by Nina Bruhns
Which probably meant it was. So important he didn’t want to tell her. Which probably meant she wouldn’t like it, whatever it was.
His tongue trailed lower still. “Spread your legs.”
“Conner—”
“Open them.”
He was definitely trying to distract her.
It was working.
She moaned as his tongue slipped between her folds, still swollen from hours of lovemaking. It felt warm and silky on her tender flesh. So good.
Ah, well. She’d find out soon enough what the problem was. No sense borrowing trouble.
Meanwhile, she planned to enjoy every minute she had left with him. And this was a very, very good start.
He had to tell her.
Consumed with guilt—and fury at his meddling father—Conner helped Vera into the white stretch limo he’d ordered to take them to the Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball.
She looked like a princess in the strapless sapphire-blue satin gown he’d selected for her tonight. Worldly, sophisticated, stunning. He wanted her to be on his arm. All evening. So there’d be no possibility of other men charming her, dancing with her, tempting her away.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. Dear old Dad had unknowingly made certain of it.
The old bugger’d be even more delighted if he actually knew what he’d done. Conner’s father was a stand-up guy, but completely unreasonable when it concerned the family’s reputation. Dad had tolerated Conner’s rakish behavior—barely—up until now only because he was young, single and male. But he couldn’t imagine Michael Rothchild ever in a million years condoning his son taking a stripper to a high-profile social event like this one. Much less dating one. No matter how amazing a person she was. Or how incredibly gorgeous.
Conner took his place beside her in the limo and tucked her under his arm. She nestled against him, resting her hand on his thigh.
“Nervous?” he asked.
She nodded. “Terrified.”
“Don’t be. You’ll do fine. And you look exquisite.”
She smiled up at him as she had so often today. Happy. Trusting. “Thank you.” Her long lashes swept shyly downward, making his heart squeeze.
“You take my breath away, Vera Mancuso,” he said and gave her a lingering kiss.
“The feeling’s mutual, Conner Rothchild,” she whispered.
He reached into his pocket for the velvet pouch he’d had his secretary deliver to the house that afternoon. From it he pulled a solid gold Byzantine rope necklace that had been his grandmother’s. “I thought this would go nicely with your dress.”
“Oh, Conner, it’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, fingering it reverently after he’d fastened it around her neck. “But—”
“There’s more.”
When he pulled out the ring, her eyes went wide as saucers. “My God! Where did you get that? I thought the Tears of the Quetzal was stolen!”
He slipped it on her finger.
“It’s a copy. Paste. The thief left it in place of the original when he stole that from police evidence. Not sure how he got hold of this one. It was supposedly in my aunt’s jewelry box in her bedroom. My grandfather had it made decades ago for family members to wear out in public. Before he decided the ring was cursed and locked it away for good in a vault somewhere. Anyway, LVMPD turned over the paste ring to the FBI, too, and Duncan said we could borrow it tonight, thinking its appearance might help lure the thieves.”
Conner had debated long and hard with himself about this. Having Vera wear the fake Quetzal could potentially put her in danger from the psycho thief. But as long as she only wore it at the ball, where security would be ultratight, and went home with him afterward, she should be safe. It also reassured him knowing that Duncan would have his men watching his property all night, too.
As an extra precaution, Conner had hired a bodyguard to discreetly follow her around at the ball, because Conner wouldn’t be able to watch over her personally.
She held her fingers up to the limo’s overhead light. Even in the dim wattage, the faux chameleon diamond shot off a shower of purple and green sparks, almost like the genuine article. “Wow. If I hadn’t had the real thing on my own finger, I’d sure be fooled. It’s nearly identical.”
“Not many could tell the difference,” he agreed.
Just then, the limo made a turn into a circular driveway. Damn. His time was up.
Vera peered out the tinted windows at the private mansion they’d pulled up in front of. “Where are we?” she asked.
“My brother’s house,” Conner said, steeling himself to meet her eyes. “We’re picking him up, along with his date. And mine.”
She did her best to hide her visceral reaction, but he clearly saw the flash of shock and devastation in her eyes before she managed to mask them. Her lips parted, then closed. “Your…date?”
Damn his father. “The daughter of an important client. She flew in from Paris yesterday and—”
Vera held up her hand. “No, it’s okay,” she said, though she couldn’t quite squelch the strain in her voice. “You don’t have to explain. We agreed I’d be coming as your assistant, not date. It’s more believable this way.”
So much for happy and trusting.
“Vera—” He reached for her, but she scooted away, all the way to the other side of the limo. He moved to go after her.
“Don’t,” she said, just as the door opened.
He halted, torn. She was his lover. He should never have let his father bully him into this farce. And yet…there was a microscopic part of him that was secretly relieved not to have to reveal their relationship just yet—and bear the brunt of social and familial disapproval.
He was such a damn coward.
“Howdy, bro,” his brother, Mike, stuck his head in the door that had been opened by the chauffeur and greeted him. “Hey, now, what have we here?” Mike’s confusion was obvious when he spotted Vera sitting in the corner. Then he really looked at her, and his face lit up. “A threesome? You dirty old man, you.”
Mike, or Michael Rothchild Jr., was the older brother, but acted like a kid sometimes. He had no emotional radar.
“Just get in the damn car,” Conner said evenly.
Mike stepped aside and his striking blond fiancée, Audra, slid into the seat opposite Conner. She leaned over and air-kissed him on the cheek. “Hi, Conner. Good to see y—” She also spotted Vera and halted in mid-word. “Hello,” she said, glancing between her and Conner. “This is, um, interesting.”
“My assistant, Vera Mancuso.” Conner cut off her blatant rampant speculation. She was as bad as his brother. The perfect pair. “Vera’s helping me with a case tonight.”
Audra’s brows rose delicately. But she refrained from comment, because Conner’s date had just glided onto the seat next to him. She was model-thin with shiny black hair and long legs exposed by a slit running up the side of her gown. Way up. Aristocratic features, olive skin, a long neck and slim arms dripping with jewelry. The woman oozed class and sophistication.
His father knew him well. She was just his type.
Up until two days ago.
She raised her hand, European style. “Annabella Pruitt,” she said in a cultured voice. “Enchanté.”
He knew he was expected to kiss her hand, but he couldn’t make himself do it. He shook it awkwardly instead, introducing himself, trying to subtly ease his body closer to Vera, who sat primly on the other side of him, maintaining a perfectly blank face.
“Did I hear you say assistant?” Mike queried after he’d climbed in and gotten settled next to Audra. He smiled at Vera when Conner introduced her to him and Annabella. “Just like my little brother to be working a case on a night like this,” he said with good-humored disapproval.
“That’s why he brought me,” Vera said smoothly, the first peep she’d uttered. “So he wouldn’t have to work. Now he can devote all his time to his lovely date.” She smiled genially at the other woman, but Conner knew better than
to think he’d been forgiven.
“Now that’s a waste of a beautiful woman,” Mike remarked disgustedly, and Audra smacked him in the arm—but there was no heat in it. “So what kind of case does one work at a fancy ball?” he asked, patently intrigued by the whole situation.
“The confidential kind,” Conner interrupted before Vera could answer. He sat back and folded his arms over his chest irritatedly. This was so not the night he’d envisioned.
Audra hadn’t taken her curious eyes off Vera. “I didn’t know Conner had hired an assistant,” she ventured. “You’re very young. Are you a junior associate in the firm? Paralegal maybe?”
“Confidential informant.” Conner cut off whatever Vera’d opened her mouth to say. “She knows people.”
“You do look familiar,” Mike said with a curious tilt of his head. “Have we met somewhere? At another charity event perhaps?”
Vera’s glued-on smile didn’t waver. “You probably know my sister, Darla St. Giles.”
Mike’s brows shot into his scalp. “Good God. Darla has a sister? How did I not know that?”
“Vera isn’t into Darla’s social whirl,” Conner supplied.
“I prefer to stay out of the tabloids.” She folded her hands in her lap.
And that’s when Mike noticed the fake ring on her finger. His eyes bugged out, and his shocked gaze snapped to Conner.
Annabella apparently noticed it, too. “What an unusual ring you have,” she said. “May I see it?”
“Of course,” Vera said, and held out her hand. Annabella let it rest on her fingers as she examined it. Over his lap. His brother peered at him over their fingers. Conner peered back, grinding his jaw.
“Extraordinary. Where on earth did you get it?” Annabella asked.
“Why,” Vera said innocently. So innocently he knew he was in trouble the second the word left her mouth. “From your date.” Her lips smiled up at him, but her eyes were shooting daggers. “Conner gave it to me earlier tonight.”
Chapter 13
She pretended she was onstage.
That was the only way she could get through this. Being onstage gave her permission to be someone else: a brave, confident woman whose power came from deep within her. Not the terrified, heartbroken, barely hanging on woman she really was.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
The thought of everyone’s shock in the limo when she’d announced Conner had given her the Tears of the Quetzal gave her the boost she needed to pull this off. They’d naturally all jumped to the same wrong conclusion. Oddly enough, Conner hadn’t corrected it. He’d actually glanced at her just as surprised as the others, but she could have sworn she’d seen him hide an amused smirk. Anyway, she’d set them straight herself, five seconds later, by adding, “For the investigation, of course!” in an innocent exclamation. But those five seconds had been glorious.
What. Ever. Now she was on her own, Conner having wandered off with his glamorous date, leaving Vera standing alone in the middle of a huge ballroom full of high-society mucky-mucks. And the uneasy feeling that someone was watching her. Conner had warned her to be on the lookout for the man who’d attacked her on the street. Thank you so much for that.
Damn, she needed a drink.
“Darla?” A surprised male voice assaulted her. “Is that you, babe?”
This one, at least, didn’t sound dangerous.
She turned. Nor did he look like the Hispanic guy from the fuzzy traffic cam photo—but that was fairly useless. He was a raffish man about her own age, all decked out in the latest trendy Eurotrash style, blond hair going every which way.
“No,” she said, taking a breath of relief and putting on her brightest smile. “I’m Vera, her roommate. Have you seen her by any chance?”
“Wow. You sure look like her. I’m Gabe. No, I haven’t…”
And so it started. If she thought she’d be left alone, she’d totally misjudged Darla’s friends. They might be wild and crazy, but they circled wagons for one of their own. She’d met some of them at the apartment already, so she wasn’t totally out to sea. They took her under their wing, pulling her along with the flow as they made the social rounds, laughing, dancing and speculating madly with her over where Darla could have disappeared to this time. No one was worried about Darla. While everyone remarked on her ring, and a few had even read the newspaper reports that linked the ring to Candace Rothchild’s murder, no one seemed overly interested in it other than as a ghoulish souvenir of that tragedy. Unique, expensive jewels with a history were a way of life for these people. And everyone had on their most unique and expensive pieces for tonight’s ball. Hers was just one more fabulous diamond to admire, gossip about, then forget.
And speaking of forgetting…she didn’t think about Conner more than once, all night.
Okay, once a minute, all night.
But she was proud of the fact that she didn’t track him all over the ballroom, keeping tabs on his movements, how many drinks he had, how many times he danced with that bitc—er, date, or if he ever looked across the room, searching for Vera.
She so didn’t care.
At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.
Once a minute, all night.
“Ms. Mancuso?”
She almost choked on her drink. Despite the uneventful evening so far, she’d still had the creepy feeling someone had been watching her the whole time. But probably not this guy.
A tall, elegantly dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair, who looked so much like Conner he could only be his father, or uncle, gazed down at her pleasantly.
“Y-yes,” she stammered, all her hard-won poise and confidence vanishing in a fell swoop.
He extended his hand. “I’m Michael Rothchild. I understand you came with my son tonight.”
Oh, God. More than once, she thought with half-hysterical irreverence. And last night, too.
She blinked, frozen by the howlingly inappropriate thought, with her hand in his. The one with the ring on it. His ring. “Um. Yes. But, uh, not as—I mean, I’m just working—”
He glanced at the fake Quetzal, then up again. “I just wanted to thank you.” At her deer-in-the-headlights look, he added, “for helping with—” he glanced around “—well, you know.” She did. She was just surprised he did. “Your discretion is appreciated.”
“My, um—” She was about to say “pleasure,” but it wasn’t really, was it? So she just let the inane half comment hang there.
“Greatly appreciated.” Michael Rothchild was still holding her hand. So firmly she couldn’t politely extract it. He kept looking at her, taking in her whole person, expensive outfit and all, and it was like he saw straight through her charade. “I don’t approve of your sister,” he said. “but I respect family loyalty. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He released her hand, gave a little bow and walked away to join a petite ashen-haired woman who must be Conner’s mother. The woman smiled at her uncertainly, then they both turned and vanished into the crowd.
Okay. That was very weird. Talk about cryptic.
“Who was that old geezer?” Gabe asked.
“Michael Rothchild.”
“Dude! You know them, too? Man, Vera, for someone who doesn’t get out much, you sure get around.”
He had no idea.
She turned to Gabe. It was getting late, and she was ready to call it a night. She’d been dancing around the topic of Darla and her craziness with everyone all night and gotten nowhere. So she decided to just come out and ask. “Gabe, have you ever heard of Darla being involved in anything illegal?”
He regarded her skeptically. “Like what?”
“Like stealing jewelry.”
“Whoa, dude.” He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
Vera nodded. “Good. I’d heard a rumor. But I just couldn’t believe it myself.” She met his eyes. “If you ever hear of her being involved in—”
“What the hell are
you doing here?” The furious words were growled from behind. A firm male hand clamped around her arm and yanked her away from the group, then pushed her off toward a large potted palm that was part of the decor. She could hardly keep up and nearly tripped several times. Alarm zoomed through her. He wouldn’t let her turn to look at him. But he didn’t have the right color hair. It was thick and silver. Like—
She gasped. Please, anything but this.
They were attracting stares, so he slowed down until they reached the palm, then spun her to face him.
God help her. It was him.
Maximillian St. Giles.
Her father.
Vera’s heart thundered so hard she was afraid it would pound out of her chest. She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Daddy,” somehow didn’t seem appropriate. So she firmly shut it again.
“You little gold-digging whore,” he snarled, his piercing green eyes identical to her own glaring at her in hatred. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
The bastard.
She resisted the urge to slap him across his sanctimonious face. For the insult. For all the insults she’d endured over the past twenty-four years. For snubbing her her entire life. For abandoning her mother, leaving the poor woman pregnant and alone with only a token cash settlement as compensation for a ruined life. But mostly for being a selfish, womanizing, egotistical prick.
She resisted, but her control was hard-won. She started to shake with bitter fury. And a stinging hurt that refused to be ignored.
“Why I’m here is none of your business,” she snapped, glaring at his hand on her arm. She’d dealt with plenty of men like him. Bullies covering up their insecurities with threats of violence. “Let me go, or I’ll call security.”
He finally let her go. And leaned his anger-reddened face right into hers. “It is my business if you’ve come here to make trouble for me and my family.”
“Trust me, you are not worth the bother,” she spit out, keeping her chin up, shoulders straight. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.
