“Wait.” She grabbed his arm, forcing him back into his chair. He stared at her fingers on his arm, anxiety torquing. If he looked back into her eyes he’d be toast, and he knew it.
“You can’t just leave like that.”
“Why not? Or did you think plunking down a quarter of a million would buy bonus extras, Jenna? Like sex?”
She stared at him in stunned silence for several beats. “Oh, that’s…harsh,” she whispered.
“Well, then tell me exactly what you’re doing here? Because you’ve been playing me like some high-class trick roller.”
She opened her mouth, at a loss for words. “Trick roller?” She cursed softly. “That is so low.”
“Then what the hell do you want from me?”
Raw hurt, then anger flared in her eyes. “You are so damn presumptuous!” she snapped. “I don’t need to pay for sex with…with an uptight hunk of frigid granite.” She pushed her chair back and got to her feet, taking the upper hand. “And don’t think I’m going to let you be the one to walk on me, Duncan.”
Jenna leaned down over the table, making sure he could see all the way down her shirt to her belly button, and liquid fire burned between his legs at the sight of her tight rose-brown nipples, firm breasts, flat stomach. She brushed her mouth angrily over his, aggressively parting his lips, flicking her tongue, ever so slightly, between them. A battle salvo.
Lex’s heart raced. Her lips were soft. She tasted of wine. Dangerous. His world began to spin wildly.
“That—” she said, standing up, eyes flashing with fury…and dark-hot desire “—is for free. Just so you know what you’re missing, Agent Duncan.”
“High-maintenance may be pretty on the outside, Jenna,” he whispered, voice hoarse, his sudden erection straining against his pants. All he wanted to do was take her right here, right now, on this table. “Been there, done that. And I’ll tell you something, Ms. Rothchild. It’s not worth it.”
She swore softly at him again. But it didn’t hide the raw hurt glimmering in her eyes.
Then she swiveled and stormed out.
Lex slumped back in his chair. Beaten, hot and throbbing like he’d never been in his life. Angry as all hell at what he’d allowed to come out of his mouth. He’d been lashing out at himself for even being tempted. She was right. What he said was way below the belt. He didn’t mean it. He watched her disappear into the restaurant elevator, silk pants swishing in smooth flow around her ankles. Dark hair swinging across her back. Head held proud.
The elevator doors slid shut, and the gentleman in him kicked back in.
Who the hell did he think he was?
He got up, ran after her, jabbed repeatedly at the elevator button, cursing the car to rise faster.
* * *
Jenna was shaking, hurt, aroused. Her eyes filled with tears. Never had she been through such a maelstrom, or been so humiliated. She was like a frustrated firecracker ready to detonate by the time she stormed through and out the lobby into the steaming Vegas night.
No one—no one—hurt her pride and dignity like that! But what really burned was the fact he didn’t want her. That he’d been able to rein himself in. The coldhearted jerk was actually immune to her tried-and-true seductive ploys. To her wealth, to her looks.
She’d always gotten everything this way.
What cut even deeper were his comments about her lifestyle, her family. About who she was inside.
It made her want to prove him wrong. It made her want him even more, damn it. And that made her scared. Because she was beginning to see that if she really wanted to win Agent Lexington Duncan, she was going to have to try something completely foreign. She was going to have to be herself. That old self she’d buried at school so very many years ago.
So long ago that Jenna didn’t know if that person even existed anymore.
What if there was nothing under her facade?
What if this was who she’d truly become?
She slumped back into the limo seat as her driver pulled into the street. Wouldn’t that be ironic, she thought, if the one man in her life that she might actually end up wanting—really wanting—would be the one she couldn’t have.
Lex rushed out under the myriad of gold bulbs just as Jenna’s limo pulled out of the valet area and into the palm-lined boulevard of the sweltering Las Vegas night. He stared at the red brake lights flaring, then fading down the road. He swore, kicked a tire.
The valet came at him instantly. “Sir? Please—”
He raised his hands, backing off. “Sorry, sorry, no worries. I’m outta here,” he muttered as he made his way to the line of waiting cabs. But as he stole another glance at the vanishing white limo, a dark sedan, plates obscured, pulled out fast, tucked in behind it.
Lex stilled, a sixth sense whispering inside him. The limo turned left off the boulevard. The dark sedan followed.
He shook off the sensation. It was Jenna’s affect on his body—and it was the ring in his pocket messing with his head, making him paranoid. He climbed into a taxi, almost telling the driver to take him straight to the Vegas FBI field office before his brain kicked back into gear. He should go home first, get his own vehicle, then return the legendary ring ASAP. He’d be a fool to make the cabbie an outside witness to the fact he’d even been to the FBI offices this time of night.
But as Lex sank back into the car seat, hand in his pocket, fingering Harold Rothchild’s diamond, he realized he’d crossed the line. Big time.
What in heaven had he gone and gotten himself into?
* * *
The Avenger.
That was his tag tonight, how he was going to think of himself for this leg of his mission. He tucked in behind the white limo, slowing as it turned into the driveway of the Rothchild mansion. The security guard Harold Rothchild had hired since the murder of his daughter waved the limo in through the gates.
The Avenger cut his engine and lights, watched from darkness across the street.
He now knew the FBI agent heading up the Candace Rothchild homicide investigation was seeing the youngest Rothchild heiress. This could get interesting. It held real potential—in any number of ways. Hot deliciousness snaked through him, making him hard. Death, he’d discovered, excited him. Ever since he’d taken the life of that Candace slut.
Killing her had made him powerful. Invincible. Determined to systematically wipe out the rest of the Rothchild scum from the earth, to get his hands on The Tears of the Quetzal. He wanted that ring, needed it.
For his father.
And in doing this, his father’s death would finally be avenged.
The fact that Agent Duncan had a personal interest in Jenna Rothchild made him feel even more righteous about it all. Duncan had become his key opposing force. His enemy, stoppage—ever since Duncan had thwarted him, conspiring with that lawyer Conner Rothchild to throw him a fake ring to save a cheap stripper.
He turned the ignition. Vegas was all a game. A gamble.
Somebody won.
Somebody lost.
This time the winner would be him.
And this week, Jenna Jayne Rothchild would be the one to die.
CHAPTER 4
It was almost midday, temperatures spiking at 105 degrees. Oscillating waves of heat shimmered up from the road as Lex pulled his SUV into the palm-lined driveway of the Rothchild mansion, braking at the security booth at the gates.
He wound down his window, showed his shield. “FBI, for Mr. Rothchild.” The security guard pressed a button on a newly installed intercom system, announcing the federal agent’s presence. So much for the element of surprise, thought Lex as the gates rolled open.
He drove up the sun-bleached driveway, the Rothchild mansion looming into view. The architecture was Spanish-influenced—Moorish arches, red tiles, stuccoed walls that echoed the sun-baked tones of the surrounding Mojave Desert. Palms flanking the entrance rustled softly in the hot breeze.
A wall of heat slammed Lex as he got out of his vehicl
e. He made his way up the steps to the massive front door, noting a small security camera tucked into the portico, another aimed around the side of the house. All new since his last visit. Harold Rothchild was clearly feeling a tad nervous these days, perhaps taking the threat that had been made to the powerful Rothchild clan after Candace’s murder a little more seriously but not so seriously that he’d hired bodyguards. Lex rang the doorbell.
His goal today was to interview Harold without encountering Jenna. Harry Quinn be damned.
According to Jenna, Harold had old business connections with Frank Epstein. Epstein, in turn, had Vegas mob associations that went back to the early seventies, and he was currently the subject of an SEC and FBI commercial crimes probe into an apparent New York Stock Exchange junk bond scam. If there were connections between the Epsteins and Rothchilds it could go to the heart of motive for murder. At this point, Lex wasn’t ruling anything out.
He also wanted to press Harold again about the provenance of The Tears of the Quetzal. Lex was convinced the man was not coming clean on the history of the diamond for some reason.
Hot wind gusted, crackling through the ragged palm fronds as the big door to the mansion swung open wide. And there stood the one person he was seeking to avoid, wearing nothing but a scrap of bikini the colors of a Tequila Sunset, and just as damn intoxicating as a shot of the liquor to his system. The sight of her clean took his breath away.
“Jenna. I was…expecting your butler.”
Jenna’s lips curved, but no light reached into her eyes. “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Lex.”
His eyes skimmed hungrily over her—couldn’t help it. She was wearing crazy high heels that put a killer curve into her calves, seductive arches into her feet and a powerful punch to his gut. In her navel, a small little emerald green jewel winked. It took an embarrassing moment before he could wrench his attention away from it. He cursed softly to himself as the latent tension from last night’s date quickly began to shimmer between them again.
“I presume you’re here to apologize?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I’m here on business. I understand your father is in?”
Her mouth flattened slightly, some of the glimmer leaving her. “Fine.” She stepped back, holding the door open but not far back enough so he didn’t have to brush against her barely covered chest as he entered.
“Harold is out by the pool. Go through the hall and then through the wet bar over there,” she said coolly, with a tilt of her chin.
It wasn’t the first time Lex had been inside the Rothchild lair, but again, he couldn’t help musing his entire house would pretty much fit inside just the hall alone. He started to make his way over the gleaming tiles but paused. “Look, Jenna,” he said, swinging around. Mistake.
She was too close.
His brain headed completely south, and she could see it. A whisper of amusement toyed briefly with her mouth. Yet a hint of insecurity remained in her eyes. An insecurity that wasn’t apparent last night.
He’d put it there.
Again, guilt twisted.
He cleared his throat again. “I am sorry about last night. I…I want to say thank you for all the trouble you went to, with the dinner, the restaurant, your very generous contribution to a charity I—”
“It was my pleasure, Lex.” But no pleasure showed in her features. “I just wish…” Her voice faded slightly. “Sorry it was such torture for you.”
Oh, boy, she didn’t know the half of it. He ran his hand over his hair, feeling sweat prickle along his scalp, and was thankfully saved by the appearance of the Rothchild butler.
“Ah, Clive,” Jenna said, clearly relieved herself. “Special Agent Lexington Duncan is here to see Harold. Can you please show him to the pool?”
* * *
Harold Rothchild had movie-star good looks, thought Lex as he shook the flamboyant casino mogul’s hand and took a seat on the designer rattan furniture in the shade on the pool deck. It was cooler by the water, a sparkling oasis surrounded by palms, thick-leaved shrubs, carefully tended blooms of exotic color and scent. A sprinkler shot staccato arcs over the greenery.
“Nice out here,” Lex said.
“I like working by the pool,” Harold answered dryly, taking a seat himself. “So, a personal visit? Must be important. What can I do for you Special Agent Duncan?”
Lex cut to the point. “What can you tell me about the provenance of The Tears of the Quetzal?”
Harold sat back with a deep sigh. “We’ve been through this.”
“I thought maybe your memory might have been jogged since the last time we spoke.”
He studied Lex for a long moment. “It hasn’t. I can’t add anything to what I mentioned to the FBI before. The Tears of the Quetzal was handed down by my father, Joseph Rothchild. The stone apparently came from one of his South American operations.”
“But you have no paperwork to show this?”
“Not a thing. All lost in a fire in his South American office, way back.”
Jenna had been right about one thing last night: Lex was a consummate poker player. Reading people—every flicker of an eye, body movement, inflection of voice—was a skill he’d sharpened to almost sixth sense perfection as a homicide investigator. And that gut sense was telling him that while Harold might be a good liar he was not that good. And he was lying now. Lex made a mental note to check out the story around the alleged fire. There’d have to be a record somewhere.
Jenna appeared carrying a tray of iced teas, cubes of frozen water with mint clinking against sweating glass, distracting Lex instantly. He thanked the heavens she’d tossed a skimpy pool robe over her bikini, but it still hung open down the front.
He couldn’t blame her for showing off her body. A figure like hers required effort, probably honed to perfection with daddy’s health club membership. It wasn’t a thing to be hidden.
But it sure didn’t help his focus.
A hairy little dog scampered at her heels, and for the first time Lex laid eyes on the subject that had provided so much amusement and yipping back at the FBI office. Ugly thing, he thought, glancing down at it. The animal settled at Jenna’s feet, the movement drawing Lex’s attention down to her immaculately painted red toenails. They matched her fingernails, the ones that had trailed over his hand the night before. His pulse quickened at the memory, and he concentrated on the dog instead. The pedigreed mutt had a row of sharp little white teeth along the bottom of his jaw that jutted out over his top ones. And its black beady dog eyes were trained on him. A growl began at the back of the ugly animal’s throat as Lex met its stare.
“Oh shush, Napoleon, it’s just the police,” Jenna chided, at the same time managing to put Lex in his place on the social ladder. “Iced tea, gentlemen?” she said with flourish and a dazzling smile. She’d recovered her composure—game clearly back on. Lex felt his adrenaline spike. Another hot gust crackled through dry palm fronds.
“Looks like he’s mad,” Lex said to the dog, trying to avoid staring as Jenna leaned forward to set a glass of tea in front of him.
“Oh, Napoleon? He can’t help it. He always looks like that, even when we have company we do like.” She set a glass beaded with perspiration in front of her father. “You shouldn’t judge someone on their DNA, Lex. That’s prejudice in my book. People can’t help what they’re born to look like. They don’t pick the financial status of the families into which they’re born, either.”
She was digging at him for his comments about her family last night.
“It’s a dog, not a person.”
“Napoleon is a ‘he.’ Not an ‘it.’ Aren’t you my little poochi-kins?” She bent down and scratched under that mean little chin, then looked up. “And Naps is as good as human to me. More affectionate and understanding than some people I’ve recently met.” She was back to provocatively taunting him.
Lex glanced at Harold in growing desperation. “Is there somewhere we can…talk?”
/>
“I keep no secrets from my daughter,” Harold said, reaching for his glass of iced tea. “She might even have something to add.” He sipped, watching Lex, shrewd blue eyes set in creased, tanned features as he calculated the situation. He was a dangerous man, thought Lex. And the only help Harold’s daughter was going to be was in distracting him from the reason he’d come here.
Lex stole another glance at her. She was settling into a deck chair in the sun just near the table and well within his direct line of sight. The little jewel in her belly twinkled in the sunlight as she wiggled her fine butt into position and readjusted her bikini bottoms. Napoleon scuttled into the shade under her chair and glared at Lex.
She began to rub in sunscreen.
His blood pressure began to rise.
Harold smiled—the smug, knowing male smile of a powerful patriarch who knew exactly what a fine genetic specimen of daughter he had under his mansion roof. And what effect she was having on the FBI agent who had deigned to come question him.
That smile hardened something in Lex.
He was going to find something to nail this mogul, even if it went way back into the 1970s and had nothing to do with his daughter’s murder, or that spooky ring. “You were saying…you have absolutely no paper trail to prove the origin of the ring.”
“I have nothing I need to prove, Agent Duncan. I know where The Tears of the Quetzal came from, and that’s good enough for me. I’m not looking to sell or have it appraised. Mostly I’d like it back in my safe. Where it belongs. It’s caused enough trouble already.”
“Can you tell me what year the fire was that destroyed The Tears of the Quetzal’s paper trail?”
“Give my lawyer a call. He might have that on record somewhere.”
Lex caught Jenna glance sharply at her dad and sensed a flare of tension between them. He filed this away.
“So all you do have in connection with the ring is some…mumbo jumbo about a curse?” Lex said, allowing a hint of derision into his voice.
“A Mayan legend that was passed down with the diamond. In the right hands, instant and true love follows. In the wrong hands—”
A Game of Deception Page 6
