Las Vegas: Scandals: Prince Charming for 1 Night

As in Thomas Smythe? Darla’s ex-boyfriend? Before Vera could ask anything more, Darla pulled her into a quick, hard hug, then grabbed her Kate Spade and vanished out the door as quickly as she’d arrived.

Okay, that couldn’t be good. Something was up.

Darla was never like that—all twitchy and in a rush. Darla never rushed anywhere. Or panicked over anything. Possibly because of the drugs she used far more than she should, but no doubt also because she had learned long ago that money could solve anything and everything. Even a messed-up life.

Tell her about it. Vera only wished she’d had the chance to learn that particular lesson.

Speaking of which, she’d better get her butt moving. If she missed her cue to go onstage, Lecherous Lou would pitch a fit. And have one more excuse to hit on her and expect capitulation. Gak. As if.

Luckily, because of her close association with the wealthy St. Giles family, Lecherous Lou—along with everyone else at the Diamond Lounge—was under the mistaken impression that Vera was loaded, too, and didn’t need this job. That she just played at exotic dancing as a lark, to piss off conservative parents or whatever. Thank God for small favors. She knew other girls at the club didn’t have that kind of leverage against Lecherous Lou to resist his overtures. Or other, shadier propositions. She’d heard about the “private gentlemen’s parties” he ran off the books. It was really good money, and she’d been sorely tempted a time or two, but in the end, the thought of what else she’d be expected to do—according to those who did—made her just plain queasy. She shuddered with revulsion.

She might really, really need this job…and she might not have had sex in so long she’d probably forgotten how to do it…but she would never, ever, ever—

No. Way.

Hell, she wouldn’t even do lap dances.

Brushing off the sordid feeling, she carefully shook out the satin skirt of her faux wedding dress and wrapped it around her waist, fastening it over the sexy white, beribboned corset she was wearing. Then she slid on the matching satin bolero-style jacket that made her look oh, so prim and proper, just like a blushing bride. Gathering the yards and yards of see-through veil—the punters particularly liked when she teased them with that—she attached the gossamer cloud to a glittering rhinestone tiara that held it in place on her head.

There.

She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The dress was actually gorgeous. In it, she felt like Cinderella stepping from the pumpkin coach. Every man’s fantasy bride come to life.

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 murder 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.