaking of forgetting…she didn’t think about Conner more than once, all night.

Okay, once a minute, all night.

But she was proud of the fact that she didn’t track him all over the ballroom, keeping tabs on his movements, how many drinks he had, how many times he danced with that bite—er, date, or if he ever looked across the room, searching for Vera.

She so didn’t care.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Once a minute, all night.

“Ms. Mancuso?”

She almost choked on her drink. Despite the uneventful evening so far, she’d still had the creepy feeling someone had been watching her the whole time. But probably not this guy.

A tall, elegantly dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair, who looked so much like Conner he could only be his father, or uncle, gazed down at her pleasantly.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, all her hard-won poise and confidence vanishing in a fell swoop.

He extended his hand. “I’m Michael Rothchild. I understand you came with my son tonight.”

Oh, God. More than once, she thought with half-hysterical irreverence. And last night, too.

She blinked, frozen by the howlingly inappropriate thought, with her hand in his. The one with the ring on it. His ring. “Um. Yes. But, uh, not as—I mean, I’m just working—”

He glanced at the fake Quetzal, then up again. “I just wanted to thank you.” At her deer-in-the-headlights look, he added, “for helping with—” he glanced around “—well, you know.” She did. She was just surprised he did. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

“My, um—” She was about to say “pleasure,” but it wasn’t really, was it? So she just let the inane half comment hang there.

“Greatly appreciated.” Michael Rothchild was still holding her hand. So firmly she couldn’t politely extract it. He kept looking at her, taking in her whole person, expensive outfit and all, and it was like he saw straight through her charade. “I don’t approve of your sister,” he said. “but I respect family loyalty. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He released her hand, gave a little bow and walked away to join a petite ashen-haired woman who must be Conner’s mother. The woman smiled at her uncertainly, then they both turned and vanished into the crowd.

Okay. That was very weird. Talk about cryptic.

“Who was that old geezer?” Gabe asked.

“Michael Rothchild.”

“Dude! You know them, too? Man, Vera, for someone who doesn’t get out much, you sure get around.”

He had no idea.

She turned to Gabe. It was getting late, and she was ready to call it a night. She’d been dancing around the topic of Darla and her craziness with everyone all night and gotten nowhere. So she decided to just come out and ask. “Gabe, have you ever heard of Darla being involved in anything illegal?”

He regarded her skeptically. “Like what?”

“Like stealing jewelry.”

“Whoa, dude.” He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

Vera nodded. “Good. I’d heard a rumor. But I just couldn’t believe it myself.” She met his eyes. “If you ever hear of her being involved in—”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The furious words were growled from behind. A firm male hand clamped around her arm and yanked her away from the group, then pushed her off toward a large potted palm that was part of the decor. She could hardly keep up and nearly tripped several times. Alarm zoomed through her. He wouldn’t let her turn to look at him. But he didn’t have the right color hair. It was thick and silver. Like—

She gasped. Please, anything but this.

They were attracting stares, so he slowed down until they reached the palm, then spun her to face him.

God help her. It was him.

Maximillian St. Giles.

Her father.

Vera’s heart thundered so hard she was afraid it would pound out of her chest. She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Daddy,” somehow didn’t seem appropriate. So she firmly shut it again.

“You little gold-digging whore,” he snarled, his piercing green eyes identical to her own glaring at her in hatred. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

The bastard.

She resisted the urge to slap him across his sanctimonious face. For the insult. For all the insults she’d endured over the past twenty-four years. For snubbing her her entire life. For abandoning her mother, leaving the poor woman pregnant and alone with only a token cash settlement as compensation for a ruined life. But mostly for being a selfish, womanizing, egotistical prick.

She resisted, but her control was hard-won. She started to shake with bitter fury. And a stinging hurt that refused to be ignored.

“Why I’m here is none of your business,” she snapped, glaring at his hand on her arm. She’d dealt with plenty of men like him. Bullies covering up their insecurities with threats of violence. “Let me go, or I’ll call security.”

He finally let her go. And leaned his anger-reddened face right into hers. “It is my business if you’ve come here to make trouble for me and my family.”

“Trust me, you are not worth the bother,” she spit out, keeping her chin up, shoulders straight. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.

“You’ve been asking questions about my daughter,” he accused. “My real daughter.”

More pain sliced through her chest. How could he say that? She fought to keep tears from filling her eyes. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Darla’s disappeared. I’m worried about her.”

He snorted. “More like upset she’s not there for you to leech off.”

She curled her hand into a fist to keep from smacking him. But maybe she should give in to her first impulse. A fist in that hypocritical, self-righteous face sounded really good about now.

“Get out of here,” her father sneered. “Go back to that strip club where you belong. And if I catch you asking questions about my daughter again, I’ll hit you with legal action so hard you’ll be living on a grate for the rest of your life.”

With that, he turned on a heel and stormed off.

She stood watching his wake disappear into the crowd, fighting to control the trembling in her limbs.

Okay, then.

Another sentimental family reunion. Always a fun time.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up to see Conner. Her tongue tied in knots and she couldn’t speak. Because suddenly, she had a blinding insight.

Conner Rothchild was just like her father.

Oh, not abusive, or overtly insulting. Nothing like that. But he was the same kind of man. With the same kind of lifestyle. And the same kind of prejudices. Against people like her.

Conner was ashamed of her.

That was why he’d insisted she come to the event as his assistant. Why he’d accepted a date with Ms. Paris Vogue. Why he hadn’t told his brother, or anyone, the true nature of his relationship with Vera. If you could call two days of monkey sex a relationship.

“N-no,” she stammered. Shook her head. “I mean yes. I’m fine. Really. Go back to your date.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Conner, please. I’m tired. There’s nothing more to learn here. I’m going home now.”

He frowned, managing to look concerned. Maybe he really did care. Yeah, that she’d blow their cover and reveal herself to his blue-blood family. She’d seen him with his famous hotel magnate uncle, Harold Rothchild, and his young trophy wife. Wouldn’t they get a kick out of—

No, stop it. Conner wasn’t like that.

Except he was. And now finally both of them knew it.

“I’ll call the limo for you,” he said.

“No. I’ll take a cab.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulled his cell phone from his tuxedo pocket.

“All right, fine.” She didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to be gone from this nightmare of a night.

“The driver has the pass code for the gate.”

For a second she didn’t know what he meant. Then it hit her. He expected her to go back to his home.

Can you say no way in hell? But she decided not to tell him that. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good. I’ll tell Hildy to be expecting you.”

It occurred to her that this must be a huge relief for him. Now he wouldn’t have to come up with lame excuses as to why he needed to drop his assistant off after he dropped off his date. She’d just be waiting for him at home. Preferably in bed. Preferably nude.

No wonder he hadn’t protested.

She went to take off the ring. “You should take this.”

“No, keep it for now,” he said.

She couldn’t argue or he’d know she had no intention of going to his place. She’d just have to send it back to him tomorrow.

“All right. Go.” She made a shooing motion. “Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Go find your lady.”

“She’s not—”

But Vera was already walking away, not listening. Back straight, head up, she told herself as she threaded through the throng. How many of these strangers had witnessed Maximil-lian’s tirade against her? It didn’t matter. She just had to make it to the door without being stopped. Pretend you ‘re on the catwalk. You ‘re not naked, they are.

“Vera?”

Oh, God, now what?

She resolutely ignored the unfamiliar male voice and went right on walking.

Long fingers grasped her shoulder. “Vera, wait.”

She suddenly remembered the thief. She opened her mouth to scream. But then she recognized who it was. From pictures. In her living room.

“I’m Henry St. Giles,” he said, removing his hand. “Darla’s brother.”

Fortyish with thinning hair, he was still good-looking in a boring businessman sort of way. Darla was always telling stories about his out-of-control, crazy youth, but somehow he’d ended up selling out to their father and going to work for him after he was cut off for a year. Which explained why they’d never met.

“I know who you are,” she said curtly, bracing herself for round two. “What do you want?”

He looked abashed. “I’m sorry, Vera. I just wanted to apologize for what happened back there. With my father.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“We don’t all think the way he does.”

She arched a brow but didn’t comment.

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” he continued, “but I honestly regret not getting to know you like Darla did. You’re my little sister. I should have made the effort, not cowed under to my father’s…stupidity.”

Wow. She hadn’t known what to expect from Henry St. Giles when he stopped her, but this definitely wasn’t even on the list.

“That’s, um, very nice of you to say.” Not that she particularly believed him.

“You look like her,” he said, with a little smile.

“Yeah. So we’ve been told.”

The man actually looked bashful. Either he was a hell of an actor or he was sincere. You could have knocked her over with a feather.

He held out a business card to her. “This is me. I’ve written my private line on the back. Call me. I’d love to get together for lunch or dinner. Get to know you. If you like.”

She decided to be flattered. “Thanks. Maybe I will.” Could she actually be getting a brother? She reached for the card. The second he spotted the ring on her finger, Henry’s eyes popped. “What the—” They shot to hers in shock, even wider. “Vera, is that what I think it is? The ring from Candace Rothchild’s murder?”

She smiled at his bewilderment and shook her head. “No. It’s paste. Pretty good copy, though, don’t you think?”

“Where on earth did you get it?” he asked, still awestruck by the jewel.

“Long story,” she said with a laugh.

“I thought it was stolen?”

“No, the original was stolen. Well, actually both. But now they’re back—”

“Miss Mancuso?” the doorman interrupted. “Your limo is here, miss.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there.” She tucked Henry’s card in her beaded bag and held out her hand to him. “It was nice to finally meet you, Henry. And I will call. I look forward to lunch.”

He nodded and waited just inside the entrance, watching as she walked to the white stretch limo and got in. He waved as the chauffeur closed the door.

Vera let out a long sigh of relief, bending down to pull off her shoes and wiggle her toes on the plush limo carpet. Thank God the night was over. Just one more thing to do. She picked up the phone to the driver.

“Yes, Miss Mancuso?”

She gave him her home address.

“But Mr. Rothchild said—”

“Change of plans,” she said. “Just take me to the address I gave you.”

“Very well, Miss Mancuso.”

She didn’t want to think about Conner right now. Didn’t want to let herself be depressed about their doomed affair. Or her bastard of a father. Or even about not making any headway on the investigation of Darla and the theft ring.

She did smile when she thought of Henry. Well, at least the night hadn’t been a total disaster.

Her brother. Who’d have thought he’d want to get to know her after all this time?

It was so amazing, it almost made up for losing Conner.

Almost.

Chapter 14

“Babe? Where are you?” Conner jetted out an impatient breath. “Vera, pick up the damn phone!”

Her answering machine clicked on. Conner slammed down his receiver and paced back and forth in frustration. “Damn it!” Where was she? She must be there. Ignoring him.

He knew he’d be in trouble over that freaking date.

He ripped off his bow tie and threw it onto his bed. The bed Vera should be tucked into, waiting for him.

Not that he blamed her, if he were honest. He wouldn’t have been nearly as civilized about it as she was if she’d turned up with a date for the evening. He would have ripped the guy’s throat out.

Or at least kicked him out of the limo onto his damn ass.

He picked up the phone again and dialed the number of the bodyguard he’d hired to follow her tonight.

“Barton.”

“Where is she?” he demanded, not bothering with the niceties.

Barton rattled off the address of her apartment. “Limo dropped her off just over an hour ago. She’s still up there.”

“You sure? She’s not answering her phone.”

Barton was wise enough not to comment. “I’m camped out in the lobby, and I paid the security guy to keep an eye on her, too. I’ll know if she budges.”

“Good. Anything else I should know about tonight?”

“Some guy spoke to her as she was leaving the event.” Conner heard the sound of notebook pages being flipped. “Name of Henry St. Giles. Gave her a business card.”

Darla’s brother? Hell, Vera’s brother. What did he want? “Was it amicable?”

“Seemed to be.”

As opposed to her confrontation with Maximillian. Her own father. “You’ll be there all night?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. I’ll expect your full report in the morning.”

“Will do, sir.”

Thoughtfully, Conner put the phone back in its stand. Should he go check on her? Or just let her cool off…He wasn’t too worried about her safety, not with Barton there standing guard all night. And Conner’d hired a cleaning crew to tidy up the apartment after the FBI was done with their evidence collecting, so she didn’t have to deal with that.

But, damn it, he missed her.

He’d been bored stiff all night, stuck at that stuffy ball with his stuffy family and the stultifyingly sophisticated Annabella Pruitt, slowly drinking himself numb. Or trying to. Unfortunately, he’d remained distressingly sober the entire time, despite the copious amounts of alcohol that had passed through his system.

Guilt?

Possibly.

Probably.

He wasn’t proud of the way he’d treated Vera. In fact, he was downright ashamed. What was wrong with him? Was he such a damn wuss that he couldn’t just tell his socially paralyzed father to take a flying leap if he didn’t like Conner’s choice of women?

Not to mention the whole Maximillian St. Giles thing. Conner should have pounded him into the dance floor like a wooden peg. Or at least shamed him into apologizing to his daughter, admitting he was being an ass.

So, why hadn’t he?

Because Conner was an even bigger ass, that’s why.

Setting his lips in a thin line, he strode into the hall. “Hildy!” he yelled. “Get the limo back here! I’m going out again.”

Naturally, Vera refused to answer the intercom. So Conner had to talk the security guard into letting him into the penthouse.

Luckily, he’d been introduced as Vera’s lawyer the other day after the break-in, so he didn’t have too much trouble convincing the man he was worried about his client and wanted to check on her well-being. The C-note deposited discreetly in his uniform pocket didn’t hurt either.

Conner found her in the bathtub. Up to her neck in bubbles, the mirrors steamed up and a dozen scented candles lit. The room smelled like a hothouse filled with damask roses. A bottle of red wine was propped on the edge of the tub. Half-empty. No glass.

The fake Quetzal was sitting on the tub’s front rim, winking in the candlelight like a multicolored disco ball.

“Go away,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

“How do you know who it is?” he asked, chagrined that she wasn’t worried and didn’t even check. He could be the thief returning, for all she knew!

“I can smell you,” she said thickly. “The demonic scent of wealth and temptation.”

Had he just been insulted? He made a mental note to change his cologne.

He stepped into the room and closed the door. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t!” Her hand shot up from the water, fanning out a cascade of droplets. “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, you…”

His eyes widened as she called him a very bad name.

Ho-kay, then. Looked like he wasn’t the only one drinking himself into oblivion. “Been watching reruns of Deadwood?” he muttered. Walking over, he plucked the wine bottle from the tub and deposited it on the marble vanity counter.

“Hey!”

“Any more of that stuff and you’ll drown yourself,” he said.

“Drown you, you mean,” she muttered. Then called him that word again.

Okay, so maybe he deserved the moniker. But he couldn’t help smiling. She was even more beautiful when she was calling him bad names.

“Vera, I’m sorry.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

“Look, honey, I know you’re mad, but—”

“Mad? Me?” She cracked an eyelid, gave him a gimlet eye and made a really rude noise.

“I can see you’re not going to make this easy on me.”

“Sure, I am. What part of ‘go away’ don’t you get? I’ll be happy to e’splain it to you.” She hiccupped.

He desperately wanted to chuckle. But he figured it would be the last thing he ever did. So he did the second best thing. Toed off his shoes and socks and climbed into the tub with her. They’d have to cut his tuxedo pants off him, but what the hell, he didn’t like this suit anyway.

“What the—” she sputtered, wheeling her arms to get away from him. But he just grabbed onto her and held tight as he slid down behind her into the water, leaning his back against the end of the oversize spa tub. “You are such a freaking Neanderthal,” she gritted out.

“So sue me. But I warn you, I’ll win.”

Damn, it felt weird taking a bath in his clothes. But she really would have screamed bloody murder if he’d gotten undressed.

Besides, he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea, either. He wasn’t here for sex. He was here for forgiveness. For her.

At least she wasn’t fighting him anymore. With a huff, she let herself fall back against his chest, closed her eyes again and refused to look at him.

Progress.

She sighed. “Conner, what are you doing here?” she asked him, sounding suspiciously uninebriated.

“Apologizing.”

“That’s not what it feels like,” she said dryly.

He realized his hand had unconsciously found its way to her breast and was gently fondling it. Since she hadn’t clawed his eyes out, he didn’t stop.

He kissed the top of her head. “I’m sorry, Vera. I acted like a jackass. You have every reason to be angry with me, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never spoke to me again.”

“Good, because I don’t plan to.”

“Which would be a damn shame, because I’d really miss you ordering me around when we’re in bed.”

Instead of snorting and telling him he was the one who did all of the ordering around, as he’d hoped she would, she just sighed again.

“Conner, you and I, we’re not going to work,” she said quietly. “I don’t fit into your world. I’d never be accepted by your family. What’s the point?”

He hugged her closer, leaning his cheek on her head. “Because I don’t want to give you up.”

“You did a pretty damn good imitation of it tonight.”

Guilt assailed him anew. “I know. And I couldn’t be sorrier. I was wrong. It’ll never happen again. I swear.”

“You’re positive?” she asked bleakly. “Because if it came down to a choice between me or Rothchild, Rothchild and Bennigan, I have a feeling I know which way it would go.”

“I’m not so sure.” He fell silent, and for the first time he seriously thought about what would happen to him if he left the family law firm. Or was asked to leave.

Would he be sad? Sure, he would. Would it take a while to regroup and start over? Undoubtedly. But he had more than enough money in the bank never to have to work another day in his life. So would his world fall apart? Definitely not.

The only question was, if it came down to a choice between Vera and his family, which way would that go?

“You’re jousting at windmills,” she murmured.

She sounded tired. And he was totally beat himself.

“Let’s get out of this water,” he said. “And go to bed. We can talk about all this in the morning.”

“Conner…”

He kissed her on the temple. “We don’t have to make love if you don’t want to. Just let me hold you while you sleep.”

She hesitated, then let out a resigned breath. “You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

He’d been upgraded. A good sign. “I’ll take it,” he said, kissing her ear. “As long as I can be with you tonight.”

The next morning Vera got breakfast in bed. It was Saturday, and Conner didn’t have to work.

The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows looking out over the city below and the mountains beyond. The sky was so blue it hurt. A lone hawk rode the thermals that rose off the desert floor, scouting for its morning meal…or maybe just windsurfing for the sheer joy of it.

She had no right to be so happy. She knew the bliss wouldn’t last. Conner was fooling himself if he thought they had a prayer.

But it was enough that he wanted to try.

Or said he did.

That was a miracle in itself.

He’d made no declarations of love, given her no vows of forever. She could live with that. For now. Just having him here with her was more than she’d ever expected.

“Coffee?”

“Mmm.” It smelled delicious. “Who made the French toast?”

“I did,” he said proudly.

She was impressed. “A man of many talents.”

He leaned over and gave her a slow, thorough kiss. “And a woman of rare appetite,” he said in a low rumble.

They’d made love. Of course they had. Like she could take him to her bed and not touch him. Not have him touch her. Impossible.

He’d been so tender it nearly broke her heart. It almost felt like…No, she wasn’t going there.

They’d just nestled together into the propped-up pillows to eat the savory breakfast, when his cell phone rang. He checked the screen.

“It’s the office. Guess I’d better get it.” They rarely called him on weekends, so when they did it was usually important.

“Conner here.”

“It’s your father.”

Hell. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

“You got an e-mail about a surveillance from someone named Barton.”

Conner glanced at Vera and smiled. “Yeah?” How the hell had his father gotten hold of that?

“It came in on the general e-mail account,” his dad said, answering the unspoken question. “You’re surveilling Vera Mancuso? What’s that all about?”

Double hell. “Hang on, Dad.” He climbed out of bed, giving Vera a kiss. “Reception’s bad in here. I’m gonna take this outside.” He grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist and trotted out the double sliders to the huge tiled patio that circled the penthouse, closing them firmly behind him.

“I told you about the case she’s helping me on. The whole Quetzal thing. She could be in danger, so I’m making sure she’s safe.”

“From between her sheets? Mike says—”

Anger shot through Conner. He tamped it down. “That’s none of Mike’s business, Dad. Or yours.”

“It is if I think you’re getting personally involved with this woman.”

“Why would that matter?”

“You have the family name to think of.”

“Oh. You mean like Uncle Harold? Or Candace, or Silver?” All stars of the local gossip columns due to their endless “inappropriate” love affairs. Although Silver seemed to have settled down now that she was a newlywed and expecting a baby.

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