Las Vegas: Scandals: Prince Charming for 1 Night

“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 bite—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?”