Prince Charming for 1 Night
Nina Bruhns

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the author

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Copyright

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.”

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