Las Vegas: Scandals: Prince Charming for 1 Night

She raised her lashes and looked down at him.

He looked up at her.

Their eyes met.

And sweet holy God. He was struck by lightning.

Or maybe just blinded by the flash of seven carats of chameleon diamond on her finger as she slowly unbuttoned the top of her gown. He almost fell off his chair. That was his seven carats of chameleon diamond! She was wearing the Tears of the Quetzal!

Well, hot damn. If this was Harold’s so-called danger, bring it on.

The top of the white gown slid provocatively off Vera LaRue’s pale, pretty shoulders. Conner watched her slowly tug the sleeves down her arms, inch by tantalizing inch. For several moments his brain ceased to function.

Until he gave himself a firm mental kick. What was wrong with him?

She couldn’t be nearly as innocent as she appeared, clutching the top of that dazzling white gown to her breasts like a blushing virgin. Hell, she must be involved with Darla in the theft of the ring. The evidence was right on her finger!

Logic told him she had to be innocent of involvement in Candace’s murder. Only a complete, brainless idiot would kill someone, or even be remotely connected to a murder, and then flash the evidence in front of a room full of people. Obviously, she couldn’t know of the link between Candace’s murder and the ring she was wearing.

Come to think of it, maybe she didn’t even know the ring was stolen. Now, that would make more sense. It could easily be she was just being used. Or set up.

In which case, he had to give Darla props. Hiding the unique ring in plain sight, as part of her sister’s stage costume, was brilliant.

Too bad he was even more brilliant.

Brilliant and ruthless.

And did he mention intrigued as hell? Who was this Vera LaRue, Darla St. Giles’s gorgeous, secret, illegitimate half sister?

And who’d have ever thought Conner Rothchild would be so captivated by a stripper? His snooty family would have a cow, every last one of them. Especially his dad, who’d always held Uncle Harold in contempt for his questionable taste in multiple women.

But thoughts of family vanished as Vera LaRue stopped in front of him and slanted him another shy glance. She held his gaze with a sexy look as she pulled at the waist of her wedding gown and the whole thing slid down around her trim ankles in a pool of liquid silk.

For a second he couldn’t breathe. Sweet merciful heaven. All that was left was the most erotic, alluring bit of lace he had ever seen grace a woman’s body. Parts of it, anyway. And a veil. Straight out of Salome.

Please don’t let me be drooling.

Then, with a sultry lowering of her eyelashes, she scooped up the dress and let it fall provocatively right into his lap. Her eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.

Okay, seriously wow. A challenge? Clearly, she did not know him. Conner didn’t lose. And if there was one thing he never lost, it was a dare.

Oh. Yeah.

He looked up at her and conjured his most seductive smile.

Still moving to the music, she knelt down on the stage. Right before him. With those melting eyes and amazing milelong legs…encased in white thigh-high stockings and impossibly sexy crystal-clear high-heeled shoes. She dropped to her hands and knees. Just for him.

His brain pretty much disintegrated. The rest of his body was set to explode. He was hard and thick as one of those columns at the Forum. The real one in Rome.

The Rothchild heirloom flashed on her finger. His family’s ring. A smile curved his lips.

She wanted his family jewel? Well, then. He just might have to be a gentleman and give it to her.

Oh, yes. This curse could prove to be very, very interesting, indeed.

Chapter 3

The applause for Vera LaRue was deafening. Conner watched mesmerized as she took her final bow and swished off the stage.

He let out a long, long breath. Lord, have mercy.

By the time she’d finished her incredible dance of temptation, she’d made her way all around the stage, weaving her erotic spell over the dozens of men who were pressed up to the edge like pathetic dogs panting for a treat. But Conner was the only one who’d rated personal attention from her. It was like she’d danced for him alone, even when she was all the way across the stage. Of course, probably every guy there thought exactly the same thing. That’s what a good stripper did to a guy. Or maybe she singled him out because he was the only one who hadn’t attempted to put his hands on her. Hadn’t tipped her. Hadn’t done anything but hold her sultry eyes with his and silently promise her anything she wanted. Anything at all.

On his terms.

She’d ended up gloriously, unabashedly naked. Or, as good as. Down to a G-string, stockings and those take-me heels…and the Quetzal diamond. Oh, yeah, and a thick layer of fluttering greenbacks stuck into her G-string, making it look like a Polynesian skirt gone triple X.

Her bridal veil was around Conner’s neck. He was still sweating over the way she’d put it there.

Da-amn. The woman was Salome incarnate. But Conner fully intended to have her dancing to his tune before the night was over. Singing like a lark about how she’d ended up with his ring on her finger…without even benefit of dinner and a movie. Not to mention if she knew anything about Candace’s death.

Conner was a damn good lawyer, skilled at making witnesses trust him enough to spill their guts. It was all about the approach. So…how to best approach this one…?

He looked around the room. And almost laughed out loud. The answer was beckoning from the back of the club. Aw, gee. He’d just have to sacrifice himself.

Throwing back the last of his champagne—not that he needed the Dutch courage—he signaled his waitress.

“I’d like Miss LaRue to join me,” he told her as the fickle crowd roared for the new cutie who’d just come out onstage.

The waitress took the dress and veil from him. “Sure, hon. I’ll have her come to your table.”

He pulled off another bill. “No, somewhere private.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid Ms. LaRue doesn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Private parties. She’s strictly a stage dancer.”

“Really.”

Now, that was interesting. Apparently being a St. Giles let her pick and choose her jobs. Normally the private VIP rooms upstairs were where the big money was made by these women. And the big thrills. Personally, he’d never gotten into the whole lap dance thing. A nice sensual session in the privacy of your own home with a woman you knew and liked, sure. But an anonymous grind for cash? A bit sleazy if you asked him.

“Well,” he told the waitress, “then it’s good I only want to talk to her.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure you do, hon.”

He could understand her skepticism. Hell, he was skeptical, and he knew he only wanted to talk to her. Honest.