# Her 24-Hour Protector

Loreth Anne White

## Her 24-Hour Protector. Loreth Anne White


www.millsandboon.co.uk

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## Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Copyright

Loreth Anne White was born and raised in southern Africa, but now lives in Whistler, a ski resort in the moody British Columbian Coast Mountain range. It’s a place of vast, wild and often dangerous mountains, larger-than-life characters, epic adventure and romance – the perfect place to escape reality.

It’s no wonder it was here she was inspired to abandon a sixteen-year career as a journalist to escape into a world of romantic fiction filled with dangerous men and adventurous women.

When she’s not writing, you will find her long-distance running, biking or skiing on the trails, and generally trying to avoid the bears – albeit not very successfully. She calls this work, because it’s when the best ideas come.

For a peek into her world visit her website at www. lorethannewhite.com. She’d love to hear from you.

To the wonderful crew at my publisher who pulled this series together – it’s been a real pleasure working with you all.

And to my fellow authors: Marie Ferrarella, Gail Barrett, Cindy Dees, Nina Bruhns and Carla Cassidy – you guys are the best.

## Prologue

The Nevada night was hot—no air-conditioning.

Lex clutched his teddy against his tummy even though it made him hotter, but he liked to hold his bear close when this particular TV program was on because sometimes the show made him scared. He was perched on the edge of his mom’s bed wearing only his jammie shorts while he watched. His mother sat farther up, by the pillows, emptying the fat brown envelope that the man brought once a month.

Lex glanced at her during the commercial. She was counting out the cash onto the bed cover. His mom was always happy when the money came. She said it helped boost her croupier’s income from the casino. Tomorrow she’d take him to the burger place for a special kids meal with a toy. It was their routine the day after the envelope arrived. Lex hoped that maybe when he turned six she’d take him to the steak house instead, where the chef cooked over big orange flames. He didn’t need toys in his meal anymore, but he didn’t want to tell her and hurt her feelings. He loved his mom. She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen, too.

She caught him watching and smiled. He grinned back, getting that silly squeeze in his chest. But before he could turn back to his TV show, there was a crash downstairs in the hall. His mother tensed.

That made Lex scared.

A man’s voice reached up the stairs. “Where’s the kid, Sara!”

His mother’s face went sheet-white. She pressed her index finger over her lips, telling Lex to stay quiet. Then she quickly gathered the money, reached for her purse and removed a small gun. Lex stared at it. His heart started to beat really fast. He clutched Mr. Teddy tighter.

“Where’s the damn kid, Sara?” The voice—rough and raspy like Velcro tearing—was coming up the stairs. “He wants the boy!”

Lex’s mother took his arm, dragged him to the closet. She got down to his eye level, grasped his shoulders tight. “Lexington, ” she whispered. She only called him Lexington when something was very serious, or he’d done something very wrong. “You get in that closet, d’you hear? Get in right behind the clothes. No matter what, do not move. Do not come out—”

“Sara!”

She shoved him quickly into the dark closet, shut the door, locked it. Lex peered through the louvered slats, but he could only see the bottom half of the room because of the way the slats were angled. He saw his mother’s hand grabbing the telephone next to her bed.

The bedroom door crashed back against the wall. His mother screamed, aimed her gun at the man with one hand, holding the phone in her other. “Stay back! I’m calling the cops.” She started to dial. That’s when he heard the man hit his mother. A horrible sort of wet, crunching sound.

His mother gasped, dropping the receiver as she crumpled to the floor. Lex heard the gun skitter under the bed.

The man’s hand—tanned with lots of dark hair on it—reached down and jerked the phone cord out of the wall. “Where is the damn kid, Sara?” he growled. Lex saw a knife glinting in his hand but couldn’t see his top half, just his checkered pants.

“He…he’s not here…” His mom was sobbing on the floor behind the bed. “I swear he’s not.”

“Lying bitch. I’ll find him.” He started to come toward the closet. Lex’s little limbs began to shake. He wanted to smash out of the closet and kick the balls off that man, but he couldn’t move.

“No! Please! He’s not here!” He saw his mother had her gun again. She was on her knees by the bed. Her face was wet from tears. She aimed at the man, her hands shaking, and Lex heard a gunshot.

The man jerked, stumbled, swore something awful. “You…shot me.” He lunged forward, grabbed his mother by her hair and he cut his mother’s throat. Blood went everywhere. Lex dropped Mr. Teddy and scooted right to the back, pulling his mother’s dresses over him. He squeezed his eyes very tight, trying to shut out what he’d seen.

He heard the man’s footsteps coming back to the closet. The door rattled, and Lex peed his pants. Then he heard police sirens—his mother’s 911 call must have gone though. The man swore, staggered wildly out of the room. Lex heard tires screeching.

It fell silent in the room for a while before Lex heard the sirens growing really loud and stopping outside. There was noise again, lots of noise, all muddled up and not making sense—footsteps, yelling for paramedics. The girl from upstairs was sobbing, saying she’d heard fighting, a gunshot, someone running, a car fleeing. Then a male voice, deep like a drum, said an ambulance was no use. His mother was dead.

Lex’s whole body went cold, like ice. He couldn’t think anymore. A big shadow came toward the closet door. And a little squeak of terror escaped Lex’s chest as the door was rattled again. Someone said something about a key on the body. The door was unlocked, pulled open and the dresses covering him were yanked aside.

He blinked up into the sudden white glare of lights, saw the policeman’s badge.

And that’s how the cops found him. Stuffed into the back of the closet behind his mother’s clothes. Mute with shock.

It took a full year before Lex could speak again. But his mother never came back.

And the police never found the man who’d cut his mother’s throat.

Lex, however, would never, ever forget his voice. And he swore that one day he’d find that man. He would make him pay for what he’d done to his beautiful mother.

## Chapter 1

FBI Special Agent Lex Duncan was due on stage right after the Vegas investment banker who was strutting down the runway with a long-stemmed rose clenched between his straight white teeth.

“Now this, ladies—” crooned the Bachelor Auction for Orphans emcee, a popular Las Vegas television host with dulcet tones of honey over gravel and butter-gold hair to match “—is an investment banker with mutual interest in mind. What redblooded woman wouldn’t want this macho money man to manage her assets for the night? Who knows, ladies—” the emcee lowered her voice conspiratorially. “There might just be some long-term profit for the right bidder…”

Shrieks and hoots erupted from the invitation-only crowd of almost one thousand very well-heeled Las Vegas women as Mr. Investment Banker shucked his pin-striped jacket, peeled off his crisply ironed shirt and got busy showing off some serious sweat equity of his own, obviously earned by heavy capital investment in the gym. The bids started, kettle drums rolling softly in the background heightening the tension.

Lex swore and shot a desperate glance toward the glowing red Exit sign backstage. He felt edgier now than he had during his first FBI takedown of a violent felon. Somehow he’d ended up being slated as the last bachelor up for grabs tonight, and he was feeling the pressure. The men ahead of him had already driven bids all the way up to a whopping $50,000, which went to a rugged foreign correspondent whose “sword” was apparently mightier than his pen—a comment that had brought the house down as the evening eased into night, laughter oiled by the complimentary cocktails that were loosening the ladies’ designer purse strings and heating libidos.

Whoever had staged this event in Las Vegas’s legendary Ruby Room with its massive art deco clock, shimmering chandeliers, red tones and old black-and-white photos that alluded to the thrilling mystique of Vegas’s dark mob past, knew exactly what she was doing.

For more than an hour before the auction had started, women clad in sleek barely there dresses with plunging necklines had sipped free drinks as they mingled with men, sizing up the “merchandise, ” whose duty it was to make small—and seductive—talk.

Lex had failed abysmally.

He was not one for platitudes, let alone parties. And volunteering for a bachelor auction rated way down there along with…God knows what. He couldn’t think of anything worse right at this moment. Those sixty-three minutes of schmingling, and yes, he’d counted every one of those minutes, had been pure torture. Lex was not one for high-maintenance women, either. Been there, done that, had the scars and divorce papers to show for it. If he ever married again, he swore it was going to be to a Stepford wife who understood his devotion to his job and charity work with at-risk kids.

The bidding out in the hall suddenly hit the $60,000 mark. The crowd of ladies exploded into raucous cheers, and the live band picked up the pace, ratcheting tension with a soft boom, boom, boom of drums. Lex tugged irritably to loosen his red tie.

His partner, Special Agent Rita Perez, had suggested red—to get the blood pumping, she’d chuckled. She told him the color was a good foil to the classic dark FBI suit and white shirt. He was going to kill Perez for this. She was the one who’d coerced him into it in the first place.

It’s for a good cause, Duncan. All proceeds will go to the Nevada Orphans Fund. Think of how it will help your boys.

He adjusted his holster, his body heating under his jacket as the crowd thunderously applauded the top bidder who’d nabbed Mr. Investment Banker for an insane $62,500. Lex was up next, after the Clark County skydiving instructor standing beside him backstage.

Think of the Orphans Fund…

“You ever see so much cleavage in one place?” said Mr. Skydiver, eyes fixed on the shimmering crowd of women as he peered around the curtain. “Mostly pumas, I figure.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re not all cougars over the age 45, check it out—” Mr. Skydiver edged the heavy curtain back. “See? Hot pumas, single or divorced females between the ages of 30 to 40, all with serious cash to blow. Best way to meet a prospective date if you ask me.” He jutted his chin toward the audience. “Each one of those women out there has had her bank balance vetted—a marriage made in pure heaven.”

Lex stared at him blankly. This guy thought he was going to find commitment here? “This is Vegas, buddy. Place of transience, slight of hand, trickery and sin.”

“Ah, but magic happens in Vegas.” Mr. Skydiver grinned, took a sharp swig from a small silver hip flask and offered the flask to Lex. “Dutch courage, in the name of Johnnie Walker?”

Lex shook his head.

Mr. Skydiver capped his flask. “Just ask any tourist,” he said as he slipped the flask back into his pants pocket. “When that plane touches down at McCarran International, all rational thought goes clean out the window, and suddenly anything is possible. Yeah, Vegas will do that to you.”

The guy had clearly gotten a little too intimate with Johnnie Walker. Lex made a mental note never to book a skydiving lesson with this dude, but he vaguely wished he had taken him up on the offer of a nip from the flask. The man looked enviably happy, and this was one time in his life Lex sure wouldn’t mind numbing himself with a bit of false bravado. But before he could finish his thought, or change his mind and take up the flask, Mr. Skydiver was nudged abruptly forward by the bustling backstage coordinator taking his Johnnie Walker down the runway with him. And the next thing Lex knew, it was his turn.

“You’re on, agent!” He was forced out from the protection of the curtain by the backstage boss.

His throat dried instantly.

Larger-than-life images of himself in various poses played out on a massive screen behind the emcee and the auctioneer. “Meet FBI Special Agent Lexington Duncan, girls!” Blinding stage spotlights swung his way.

Lex blinked into the glare. All he could see of the crowd was a dark blot stabbed by the occasional glitter of jewels and flash of sequins as women moved. He reached for his breast pocket and put on the sunglasses that Perez had insisted he bring.

“For the record,” intoned the emcee. “Agent Duncan’s weapon is disarmed. But who knows, he just might load his gun later for the right bidder.” A murmur of excitement rippled through the women. Not quite the shrieks generated by Mr. Skydiver. Worry wormed into Lex as he took his first tentative steps down the runway. Maybe he was going to get lowballed. But the bids started instantly, flying fast and furious. Oh geez.

Heat prickled over his brow as he forced his legs toward the end of the ramp that jutted out into the sea of tables, a 007 theme tune mocking him. When he reached the end of the ramp, the music segued into a thumping sexy beast of a beat that thrummed up through his body from the soles of shined-up shoes making his heart constrict in time to the rhythm. His body grew hot. He yanked at his collar.

Oh, boy, was he ever going to kill Perez for getting him into this. He was going to get her right alongside with the mystery woman who’d organized this circus.

You don’t have to do anything other than volunteer your time…yeah, well there was his pride on the line now.

He could just imagine the guys in the field office tomorrow morning. He shoved his shades higher onto his face with a scowl he made no attempt to hide. Patience he had in buckets—on a job. Not now. Now he’d lost every last ounce and wanted to get this the hell over.

Irritability powered his body movements as he strutted forward with the classic command presence of a cop. He got to the end of the ramp, flipped open his jacket, showing his holster and weapon.

The ladies went wild.

“Want to see Special Agent Lexington Duncan load that pistol, ladies? You’ve got to make those numbers real arresting in order to be taken down to the station, girls. Maybe he’ll pat you down, or frisk you…”

Bids rose—higher, hotter, faster.

Lex stalked back up to the top of the runway, getting more and more steamed. He took off his jacket, draped it over the emcee’s podium. It was his little intrusion into her space, a psychological ploy. Another wave of hoots and hollers burst from the crowd at this apparent audacity. Women began to leave their tables and line the runway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, music loud. Their hands were waving with cash, trying to reach up to stuff it into his pants.

A strange sort of energy caught him. This was what crowd hysteria did to one, he thought, loosening his red tie, unbuttoning his white shirt, knowing his muscles were getting amped from the adrenaline and…well, yeah, the attention. He was male after all. Every man had his pride. And libido. Be damned if Lex’s competitive edge didn’t stab suddenly into his chest. Hell, if he was on the stage now, he might as well win, right? Why not get the top bid from that teeming excited mass of over a thousand women with more cash to burn than they knew what to do with.

For the orphans, Lex. Think of your boys. A small grin of satisfaction settled over his mouth. If “his boys” could see him now. He’d better do them proud. Yeah, he’d get his money’s worth out of these pumas.

He slowed his swagger, put some muscle into it as he stripped off his shirt, tossed it to the crowd. His body was ripped and tanned—honed to peak perfection from daily training workouts, his twice-weekly coaching sessions with his kids under the hot desert sun, his eyes and reflexes keen from hours at the range. Under that conservative buttoned-up FBI exterior lurked a very different Lex Duncan, and it showed—in the exuberant reaction from the crowd.

“Take it all off! Take it all off! Take it all off!”

The chant rose in crescendo, and the live musicians, adept at playing to their audience, worked the energy. Lex thrust even more swagger into his walk, tightening his jaw, squaring his shoulders aggressively. Under the glaring spotlights his tanned skin began to glisten. Paddles continued to shoot up around the hall, bids going alarmingly high with one suddenly hitting an all-time record.

“Ninety thousand dollars! We have ninety thousand from the bidder in silver at the back of the hall. Going once…” The gavel was raised dramatically, poised to slam down with flourish. Lex squinted into the far recesses of the vast Ruby Room, trying to see who was prepared to plunk down such a serious chunk of change for a date with him, but the chandeliers had been dimmed and the spotlights blinded him.

“Wait! We now have…ninety-five thousand from the lady in red at the table in front!”

His heart beat faster, he strutted harder. The music went louder. Yeah. He was going to nail it—a top bid. Walk away from this with ego intact.

“Going once…going twice…” Called the auctioneer. “Oh, we have one hundred thousand! Again from the bidder in silver at the rear.”

The atmosphere shifted suddenly, and a hot hush of tension pressed down over the crowd. The music all but stopped, just whispering kettle drums.

The auctioneer’s voice took a quiet edge. “We have a bid of one hundred thousand dollars, ladies. Going once. Going twice…”

Adrenaline quickened through Lex as he tried again to squint beyond the glare of the spotlights. This was insane. Then again, this was Vegas. Where people believed that everything had a price, any dream could be bought. Anything could happen. Maybe Mr. Skydiver was right after all. A small ripple of hot pleasure coursed through him. Someone wanted him bad, and that was good, because this entire event, this bidding war over him right now was going to buy some real programs for his “kids.” Besides, how bad could one date get anyway?

It was Jenna Jayne Rothchild’s turn to get steamed. Someone at the back of the room was giving her one hell of a run for her money, and she had zero intention of losing Special Agent Lex Duncan to anyone. This whole damn extravagant event had been created solely so she could nab him.

“Who the hell is that back there?” she whispered angrily through her teeth, eyes remaining fixed on the auctioneer.

“Mercedes Epstein,” said Cassie Mills excitedly. “And…oh, my God, Jenna, she’s wearing Balduccio. A full-length silver Balduccio gown. It’s like…oh God, it’s stunning. Even at her age.”

Jenna, Vegas event planner extraordinaire and organizer of the Bachelor Auction for Orphans, shot a hard, fast look to the back of the massive ballroom. The chandeliers had been dimmed over the crowd of over a thousand women—each one of them vetted and personally invited by Jenna because they had the wherewithal to plunk down substantial amounts of cash. But even in the darkness, Jenna could make out the shimmering silver-white chignon belonging to the gracious head of 62-year-old Mercedes Epstein. Diamonds glittered around the neck of the Vegas matriarch, and her gown was a silvery-lilac, like platinum. Like moonlight. The woman seemed to glow spectrally in the dark as if she possessed a mysterious inner phosphorescence.

“Crap,” Jenna hissed, getting hot in her own low-cut designer gown. “What in hell does she want?”

“Your FBI agent, obviously,” Cassie said with her dimpled grin.

“I didn’t send her an invite!”

“Is there any lady out there prepared to up the ante to one hundred five thousand dollars for a night of her design with Special Agent Lexington Duncan at her side, for her protection?”

Jenna shot her paddle up aggressively.

She didn’t like to lose. Not ever. Especially not to Mercedes Epstein. It was a female pride thing. Vegas may be chocked to the gills with transients and tourists, but Sin City still had it’s hierarchy among the high-end Strip “locals.” Mercedes, known for her charity largesse, especially when it came to child-related charities, was married to Frank Epstein, one of the most powerful men in Vegas—no, make that Nevada. No make that one of the most influential men in the United States. He was worth billions on Wall Street and had funded the campaigns of many a senator, local sheriff and Vegas city councilor.

A small fist of cold tension curled through Jenna’s stomach as she clutched her paddle. Frank Epstein also had a longstanding rivalry with her dad, Harold Rothchild. Mercedes could outbid her anyday—and might just do it to annoy one of the Rothchild clan. But for whatever reason the matriarch was here, Jenna was so not losing to the woman.

This was her show.

“I don’t give a damn what she’s wearing,” Jenna ground out through her teeth. “Or how much she has in her bank account. She can’t have him. He’s mine. He’s the whole bloody point I organized this auction.”

“One hundred ten thousand, going once to the lady in silver at the back…”

Again Jenna shot her paddle up, her heart beating faster.

“We now have one hundred twenty thousand from the young lady in red at the front…and oh, wait, was that a slight twitch of the paddle from the mystery bidder’s assistant at the back of the room? Yes…yes…a twitch from the bidder in silver’s assistant at the back. We now have a new bid of one hundred twenty-five thousand big cool ones, people. From our mystery lady at the rear.”

There was a collective intake of breath. A kinetic energy began to pulse through the hall. The antique Egyptian fans turned slowly overhead, and the kettle drums started rolling softly. The FBI agent on stage inhaled deeply, and it expanded his chest.

A hot rush of adrenaline coursed through Jenna at the sight of him, and suddenly she wanted more than just to win him for Daddy’s sake. She wanted him for her own sake. Getting close to Lex Duncan had, however, been her father’s idea—his request, in fact.

Harold Rothchild had asked Jenna to try and seduce information out of the agent after he’d gotten wind that Lex Duncan was now the lead investigator in his daughter Candace’s homicide case. The FBI had also seized an infamous Rothchild family heirloom—the legendary Tears of the Quetzal—a chameleon diamond worth millions that had been taken from Candace’s finger the night of her murder—a rock Candace herself had appropriated from Daddy’s safe and waved around inappropriately and, apparently, at the expense of her life.

A rock rumored to be cursed with an old Mayan legend.

Supposedly, in the right hands, The Tears of the Quetzal would bring great love to whoever held the ring, even momentarily. But in the wrong hands, grave misfortune would be sure to follow.

Jenna thought the legend was a bunch of hooey. Then again, Candace had died because of it. And after Jenna’s attorney cousin, Conner, had failed to retrieve the infamous diamond, her father, clearly obsessed with the stone, now wanted it back at any cost. He’d asked Jenna to help find a way. He’d asked her to try and seduce the FBI agent into telling her where The Tears of the Quetzal was now being kept. And her casino mogul father had been uncharacteristically edgy and insistent in doing so. He hadn’t even mentioned the plan to Conner for fear Conner might tip the agent who’d become something of a friend. Whatever—Jenna was happy to oblige her dad. She liked to make him happy.

Besides, she could pretty much seduce a monk. She didn’t think twisting the buttoned-up, übercool FBI agent around her pinky finger would pose much problem at all.

She’d started by staging a little covert investigation of her own, and she’d learned that Lex Duncan was a keen supporter of the Nevada Orphans Fund. He volunteered for the organization twice a week, coaching at-risk teenage boys. It was clearly a charity Lex Duncan held close to his heart, so she’d come up with the idea a Bachelor Auction for Orphans as the best way to get her hands on him.

Her best friend, Cassie Mills, had then been co-opted into coercing Lex’s partner, Special Agent Rita Perez, into twisting the reticent agent’s considerably muscled arm. It was the perfect plan—Cassie was a student at Rita’s martial arts class at the club, so she already had an in with Lex’s partner.

Besides, organizing the event was fun. Parties, each with more bling and glitz than the next, were Jenna’s forte, her way of escaping reality, her way of running from the dark questions surrounding her sister’s murder.

She wasn’t good at the dark stuff—she was good at escaping. Survival, Vegas-style.

Jenna inhaled deeply and got to her feet. Whispers rustled through the crowd like wind bending the tips of dry grass.

The 25-year-old Vegas casino princess—heiress to considerable Rothchild fortune, and daddy’s girl—was making it clear she intended to lock horns with the grande doyenne of the casino empire. Despite the fact Mercedes was married to Frank Epstein, the grizzled old lion king of the Strip, Jenna wasn’t going to be intimidated by the Vegas matriarch’s pedigree. And the battle lines were drawn over the federal agent standing on the stage, his half naked, bronzed and ripped body gleaming under the spotlights.

Camera flashes popped everywhere, reporters smelling tomorrow’s headlines. The kettle drums rolled softly, winding tension tighter.

“One hundred fifty thousand,” Jenna called out coolly. The Ruby Room fell so silent one could hear a pin drop.

Mercedes tipped her coiffed head almost imperceptibly to the man seated beside her—a massive personal assistantcum-bodyguard in a designer suit who then flipped her paddle silently for her, his pockmarked features unmoving.

“We have one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars for the Nevada Orphans Fund!” The auctioneer pointed to the back. “Going to our mystery lady in silver and her assistant at the rear.”

Heads swiveled again, eyes blinking into the darkness.

The lighting technicians scrambled to spin a spotlight toward the back of the room in an effort to illuminate the holder of the big purse. But the beam didn’t reach. One of the techs hurriedly began to remount the light.

Jenna swallowed. Daddy was just going to have to foot the bill on this one. “One eighty,” she called out, squaring her shoulders, smiling seductively, telegraphing outward calm and control—fully aware of the camera lenses on her and her photogenic quality.

“We now have one eighty,” echoed the auctioneer.

Camera flashes popped, making the shimmering zircon crystal beads on her dress glitter like an electric waterfall. Silence pushed down heavier onto the room. The fans circled slowly overhead. Jenna swallowed past the tension in her throat, waiting.

“And…yes, yes, we have one ninety! From the back!”

Jenna cursed violently under her breath, flicked her paddle, smiling sweetly. She didn’t look around, wouldn’t give her rival the pleasure. She was posing now, for the cameras, out to win. On all counts.

But her opponent remained steadfast and countered instantly.

“One ninety-five, to the back.”

Her mind raced, doing the math, second-guessing her father’s reaction. He was already on the hook for the organization of the event, never mind her personal bid.

“Going once. Going…” The auctioneer raised the gavel theatrically. Everyone seemed to lean forward in collective anticipation.

“Two hundred fifty thousand,” Jenna said, voice clear as a bell.

Silence expanded, stretched, vibrated and shimmered like a taut invisible thing in the room.

“We have two hundred fifty thousand dollars, going once…going twice…”

The tech finally managed to remount the spotlight, and he swung it abruptly around, forcing white light into the dim back reaches of the Ruby Room, illuminating the Vegas matriarch in her full glory. She rose majestically to her feet. Tall and elegant.

Then with a gracious tip of her head, Mercedes deferred to Jenna and touched her assistant’s broad shoulder. At the matriarch’s signal her bodyguard rose and escorted his charge toward the grand gilt-engraved doors. He held them open for Mercedes, and she seemed to float from the room. The doors swung slowly, silently shut.

“Sold! To the lady in red.” The gavel hit the block, and the crowd erupted, music exploded and Jenna’s heart thudded wildly. “Special Agent Lexington Duncan fetches a record winning bid for the night, ladies. Please come up and claim your man, 159,” the auctioneer said, referring to the number on Jenna’s paddle.

“Damn, that was close,” she whispered into Cassie’s ear as she bent down and took a deep gulp of champagne from her glass. She then pressed her palms down on her hips, trying to remove the dampness and straighten out her nerves as she walked up to the stage. Agent Duncan stood shirtless, waiting to see the lady in the red dress who’d bought his pleasure. He removed his shades as she neared.

Jenna reached her hand up to him, and he clasped it. His grip was hard, rough, all power as he jumped down from the stage, landing beside her with a thud. Jenna’s heart did a crazy little squeeze that made her catch her breath. Must be the adrenaline, she thought. But when she looked up into his moss-green eyes she knew it was more. Lots more. He raised her hand slowly to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers lightly. “Touché,” he whispered. “I’m yours for a night.” Heat arced along her arm and stabbed into her heart like a jolt of pure electric current. She felt as if she’d just been sucker punched. One look and FBI Agent Lex Duncan had rendered Jenna Jayne Rothchild utterly—and uncharacteristically—speechless.

Cameras flashed blindingly, adding to her strange and sudden sense of confusion.

He bent down, mouth near her ear. “Just name the time and place for our date, and then I can get the hell out of here,” he growled.

A smile curled slowly over her mouth. “Why, but you sound pissed, Agent Duncan. Are you unhappy with your date?”

“Lex,” he said. “And it’s not you—this is not my thing.”

“Jenna,” she said softly. “Jenna Jayne Rothchild.”

He stiffened, recognition suddenly hitting him square between the eyes. He swore viciously under his breath.

“What’s the matter? You have something against the Rothchilds as well as bachelor auctions?”

Hell yeah!

He’d just been “bought” by the heiress of the family he was investigating in connection with murder—a professional conflict of interest that could blow the whole damn case. He was instantly furious. He had to extricate himself ASAP.

“Look,” he said hastily. “There’s been one huge mistake. I need to bow out—”

“Oh, but you can’t, Agent Duncan,” she crooned. “I’ve just paid two hundred fifty thousand dollars for the pleasure of your company. You signed an agreement.”

“This is a conflict of interest, Ms. Rothchild. I’m handling the investigation into your sister’s homicide. And you know it.”

She placed her cool, smooth hand on his amped forearm. “Do you want the Nevada Orphans Fund to be a quarter of a million poorer than it is right now?” she asked with a soft and flirtatious smile, her big dark eyes twinkling. “That money could be targeted specifically to your at-risk coaching program—the one you volunteer for two days a week.”

She knew. Damn her. She knew enough about him to…a dark thought suddenly hit Lex. Jenna Jayne Rothchild was the events planner at the Grand Hotel and Casino, her father’s largest Strip operation. She was renowned for her parties, each one more extravagant than the next.

“Was it you who organized this auction event, Ms. Rothchild?”

“Jenna,” she reminded him, smiling sweetly. “And yes. It went rather well, don’t you think? We must have raised close on—”

“You set me up.”

“And why would I do that?”

To compromise my investigation, to send my case down the legal tubes if it ever reached court. Hell alone knew. Whatever her motive was, Lex was going to find out. Sexy little Jenna Jayne Rothchild had just made herself a key person of interest in his homicide investigation. He removed a card from his back pocket, slapped it onto the white damask linen that covered her table. “Call me when you’ve decided whether you can afford the donation—without the date. Because the deal is off.”

“But—”

“Sorry,” he snapped. “Can’t mix business with…” He hesitated as she moved her sexy body closer to his amped one. “You were going to say…pleasure?” He felt heat. Swallowed.

“Because it sure wasn’t business that I had in mind, Agent Duncan.”

His throat began to thicken, and his brain headed south. “Sorry, no can do.” But be damned if right at this insane moment Lex was suddenly feeling it was all he wanted to do. This woman, up close, was pure bewitchment. He had to get out of her aura, suck in a dose of desert air, figure out what the hell to do about this stunt she’d pulled. He turned to go, just as the dance music was heating up and lights began to pulse over the floor.

“Wait.” She grasped his arm. “At least give me this one dance?”

Lex stilled at the sensation of her hand on his bare arm, cognizant of the fact that he was still naked from the waist up. Her hand moved a little higher, and his stomach tightened sharply. He turned, slowly, and looked down into her deep liquid-brown eyes. Mistake.

Because suddenly he couldn’t seem to pull away. “It’s…nearly midnight,” he managed, his voice thick. He tried to tell himself it was the excitement, the adrenaline pounding through his system. But it wasn’t. It was her. She was doing this to him.

She laughed. “What? You worried your SUV will turn into a pumpkin?” she said naughtily with a little pout on her red lips, and he knew he was going to be toast if he didn’t move. Real soon.

“I…have to report to work early tomorrow.”

“Is it always about the job for you, Lex?”

He studied her brown eyes, drowning in them for a long moment. “Pretty much.”

And his orphans. That was his life right now. That was the way he liked it.

Her eyes flickered, a mischievous glint in them. “We’ll have to do something about that, then.”

Oh, boy. On impulse he snagged a tequila from a passing tray, swigged it back, felt the oily burn through his chest. Another mistake. It seemed to shoot straight to his groin. Making him hotter, not to mention hard.

She moved her curvaceous body closer, almost pressing up against him. He could smell her fragrance, her warmth. The lights dimmed. Colored spotlights played over the dance floor, the crystal in the chandeliers shimmering in dazzling small pinprick shards of light. A low primal beat began to swallow the dance floor.

“Come,” she whispered against his cheek. He felt her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers gently encircling his wrist. He could feel the warm swell of her breast against his bare torso, the soft champagne breath from her lips against his face, and she lured him, as if manacled, drawing him onto the dance floor. “Just one dance,” she said. “Then I’ll let you know where to pick me up tomorrow night.”

Lex glanced desperately at the massive art deco clock on the wall. The luminous hands showed three minutes to midnight—the average length of a song. He vowed he’d be outta here within those minutes. Then he’d find a way to weasel out of the date. He was convinced she’d set him up. Because what were the odds of this being a coincidence? She’d have to have been living under a rock not to know he was the lead agent on her sister’s homicide case. And under a rock was the last place this casino princess would be.

Then again, as Mr. Skydiver had pointed out, this was Vegas. Weird stuff—magic—really did happen. A gambler could bet a single quarter and pull a slot machine handle, and it would spew out one million dollars. Another could plunk down his life savings and lose his entire fortune with the simple flick of a card.

Luck. Fate. Chance. The only sure thing about Las Vegas was that nothing was sure, nothing predetermined. No one ever knew what could happen next.

It’s what made Sin City so exciting.

So dangerous.

Jenna placed her hands on his hips, guiding him to the rhythm of the beat, and Lex’s brain went blank. His blood began to thump in time with the music. And before he knew it, the trademark Ruby Room clock began to chime. Midnight.

Music halted momentarily for effect, twirly strips of silver confetti shimmering down like crystal rain as the lights strobed white. Like silver, like money. Like magic. The Vegas sleight-of-hand. And Lex knew, on some level, he’d been witched, by a pair of big brown eyes and a goddess body in a shimmering red dress, and it had happened somewhere in those three minutes before the stroke of midnight.

In panic he snagged another shot of tequila, knocked it back, thinking of Dutch courage and skydiving. Because he sure was free-falling right now, out of control, and gaining speed each time Jenna batted those big browns and arched against him.

## Chapter 2

The DJ amped the music, and the base pulsed deeper. Bodies gyrated, red strobes flashing off glass in the chandeliers, off the red crystals on Jenna’s dress, and the tequila began to work on Lex’s brain, along with his libido.

Truth was, the more Lex looked at her, the more bedazzled he was by Jenna Rothchild. She had the kind of looks that really did it for him—rich chestnut hair that fell in lustrous waves to well below her creamy shoulder blades. Full mouth, painted blood-red, high cheekbones that gave her an air of experienced sophistication—the kind that made a man forget about her youth—and a body worth every bit of wattage in Sin City. That made a man hot.

It wasn’t easy to stand out in a place like Vegas—a town of lean, leggy showgirls with spotlight smiles—but this woman did. She was also big money and high maintenance, and for all those reasons, Lex wanted to avoid her like the plague. Never mind a conflict of interest. Jenna Jayne Rothchild was plain dangerous to him personally as well as professionally.

But as he was about to pull back and extricate himself while he still could, she leaned up and murmured against his cheek. “You feel a little stiff, agent.”

Oh yeah, and she was going to find out just how stiff if she pressed her body any closer to his pelvis. The music wasn’t the only thing hot and pulsing right now.

She used her hands to guide his body in time to the retro beat. “Come on, loosen up a little, move with me, agent. Or are you always wound this tight?”

Unsmiling, he allowed her to move his hips to the primal tempo of the music and be damned if all he could think about was getting her into bed, and moving with her like a real man, naked between the sheets, the way nature intended. It made his head thicker, it made his vision narrow, it made perspiration begin to gleam over his bare chest.

Lex tried to stay in focus, thinking he should never have downed those shots, because he was not feeling himself. Instead, he found himself fixated on her cleavage, the way the neckline of her dress plunged so low that the sparkling fabric seemingly just floated atop her breasts. He had no idea how it stayed there. And he found himself waiting for it to slip, lust winding so tight inside him he thought he’d bust. Then as she moved, the diamond teardrop pendant nestled between her smooth breasts at the end of a gold chain, winked at him.

And the thought of the big diamond rock in FBI lockdown suddenly slammed into him. The Tears of the Quetzal. The case he was working.

The homicide.

His job.

He leaned down to tell Jenna he was leaving, but she placed two fingers over his lips and shook her beautiful head. “No,” she mouthed over the music. Then she leaned up again, whispering in his ear. “Don’t think. Just dance with me. Find my rhythm.” Her voice reverberated softly against his skin, breath warm in his ear as she swayed seductively against him. He felt her hands slide up the sides of his naked torso, lingering over ridges of muscle, exploring his body inch by inch as she moved. A shaft of heat shot clean to his groin and Lex’s breath strangled in his chest. For some reason, Harold Rothchild’s youngest daughter was really working him.

She was trapping him with her magic, and she knew it. And his lust was beginning to feed on itself like a forest fire. Lex was going to have one hell of a time trying to put this carnal genie that had been awakened back into its little bottle.

She moved her mouth toward his, brushing her red lips over his, allowing the barest tip of her tongue to enter his mouth and touch the inner seam of his top lip.

Lex’s world swirled darkly. He opened his mouth, unable to stop himself from tasting her.

And suddenly, another camera flashed, capturing the moment.

Lex blinked, shocked instantly back to reality. He cursed viciously.

He could just see the headlines tomorrow: Half-Naked FBI Agent in Charge of High-Profile Vegas Homicide Locks Lips on the Dance Floor with Victim’s Younger Sister.

He was toast.

He had to get the hell out of here—and fast.

Lex lived for his job. The Bureau, his “kids,” the old Washoe County sheriff who’d pulled him back from the edge when he was being bounced from one foster home to the other—those things were his family. And he had no intention of blowing it all over a woman.

Especially this woman.

He grabbed her wrist firmly, his jaw tense as he escorted her brusquely toward the doors. The teeming, dancing crowd of bodies parting in front of him like the Red Sea. He ushered her out into the hall where it was quieter.

The doors shut sullenly behind them.

“You set me up, Jenna. Why?” he demanded. “Did you do this to compromise the case? What’s in it for you?” The direct approach, all business, was the only way for Lex to steer himself clear of his own libido right now.

She blinked those impossibly big, sparkling eyes. “I had no idea you were on the case, Lex.”

“You’d have to be living under a rock not to know!”

“I don’t follow all that—” she waved her hand dismissively “—technical stuff.”

He cupped her jaw, lifted it up. “Don’t give me the bimbo spiel, Ms. Rothchild. I suspect you have more intellect stashed in your pretty little head than Mr. Investment Banker with the rose wilting in his teeth back there. What game are you playing? What’re you trying to achieve here? If you’re trying to mess with this case because you have something to hide, I promise you now, I will find it.”

She swallowed, pupils darkening reflexively. Heat ribboned through him.

“Look,” he said, his voice coming out an octave lower. “It’s up to you what you do with that quarter million, but I’m outta here.”

“You still owe me a date, Lex.”

“I owe you nothing, Jenna.”

“If you want that money to go to charity,” she said with a defiant tilt of her head, “you’ll spend a few hours with me.”

He glared at her. “An ultimatum? Oh, that’s rich.”

“We had a deal.”

“What we have, Jenna, is a conflict of interest.”

“Not to my mind. And if you don’t play, agent, I don’t give.” She made a moue, and all he could think about was kissing those full, pouty red lips of hers.

Lex swallowed against the dryness in his throat. And before reengaging his brain, the words came out of his mouth. “One date. That’s it. The money goes to my kids. Then this is done. Over. Capiche?”

“What ever made you think I wanted—” her eyes teased slowly over his bare chest “—anything more?” she whispered. “I did this purely for charity, Lex.”

He muttered something unholy under his breath. Then spun, and stalked off toward the hotel lobby.

Jenna watched him go, admiring the view. His dark-blond hair glinted under the pinprick lights, and his neck was taut. The power in his shoulders transferred with each stride down the corded muscles of his broad back into the waistband of his tailored pants—pants that had been expertly cut to accommodate the rock-hard thighs she’d felt against her body while dancing. And suddenly, this really wasn’t about Daddy and the diamond at all. Not even remotely. This was about Jenna. What she wanted…and she wanted him.

Except he appeared immune to her charms. And her money.

Lex Duncan had just tossed down the gauntlet, because Jenna never failed, especially when it came to men. She always got what she wanted from a guy, and this one was making her determined to prove her skill.

And Jenna had learned from early childhood how to manipulate the males in her life, starting with her dad.

Her mother, June Smith Rothchild, had died while giving birth to Jenna, and she’d always felt that others in her family, including her father, saw her as somehow responsible for June’s death. And when Jenna and her older twin sisters—Candace and Natalie—had fought, Candace would get nasty and “remind” Jenna she “killed their mom.” These attacks had made Jenna feel like an outsider in her own family. Not to mention guilty. She’d become a sensitive and lonely child with a driving need to be loved, to please and to be liked.

And as she got older, Jenna sometimes caught her dad watching her in a certain way. It was at those times that Jenna knew she was reminding him of the wife he truly loved and missed. And although Jenna knew her father totally adored her, his feelings about his youngest daughter were complex. On occasion, especially after a few nighttime single malts, Harold would lash out irrationally at Jenna because she reminded him so painfully of June.

Those moments caused Jenna extreme hurt, and it became her goal to do anything she could to keep in her daddy’s good graces. To be liked by him, to be his favorite daughter. He was her rock. Her defense against the twins, against the nasty friends at school, and she’d found that flattery worked. It was the beginning of where Jenna learned to charm males, with very real results. She’d come to realize she could get whatever she needed this way.

It was the same in high school. Because of her seductive beauty Jenna was automatically labeled as promiscuous. So, to stay “cool” and “liked” she pretended to be “bad,” wore the sexy clothes, hung out with the in crowd. And she always managed to hide her giving heart, her sharp intelligence and her genuine sensitivity. No one had ever really gotten to know the real Jenna Rothchild.

And Jenna started to become the person she had so carefully fashioned. Because of this, she continued to attract the wrong sort of men post school, and she continued to escape with parties. Throwing fabulous events became her forte, her way to escape uncomfortable reality, to be the center of attraction—to be liked. And she was so good at the parties it grew into a business, her dad eventually hiring her as a key event planner for his major Strip casino—the Grand Hotel and Casino.

But deep down, something was missing. A pit was forming in Jenna’s gut—a longing for a sense of worth, something real. Some value and relevance in the scope of the world. And she’d begun to harbor secret fears that maybe she really had no personality after all. Then with Candace’s murder, the inner Jenna really began stirring, asking questions about what life and money were really all about when it couldn’t buy the kind of happiness her poor beleaguered sister seemed to have been yearning for.

Her dad approaching her for help in Candace’s case was a way to wrest some control of it all. To do something.

And now there was this bonus—Special Agent Lexington Duncan.

He was pure eye candy. She wanted him and was stunned he’d been able to resist her, especially after she’d coughed up a cool quarter million for his pet charity.

Damn cool solid hunk of granite.

It made her all the more determined and just a little bit vulnerable.

She pushed a wave of hair back from her face, watching him exit the hotel, shirtless. And she allowed amusement to whisper over her lips. Poor devil. He’d thrown his shirt to the crowd of bidding women, and now he was apparently too proud to go back inside to look for something to wear. The FBI agent was left with no choice but to go home half-naked.

Her smile deepened into a grin.

She’d get him.

She’d seal the seduction tomorrow, on their date.

This was just phase one, she told herself. She’d done her reconnaissance, and gotten him here—playing it smart, staging the event away from the Grand Hotel and Casino and keeping her own name off the event ticket.

Enlisting Cassie to approach Lex’s partner, Rita Perez, at the gym where Rita gave martial arts classes two evenings a week had been the coup de grâce.

Yeah, the date itself would be phase two. And once she was done there, he’d be pure, warm putty in her hands. And that thought sent a hot little tingling zing of anticipation through her belly. She exhaled, pressing her hand against her stomach as she watched the glass revolving door spew him out into the hot desert night. The valet rushed over to him, called for his car.

As Lex passed by on the other side of the big glass windows making his way toward his black SUV he glanced up, caught her watching and scowled.

She smiled sweetly and gave a little wave.

Then she spun on her four-inch heels and sashayed back toward the pulsing Ruby Room. But as she pulled open the doors, she bumped into Cassie coming out.

“Uh-oh,” Cassie said the minute she saw her friend. “You have that look.”

“What look?”

Cassie glanced over Jenna’s shoulder, saw the shirtless cop through the windows getting into his SUV. “Oh, come on, Jenna. Why do you want him so bad, when you could have any one of the guys back there?”

Jenna didn’t answer for a minute.

“Ah, wait, I get it.” Cassie’s disarming chuckle bubbled up from her chest. “It’s because he’s immune to the infamous Jenna Rothchild charm, is that it? He doesn’t want you. Because he can see right through you, girlfriend.”

Jenna laughed, making light of it while she said goodbye to her friend. But Cassie’s words left a niggling coolness inside her. Maybe Cass was right.

Maybe Lex did see right through her. And he saw there was nothing inside. Nothing under the money and superficial glitz.

Jenna wasn’t sure how to handle this idea. It made her feel more than just a little bit vulnerable—it made her feel worthless. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe Lex Duncan had nailed the game advantage and she hadn’t won after all.

Lex was greeted by a chorus of adult males making the yipping sounds of a small dog as he walked into the bullpen at the FBI’s Las Vegas field office Friday, the next morning.

He glanced at Rita Perez. “What the hell is going on here?”

“She has one of those little purse pooches,” Perez said as Lex removed his jacket.

“What are you talking about?”

Perez slapped a copy of the Las Vegas Sun on Lex’s desk. “You and it-girl.” She folded her arms across her chest, looking too damn smug for her own Latina good. Lex glanced down and saw the photo he knew he would. The one that showed him half-naked, gleaming with perspiration and kissing the Vegas heiress who was also the youngest sister of his homicide case victim.

He swore under his breath.

More yips taunted him.

“What’s a purse pooch anyway?” he said, glaring at the press photo, growing hot under his collar.

“One of those little it-girl dogs, you know? The kind that cost several grand and fit right inside a designer purse. Look—” Perez flipped the paper open to page four, tapped the page annoyingly with her finger. “There. A file photo of your casino princess on a little shopping spree with her pooch and daddy’s money, no doubt. Note—” said Perez, bending forward for emphasis “—that the purse matches Rothchild’s outfit, as does that cute little bow in the dog’s hair.”

“What the hell kind of dog is that anyway…look at it’s teeth. It’s got an underbite like it’s permanently mad at the world.”

“Shih-Tzu,” said Rita.

“Shih-t-what?”

Guffaws of laughter burst from the room, and more yipping came from the far corner of the bull pen.

“Shih-Tzu,” corrected Perez. “It’s Vietnamese.”

“Chinese!” called an agent from across the room.

Another crescendo of yips rose through the office.

“Geez,” Lex muttered, shuffling papers off his desk. “Bunch of losers.”

“Agent Duncan!”

He glanced up sharply to see Harry Quinn, FBI Special Agent in Charge, standing at the rail up a level at the offices. He was holding a copy of the Las Vegas Sun, the big black headline sticking out over his thumb: “Record Two Million Raised for Nevada Orphans Fund.”

“Can I see you in my office.” It wasn’t a question.

“Ooh, he’s in the shih tzu doo-doo now,” someone cooed in a loud stage whisper. More raucous laughter rolled through the bullpen. Lex swore softly as he made his way into Quinn’s office.

Quinn slapped the paper down on his desk. The photo of Lex, topless, partying down with a person of interest in his homicide investigation mocked him from the polished surface. From the look in his boss’s eyes, Lex was about to hear that he was off the case. Or worse.

He cleared his throat. “I can explain—”

Quinn raised his hand. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he snapped. “Jenna Rothchild paid a quarter of a million? To date you for a night?”

Lex ran his tongue over his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

His boss suddenly threw back his head and laughed. Hard, really hard. He slumped down into his chair, wiping a tear from his eyes.

“Geez, Quinn, I’m not that much of a dog,” Lex muttered. “Besides, I told her to forget it. Mistake. Conflict of interest. This—” he wagged his hand at the newspaper on Quinn’s desk “—will all blow over by tomorrow.” Why did he not sound more convincing to himself?

His boss sat forward suddenly, eyes dead serious again. He had a way of switching back and forth, unnerving people. It kept his agents on their feet. “No.” His black eyes bored into Lex. “No. This is not over. We use this. We use her.”

“Excuse me?”

“Play along.”

Surprise rippled through Lex. He had zero intension of messing any further with Jenna for personal, never mind professional, reasons. “That’s…ridiculous. It’s a clear conflict of interest. It could pose a problem for the prosecution if they find a connection between me and Rothchild, especially if a defense attorney gets wind of—”

“Granted, yes, it’s unorthodox.” Quinn tapped his pen impatiently on his desk. “But nothing about this case to date has been orthodox. Consider it a covert operation, Duncan. A Rothchild infiltration.” He leaned back in his chair as he spoke, and Lex detected a faint smirk of amusement on his superior’s face.

“There’s no way—”

“She’s a tool, agent. She handed herself to us on a silver platter. Use that tool, leverage it to get to her father, to dig up information on that little trophy wife of his, on the dead sister, crack anyone or anything open, pry it loose. Play her game. One hundred percent. God knows we need some kind of break on this case.”

“She set me up.”

“So? Find out why.”

“The media will—”

“I’ll let the media know you’re officially off the case. Unofficially, you’re on it 24/7. We’ll plug it as a covert op, and the legal stuff will be in the clear as long as you keep your hands off her.”

“Look, I—”

His boss stood, making up in breadth what he lacked in Lex’s height. “It’s good to have you in the Vegas office, agent. I was more than happy to approve your request for transfer.”

“Thank you, sir.” That was a veiled threat if he ever saw one. Lex was no idiot. He’d put in for a post at this Las Vegas field office several times over the last couple of years, wanting to get out of Washington and back to the Reno-Vegas area for reasons of his own.

His application had been approved nine months ago, thanks in major part to Harry Quinn. And Lex had settled in fast, coaching troubled foster kids at football, volunteering for Nevada orphans-related charities. He’d landed himself a nice little house in one of the new subdivisions away from the hubbub of the Las Vegas Strip from where he could see the firered spring mountains. It was his springboard to the desert wilderness he’d always loved as a kid, yet not too far from the sort of pulse he’d grown up with in Reno. In many ways, Lex felt he’d come right home to Sin City. His mother had a past here, and it was here he’d come looking for answers. Lex was finally in a position to put everything into finding the man who had killed his mother.

He had no intention of being eased out now. If keeping this posting meant tangling with Jenna Rothchild, he’d have to bite the bullet and try to keep his libido in check. In spite of what moves she pulled on him.

Damn—he was between a rock and a hard place. He could already hear the snickers out in the bullpen.

He blew out a chestful of air as Quinn showed him out the office door. “And keep me briefed, Duncan. Let me know if you need anything. Perez remains your backup on this.”

Perez was the one who got me into this.

He saw her smiling up at him as he neared his desk. “I wanted to kill you last night,” he muttered as he approached.

She grinned, teeth bright-white against her dusky skin. “And now?”

“Even more so. You better watch your back, Perez.”

She chuckled. “I’ll be too busy watching yours. Just make sure you keep your shirt on this time, will you?”

He grunted as he took a seat at his desk.

“Did you actually read that article, Duncan?” she called over to him.

“You got any work to do there, Perez?”

“No, seriously, did you see who the hot competition was for your bod? Who the mystery bidder was that gave our little it-girl a run for her daddy’s money?”

“Who?” He fussed with moving papers across his desk, feigning disinterest.

“Mercedes Epstein.”

He went stone still then turned slowly to look at Perez.

“Si, amigo, that’s right,” she said, getting up and sauntering over to his desk to him with that devil-can-do look in her Latina eyes. “Wife of the Frank Epstein, who’s currently under investigation with the FBI financial crimes unit in New York. Some junk bond scam, apparently.”

Mercedes had bid on him? The wife of the man who had once employed his mother in his Vegas casino as a croupier? The man who’d fired Sara Duncan when she fell pregnant with him, necessitating her move to Reno, to start a new life. Just him and her.

“Interesting, huh?”

It was plain freaking weird. “Mmm,” he said, opening a file, but his pulse had quickened.

“So, what d’you think the grand Vegas matriarch wanted with you? You think she pushed up the bidding just to get up Jenna’s whatoot?”

He glanced up sharply. “Tell you what, Perez. Why don’t you and me go for a little drive and check out that new shooting range? And while we’re there you can tell me how and why you signed me up for that bachelor auction while I try not to shoot you. Because I’m thinking it was you who set me up, not the Rothchild heiress.”

“Sure,” she shrugged. “We can go shoot. From that photo it looks like you could let off a few.”

He grabbed his jacket angrily, took her elbow. “For starters,” he growled as he led her out the door, “who approached you about the auction?”

“Cassie Mills. She takes a class at the club where I teach martial arts.”

“She Jenna’s friend?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Jenna was feeling an inescapable buzz. Being attracted to a man she was going to see that night was like a drug to her system, a welcome relief from all the sadness that had beset the Rothchild mansion since Candace’s horrible death. “Good morning, Dad,” Jenna said, as she bent down to kiss her father on the cheek. She set a bowl of doggie kibble down for Napoleon, poured coffee from the silver jug Mrs. Carrick, their cook, had left on the patio breakfast table and took a seat with a view of the pool.

The surface shimmered with refracted morning sunlight as Jones, their groundskeeper, cleaned the pool filter. A soft, hot desert breeze ruffled the tops of the garden palms. It was late June, Vegas peaking into summer, and today was going to be a scorcher.

“So?” Harold said over the top of his paper and his reading glasses, his Paul Newman-blue eyes twinkling. “Two mil for the orphan fund? Not bad, sweetheart.”

She grinned. “The FBI agent is not too bad either.”

“When is your date?”

“Tonight. I just sent him a text message asking for his address and to say my limo will be waiting outside his house at 10 p.m.”

“Rather late for dinner?”

She shrugged. “He said he had some kind of evening coaching session with his at-risk teens or something. Anyway, I told him I wanted white flowers and that the rest of the evening was my treat—” she stirred her coffee, chinked the spoon on the side, smiling “—and my surprise.”

Jenna liked this time with her dad. He was a flamboyant casino mogul with movie-star good looks, a much-noted temper, a passion for perfection and a shrewd eye for business. He liked to get up real early each morning, do work in his home office and then kick back for a while over breakfast. It was his time to catch up with Jenna and the newspapers and to drink his coffee. After that he’d go down to the Grand Hotel and Casino, where he often worked well after midnight. He was a driven entrepreneur, and he wasn’t a man who needed much sleep.

But he’d always made time for her, since she was a kid, and Jenna loved him for it. She’d do just about anything for her father. He remained the solid center of her rarefied Vegas life. Her BlackBerry beeped suddenly, and Jenna set down her coffee cup, checked the message. It was from Cassie. FBI agent Perez had apparently just paid her friend an “official” visit, and Cassie wanted to know what Jenna had gotten her into.

“You’ll ask him about the ring, of course.”

Frowning, her eyes flashed up. “Of course.” She hesitated. “Dad—you’ve always said that The Tears of the Quetzal came from granddad’s South American operations, but where exactly?”

“Ah, sweetheart, I’m not one hundred percent sure. All I know for certain is that your grandfather had the diamond set down there, but otherwise, all the paperwork seems to have been lost in an old fire at the South American office.”

She studied him. If there’s one thing Harold always was, it was sure. A teensy icicle of doubt formed. “What exactly do you want me to get out of Lex Duncan?”

He chuckled, removed his reading glasses, blue eyes sparking like the broken surface of the pool catching sun behind him. Yet there was a sharp edge that lurked behind his smile—an edge that appeared whenever Harold spoke about The Tears of the Quetzal. “Anything you can, sweetheart. You could make a monk drop his habit, Jenna, and I have no doubt you can work your charms on this man. I want some idea of the FBI’s thought process in connection with the case. And of course I want my ring back. I want to know where they are holding it. In the wrong hands it—”

“I know the drill—in the wrong hands great misfortune is sure to follow. In the right hands it brings true love. You don’t honestly believe that old Mayan nonsense, do you?”

He gave her an odd glance. “Just look what happened when that lunatic Thomas Smythe got a taste for it. He almost killed Conner’s Vera, not to mention her sister Darla and brother Henry. Although the cops haven’t officially named Smythe as a suspect in Silver’s near-fatal scaffolding accident, I wouldn’t put it past him. And God only knows who killed Candace. That damn ring is cursed, I tell you. I just want it out of circulation, back in the vault where it belongs before it causes any more damage.”

A small shiver passed through Jenna as she thought of what had happened to Candace after she’d removed the rock from daddy’s safe. Her sister had gone and gotten herself bludgeoned to death after wagging it around at a charity event the night before her murder. That ring had been the one thing taken from Candace’s apartment by the killer, only to turn up in the purse of a single mother named Amanda Patterson while she was visiting Luke Montgomery’s casino.

Having possession of that ring had close to gotten Amanda killed as well. And then Luke had stepped up and proposed to her, of all people.

The ring had subsequently been taken into Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department custody, and a man named Thomas was later ID’d as the thief who impersonated a LVMPD officer and stole the ring from the evidence room. Conner had discovered the paste copy left in its place when he’d been sent to retrieve the ring from the police department. He’d then tracked The Quetzal to an exotic dancer and landed bang in the middle of an FBI investigation into a cross-state jewelry thieving ring. Which is how Conner ended up defending—and falling for—a stripper named Vera Mancuso who’d been implicated in the diamond theft by her roommate. The jewel thieves had, however, been caught and that case closed, but it was at that point that the LVMPD and FBI investigation into Candace’s murder had intersected, and how the whole shebang—both the ring and murder—had landed up under FBI jurisdiction.

And now her dad wanted that ring back at all costs.

Jenna shook off an uneasy sensation, reached down and picked up Napoleon. She stroked him absently on her lap. She suddenly wasn’t so crystal clear on what she was doing with the lead investigator on her sister’s murder case.

Or why her father wanted her involved at all.

Lex returned to the FBI field office building after his coaching session that evening to pick up some reports. He wanted to go through the file on The Tears of the Quetzal again, check out the ring’s trail. Somehow, that rock was central to everything—including Candace Rothchild’s death. And now that Thomas Smythe—Darla St. Giles’s boyfriend—had disappeared, Lex was back at square one.

It was late and most of the offices were empty and dark. Lex flipped on the neon overheads. One of the bulbs flickered as he made his way down the corridor to evidence lockup. He hesitated outside the door, a sense of coolness settling over his skin. Damn AC thermostat was on the fritz again, turning the place into a virtual meat locker. He unlocked the heavy door, creaked it open. He hadn’t noticed the creak previously—must be the quietness in the building at this time of night.

Lex picked up the box containing the rock that had caused so much trouble and opened it. He took the ring between his thumb and forefinger, holding the massive stone up to the dim light, he swiveled it.

He was momentarily blinded by a flash of green, violet, then blue light. His pulse accelerated slightly. He’d never seen the rock in this light before. It was magical. He turned it more slowly in his fingers, the facets of light bouncing electrically as it moved. The Tears of the Quetzal. Even the name seemed sad. Somehow poignant. Yet beautiful at the same time. Seven carats of chameleon diamond. Set in gold.

The colors were dazzling. The strange luminous shafts of light emanating from the stone were like the ectoplasmic fingers of some ghost, reaching out to curl back and retreat suddenly as he moved the ring. The play of luminosity absorbed Lex’s attention so fully, so totally, that he was no longer aware of any sound at all in the office, or the fact he was standing alone in near dark under the flickering blue lighting of the evidence room. A band of sensation tightened across his chest as an incredible thought shimmered into his mind.

What if the legend was true?

Natalie, the LVMPD cop—Jenna’s sister and Candace’s twin—had fallen in love while investigating the ring’s disappearance. Then Amanda Patterson, whose purse it was found in, ended up marrying Luke Montgomery in a true Cinderella series of events. After which Silver Hesse Rothchild, a stepsister of Jenna’s, had found true love with her bodyguard after a mere passing acquaintance with the ring. Even defense lawyer Conner Rothchild had fallen head over heels for Vera Mancuso, an exotic dancer, after he’d spotted her flashing the ring during a steamy striptease. Vera was probably the most inappropriate woman a man like Rothchild could possibly end up with.

Enduring love—it was one of the promises of The Tears of the Quetzal.

Given the odd series of romantic events in the preceding months one might actually be forgiven for thinking this ring held mysterious power, thought Lex, watching the light curl into itself in the stone, as if a sentient thing. Alive. Shimmering. All-knowing. He snorted softly, trying to brush aside the hypnotic power the thing seemed to be exerting over him.

Then he thought of Candace and the flip side to the supposed Mayan curse on this stone. And a cold chill rippled over his skin again as he stared at it, his heart beginning to beat even faster, a strange sensation beginning to settle through him. Lex couldn’t say why or what possessed him but he suddenly pocketed the ring, leaving the box empty as he locked the evidence door.