by Nina Bruhns
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 murd
er 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—imperfect 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. Ol’ 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.