Читать книгу Her 24-Hour Protector - Лорет Энн Уайт, Loreth White Anne - Страница 7

FBI Special Agent Lex Duncan was due on stage right after the Vegas investment banker who was strutting down the runway with a long-stemmed rose clenched between his straight white teeth.

“Now this, ladies—” crooned the Bachelor Auction for Orphans emcee, a popular Las Vegas television host with dulcet tones of honey over gravel and butter-gold hair to match “—is an investment banker with mutual interest in mind. What redblooded woman wouldn’t want this macho money man to manage her assets for the night? Who knows, ladies—” the emcee lowered her voice conspiratorially. “There might just be some long-term profit for the right bidder…”

Shrieks and hoots erupted from the invitation-only crowd of almost one thousand very well-heeled Las Vegas women as Mr. Investment Banker shucked his pin-striped jacket, peeled off his crisply ironed shirt and got busy showing off some serious sweat equity of his own, obviously earned by heavy capital investment in the gym. The bids started, kettle drums rolling softly in the background heightening the tension.

Lex swore and shot a desperate glance toward the glowing red Exit sign backstage. He felt edgier now than he had during his first FBI takedown of a violent felon. Somehow he’d ended up being slated as the last bachelor up for grabs tonight, and he was feeling the pressure. The men ahead of him had already driven bids all the way up to a whopping $50,000, which went to a rugged foreign correspondent whose “sword” was apparently mightier than his pen—a comment that had brought the house down as the evening eased into night, laughter oiled by the complimentary cocktails that were loosening the ladies’ designer purse strings and heating libidos.

Whoever had staged this event in Las Vegas’s legendary Ruby Room with its massive art deco clock, shimmering chandeliers, red tones and old black-and-white photos that alluded to the thrilling mystique of Vegas’s dark mob past, knew exactly what she was doing.

For more than an hour before the auction had started, women clad in sleek barely there dresses with plunging necklines had sipped free drinks as they mingled with men, sizing up the “merchandise, ” whose duty it was to make small—and seductive—talk.

Lex had failed abysmally.

He was not one for platitudes, let alone parties. And volunteering for a bachelor auction rated way down there along with…God knows what. He couldn’t think of anything worse right at this moment. Those sixty-three minutes of schmingling, and yes, he’d counted every one of those minutes, had been pure torture. Lex was not one for high-maintenance women, either. Been there, done that, had the scars and divorce papers to show for it. If he ever married again, he swore it was going to be to a Stepford wife who understood his devotion to his job and charity work with at-risk kids.

The bidding out in the hall suddenly hit the $60,000 mark. The crowd of ladies exploded into raucous cheers, and the live band picked up the pace, ratcheting tension with a soft boom, boom, boom of drums. Lex tugged irritably to loosen his red tie.

His partner, Special Agent Rita Perez, had suggested red—to get the blood pumping, she’d chuckled. She told him the color was a good foil to the classic dark FBI suit and white shirt. He was going to kill Perez for this. She was the one who’d coerced him into it in the first place.

It’s for a good cause, Duncan. All proceeds will go to the Nevada Orphans Fund. Think of how it will help your boys.

He adjusted his holster, his body heating under his jacket as the crowd thunderously applauded the top bidder who’d nabbed Mr. Investment Banker for an insane $62,500. Lex was up next, after the Clark County skydiving instructor standing beside him backstage.

Think of the Orphans Fund…

“You ever see so much cleavage in one place?” said Mr. Skydiver, eyes fixed on the shimmering crowd of women as he peered around the curtain. “Mostly pumas, I figure.”

“Excuse me?”

“They’re not all cougars over the age 45, check it out—” Mr. Skydiver edged the heavy curtain back. “See? Hot pumas, single or divorced females between the ages of 30 to 40, all with serious cash to blow. Best way to meet a prospective date if you ask me.” He jutted his chin toward the audience. “Each one of those women out there has had her bank balance vetted—a marriage made in pure heaven.”

Lex stared at him blankly. This guy thought he was going to find commitment here? “This is Vegas, buddy. Place of transience, slight of hand, trickery and sin.”

“Ah, but magic happens in Vegas.” Mr. Skydiver grinned, took a sharp swig from a small silver hip flask and offered the flask to Lex. “Dutch courage, in the name of Johnnie Walker?”

Lex shook his head.

Mr. Skydiver capped his flask. “Just ask any tourist,” he said as he slipped the flask back into his pants pocket. “When that plane touches down at McCarran International, all rational thought goes clean out the window, and suddenly anything is possible. Yeah, Vegas will do that to you.”

The guy had clearly gotten a little too intimate with Johnnie Walker. Lex made a mental note never to book a skydiving lesson with this dude, but he vaguely wished he had taken him up on the offer of a nip from the flask. The man looked enviably happy, and this was one time in his life Lex sure wouldn’t mind numbing himself with a bit of false bravado. But before he could finish his thought, or change his mind and take up the flask, Mr. Skydiver was nudged abruptly forward by the bustling backstage coordinator taking his Johnnie Walker down the runway with him. And the next thing Lex knew, it was his turn.

“You’re on, agent!” He was forced out from the protection of the curtain by the backstage boss.

His throat dried instantly.

Larger-than-life images of himself in various poses played out on a massive screen behind the emcee and the auctioneer. “Meet FBI Special Agent Lexington Duncan, girls!” Blinding stage spotlights swung his way.

Lex blinked into the glare. All he could see of the crowd was a dark blot stabbed by the occasional glitter of jewels and flash of sequins as women moved. He reached for his breast pocket and put on the sunglasses that Perez had insisted he bring.

“For the record,” intoned the emcee. “Agent Duncan’s weapon is disarmed. But who knows, he just might load his gun later for the right bidder.” A murmur of excitement rippled through the women. Not quite the shrieks generated by Mr. Skydiver. Worry wormed into Lex as he took his first tentative steps down the runway. Maybe he was going to get lowballed. But the bids started instantly, flying fast and furious. Oh geez.

Heat prickled over his brow as he forced his legs toward the end of the ramp that jutted out into the sea of tables, a 007 theme tune mocking him. When he reached the end of the ramp, the music segued into a thumping sexy beast of a beat that thrummed up through his body from the soles of shined-up shoes making his heart constrict in time to the rhythm. His body grew hot. He yanked at his collar.

Oh, boy, was he ever going to kill Perez for getting him into this. He was going to get her right alongside with the mystery woman who’d organized this circus.

You don’t have to do anything other than volunteer your time…yeah, well there was his pride on the line now.

He could just imagine the guys in the field office tomorrow morning. He shoved his shades higher onto his face with a scowl he made no attempt to hide. Patience he had in buckets—on a job. Not now. Now he’d lost every last ounce and wanted to get this the hell over.

Irritability powered his body movements as he strutted forward with the classic command presence of a cop. He got to the end of the ramp, flipped open his jacket, showing his holster and weapon.

The ladies went wild.

“Want to see Special Agent Lexington Duncan load that pistol, ladies? You’ve got to make those numbers real arresting in order to be taken down to the station, girls. Maybe he’ll pat you down, or frisk you…”

Bids rose—higher, hotter, faster.

Lex stalked back up to the top of the runway, getting more and more steamed. He took off his jacket, draped it over the emcee’s podium. It was his little intrusion into her space, a psychological ploy. Another wave of hoots and hollers burst from the crowd at this apparent audacity. Women began to leave their tables and line the runway, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, music loud. Their hands were waving with cash, trying to reach up to stuff it into his pants.

A strange sort of energy caught him. This was what crowd hysteria did to one, he thought, loosening his red tie, unbuttoning his white shirt, knowing his muscles were getting amped from the adrenaline and…well, yeah, the attention. He was male after all. Every man had his pride. And libido. Be damned if Lex’s competitive edge didn’t stab suddenly into his chest. Hell, if he was on the stage now, he might as well win, right? Why not get the top bid from that teeming excited mass of over a thousand women with more cash to burn than they knew what to do with.

For the orphans, Lex. Think of your boys. A small grin of satisfaction settled over his mouth. If “his boys” could see him now. He’d better do them proud. Yeah, he’d get his money’s worth out of these pumas.

He slowed his swagger, put some muscle into it as he stripped off his shirt, tossed it to the crowd. His body was ripped and tanned—honed to peak perfection from daily training workouts, his twice-weekly coaching sessions with his kids under the hot desert sun, his eyes and reflexes keen from hours at the range. Under that conservative buttoned-up FBI exterior lurked a very different Lex Duncan, and it showed—in the exuberant reaction from the crowd.

“Take it all off! Take it all off! Take it all off!”

The chant rose in crescendo, and the live musicians, adept at playing to their audience, worked the energy. Lex thrust even more swagger into his walk, tightening his jaw, squaring his shoulders aggressively. Under the glaring spotlights his tanned skin began to glisten. Paddles continued to shoot up around the hall, bids going alarmingly high with one suddenly hitting an all-time record.

“Ninety thousand dollars! We have ninety thousand from the bidder in silver at the back of the hall. Going once…” The gavel was raised dramatically, poised to slam down with flourish. Lex squinted into the far recesses of the vast Ruby Room, trying to see who was prepared to plunk down such a serious chunk of change for a date with him, but the chandeliers had been dimmed and the spotlights blinded him.

“Wait! We now have…ninety-five thousand from the lady in red at the table in front!”

His heart beat faster, he strutted harder. The music went louder. Yeah. He was going to nail it—a top bid. Walk away from this with ego intact.

“Going once…going twice…” Called the auctioneer. “Oh, we have one hundred thousand! Again from the bidder in silver at the rear.”

The atmosphere shifted suddenly, and a hot hush of tension pressed down over the crowd. The music all but stopped, just whispering kettle drums.

The auctioneer’s voice took a quiet edge. “We have a bid of one hundred thousand dollars, ladies. Going once. Going twice…”

Adrenaline quickened through Lex as he tried again to squint beyond the glare of the spotlights. This was insane. Then again, this was Vegas. Where people believed that everything had a price, any dream could be bought. Anything could happen. Maybe Mr. Skydiver was right after all. A small ripple of hot pleasure coursed through him. Someone wanted him bad, and that was good, because this entire event, this bidding war over him right now was going to buy some real programs for his “kids.” Besides, how bad could one date get anyway?

It was Jenna Jayne Rothchild’s turn to get steamed. Someone at the back of the room was giving her one hell of a run for her money, and she had zero intention of losing Special Agent Lex Duncan to anyone. This whole damn extravagant event had been created solely so she could nab him.

“Who the hell is that back there?” she whispered angrily through her teeth, eyes remaining fixed on the auctioneer.

“Mercedes Epstein,” said Cassie Mills excitedly. “And…oh, my God, Jenna, she’s wearing Balduccio. A full-length silver Balduccio gown. It’s like…oh God, it’s stunning. Even at her age.”

Jenna, Vegas event planner extraordinaire and organizer of the Bachelor Auction for Orphans, shot a hard, fast look to the back of the massive ballroom. The chandeliers had been dimmed over the crowd of over a thousand women—each one of them vetted and personally invited by Jenna because they had the wherewithal to plunk down substantial amounts of cash. But even in the darkness, Jenna could make out the shimmering silver-white chignon belonging to the gracious head of 62-year-old Mercedes Epstein. Diamonds glittered around the neck of the Vegas matriarch, and her gown was a silvery-lilac, like platinum. Like moonlight. The woman seemed to glow spectrally in the dark as if she possessed a mysterious inner phosphorescence.

“Crap,” Jenna hissed, getting hot in her own low-cut designer gown. “What in hell does she want?”

“Your FBI agent, obviously,” Cassie said with her dimpled grin.

“I didn’t send her an invite!”

“Is there any lady out there prepared to up the ante to one hundred five thousand dollars for a night of her design with Special Agent Lexington Duncan at her side, for her protection?”

Jenna shot her paddle up aggressively.

She didn’t like to lose. Not ever. Especially not to Mercedes Epstein. It was a female pride thing. Vegas may be chocked to the gills with transients and tourists, but Sin City still had it’s hierarchy among the high-end Strip “locals.” Mercedes, known for her charity largesse, especially when it came to child-related charities, was married to Frank Epstein, one of the most powerful men in Vegas—no, make that Nevada. No make that one of the most influential men in the United States. He was worth billions on Wall Street and had funded the campaigns of many a senator, local sheriff and Vegas city councilor.

A small fist of cold tension curled through Jenna’s stomach as she clutched her paddle. Frank Epstein also had a longstanding rivalry with her dad, Harold Rothchild. Mercedes could outbid her anyday—and might just do it to annoy one of the Rothchild clan. But for whatever reason the matriarch was here, Jenna was so not losing to the woman.

This was her show.

“I don’t give a damn what she’s wearing,” Jenna ground out through her teeth. “Or how much she has in her bank account. She can’t have him. He’s mine. He’s the whole bloody point I organized this auction.”

“One hundred ten thousand, going once to the lady in silver at the back…”

Again Jenna shot her paddle up, her heart beating faster.

“We now have one hundred twenty thousand from the young lady in red at the front…and oh, wait, was that a slight twitch of the paddle from the mystery bidder’s assistant at the back of the room? Yes…yes…a twitch from the bidder in silver’s assistant at the back. We now have a new bid of one hundred twenty-five thousand big cool ones, people. From our mystery lady at the rear.”

There was a collective intake of breath. A kinetic energy began to pulse through the hall. The antique Egyptian fans turned slowly overhead, and the kettle drums started rolling softly. The FBI agent on stage inhaled deeply, and it expanded his chest.

A hot rush of adrenaline coursed through Jenna at the sight of him, and suddenly she wanted more than just to win him for Daddy’s sake. She wanted him for her own sake. Getting close to Lex Duncan had, however, been her father’s idea—his request, in fact.

Harold Rothchild had asked Jenna to try and seduce information out of the agent after he’d gotten wind that Lex Duncan was now the lead investigator in his daughter Candace’s homicide case. The FBI had also seized an infamous Rothchild family heirloom—the legendary Tears of the Quetzal—a chameleon diamond worth millions that had been taken from Candace’s finger the night of her murder—a rock Candace herself had appropriated from Daddy’s safe and waved around inappropriately and, apparently, at the expense of her life.

A rock rumored to be cursed with an old Mayan legend.

Supposedly, in the right hands, The Tears of the Quetzal would bring great love to whoever held the ring, even momentarily. But in the wrong hands, grave misfortune would be sure to follow.

Jenna thought the legend was a bunch of hooey. Then again, Candace had died because of it. And after Jenna’s attorney cousin, Conner, had failed to retrieve the infamous diamond, her father, clearly obsessed with the stone, now wanted it back at any cost. He’d asked Jenna to help find a way. He’d asked her to try and seduce the FBI agent into telling her where The Tears of the Quetzal was now being kept. And her casino mogul father had been uncharacteristically edgy and insistent in doing so. He hadn’t even mentioned the plan to Conner for fear Conner might tip the agent who’d become something of a friend. Whatever—Jenna was happy to oblige her dad. She liked to make him happy.

Besides, she could pretty much seduce a monk. She didn’t think twisting the buttoned-up, übercool FBI agent around her pinky finger would pose much problem at all.

She’d started by staging a little covert investigation of her own, and she’d learned that Lex Duncan was a keen supporter of the Nevada Orphans Fund. He volunteered for the organization twice a week, coaching at-risk teenage boys. It was clearly a charity Lex Duncan held close to his heart, so she’d come up with the idea a Bachelor Auction for Orphans as the best way to get her hands on him.

Her best friend, Cassie Mills, had then been co-opted into coercing Lex’s partner, Special Agent Rita Perez, into twisting the reticent agent’s considerably muscled arm. It was the perfect plan—Cassie was a student at Rita’s martial arts class at the club, so she already had an in with Lex’s partner.

Besides, organizing the event was fun. Parties, each with more bling and glitz than the next, were Jenna’s forte, her way of escaping reality, her way of running from the dark questions surrounding her sister’s murder.

She wasn’t good at the dark stuff—she was good at escaping. Survival, Vegas-style.

Jenna inhaled deeply and got to her feet. Whispers rustled through the crowd like wind bending the tips of dry grass.

The 25-year-old Vegas casino princess—heiress to considerable Rothchild fortune, and daddy’s girl—was making it clear she intended to lock horns with the grande doyenne of the casino empire. Despite the fact Mercedes was married to Frank Epstein, the grizzled old lion king of the Strip, Jenna wasn’t going to be intimidated by the Vegas matriarch’s pedigree. And the battle lines were drawn over the federal agent standing on the stage, his half naked, bronzed and ripped body gleaming under the spotlights.

Camera flashes popped everywhere, reporters smelling tomorrow’s headlines. The kettle drums rolled softly, winding tension tighter.

“One hundred fifty thousand,” Jenna called out coolly. The Ruby Room fell so silent one could hear a pin drop.

Mercedes tipped her coiffed head almost imperceptibly to the man seated beside her—a massive personal assistantcum-bodyguard in a designer suit who then flipped her paddle silently for her, his pockmarked features unmoving.

“We have one hundred seventy-five thousand dollars for the Nevada Orphans Fund!” The auctioneer pointed to the back. “Going to our mystery lady in silver and her assistant at the rear.”

Heads swiveled again, eyes blinking into the darkness.

The lighting technicians scrambled to spin a spotlight toward the back of the room in an effort to illuminate the holder of the big purse. But the beam didn’t reach. One of the techs hurriedly began to remount the light.

Jenna swallowed. Daddy was just going to have to foot the bill on this one. “One eighty,” she called out, squaring her shoulders, smiling seductively, telegraphing outward calm and control—fully aware of the camera lenses on her and her photogenic quality.

“We now have one eighty,” echoed the auctioneer.

Camera flashes popped, making the shimmering zircon crystal beads on her dress glitter like an electric waterfall. Silence pushed down heavier onto the room. The fans circled slowly overhead. Jenna swallowed past the tension in her throat, waiting.

“And…yes, yes, we have one ninety! From the back!”

Jenna cursed violently under her breath, flicked her paddle, smiling sweetly. She didn’t look around, wouldn’t give her rival the pleasure. She was posing now, for the cameras, out to win. On all counts.

But her opponent remained steadfast and countered instantly.

“One ninety-five, to the back.”

Her mind raced, doing the math, second-guessing her father’s reaction. He was already on the hook for the organization of the event, never mind her personal bid.

“Going once. Going…” The auctioneer raised the gavel theatrically. Everyone seemed to lean forward in collective anticipation.

“Two hundred fifty thousand,” Jenna said, voice clear as a bell.

Silence expanded, stretched, vibrated and shimmered like a taut invisible thing in the room.

“We have two hundred fifty thousand dollars, going once…going twice…”

The tech finally managed to remount the spotlight, and he swung it abruptly around, forcing white light into the dim back reaches of the Ruby Room, illuminating the Vegas matriarch in her full glory. She rose majestically to her feet. Tall and elegant.

Then with a gracious tip of her head, Mercedes deferred to Jenna and touched her assistant’s broad shoulder. At the matriarch’s signal her bodyguard rose and escorted his charge toward the grand gilt-engraved doors. He held them open for Mercedes, and she seemed to float from the room. The doors swung slowly, silently shut.

“Sold! To the lady in red.” The gavel hit the block, and the crowd erupted, music exploded and Jenna’s heart thudded wildly. “Special Agent Lexington Duncan fetches a record winning bid for the night, ladies. Please come up and claim your man, 159,” the auctioneer said, referring to the number on Jenna’s paddle.

“Damn, that was close,” she whispered into Cassie’s ear as she bent down and took a deep gulp of champagne from her glass. She then pressed her palms down on her hips, trying to remove the dampness and straighten out her nerves as she walked up to the stage. Agent Duncan stood shirtless, waiting to see the lady in the red dress who’d bought his pleasure. He removed his shades as she neared.

Jenna reached her hand up to him, and he clasped it. His grip was hard, rough, all power as he jumped down from the stage, landing beside her with a thud. Jenna’s heart did a crazy little squeeze that made her catch her breath. Must be the adrenaline, she thought. But when she looked up into his moss-green eyes she knew it was more. Lots more. He raised her hand slowly to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers lightly. “Touché,” he whispered. “I’m yours for a night.” Heat arced along her arm and stabbed into her heart like a jolt of pure electric current. She felt as if she’d just been sucker punched. One look and FBI Agent Lex Duncan had rendered Jenna Jayne Rothchild utterly—and uncharacteristically—speechless.

Cameras flashed blindingly, adding to her strange and sudden sense of confusion.

He bent down, mouth near her ear. “Just name the time and place for our date, and then I can get the hell out of here,” he growled.

A smile curled slowly over her mouth. “Why, but you sound pissed, Agent Duncan. Are you unhappy with your date?”

“Lex,” he said. “And it’s not you—this is not my thing.”

“Jenna,” she said softly. “Jenna Jayne Rothchild.”

He stiffened, recognition suddenly hitting him square between the eyes. He swore viciously under his breath.

“What’s the matter? You have something against the Rothchilds as well as bachelor auctions?”

Hell yeah!

He’d just been “bought” by the heiress of the family he was investigating in connection with murder—a professional conflict of interest that could blow the whole damn case. He was instantly furious. He had to extricate himself ASAP.

“Look,” he said hastily. “There’s been one huge mistake. I need to bow out—”

“Oh, but you can’t, Agent Duncan,” she crooned. “I’ve just paid two hundred fifty thousand dollars for the pleasure of your company. You signed an agreement.”

“This is a conflict of interest, Ms. Rothchild. I’m handling the investigation into your sister’s homicide. And you know it.”

She placed her cool, smooth hand on his amped forearm. “Do you want the Nevada Orphans Fund to be a quarter of a million poorer than it is right now?” she asked with a soft and flirtatious smile, her big dark eyes twinkling. “That money could be targeted specifically to your at-risk coaching program—the one you volunteer for two days a week.”

She knew. Damn her. She knew enough about him to…a dark thought suddenly hit Lex. Jenna Jayne Rothchild was the events planner at the Grand Hotel and Casino, her father’s largest Strip operation. She was renowned for her parties, each one more extravagant than the next.

“Was it you who organized this auction event, Ms. Rothchild?”

“Jenna,” she reminded him, smiling sweetly. “And yes. It went rather well, don’t you think? We must have raised close on—”

“You set me up.”

“And why would I do that?”

To compromise my investigation, to send my case down the legal tubes if it ever reached court. Hell alone knew. Whatever her motive was, Lex was going to find out. Sexy little Jenna Jayne Rothchild had just made herself a key person of interest in his homicide investigation. He removed a card from his back pocket, slapped it onto the white damask linen that covered her table. “Call me when you’ve decided whether you can afford the donation—without the date. Because the deal is off.”

“But—”

“Sorry,” he snapped. “Can’t mix business with…” He hesitated as she moved her sexy body closer to his amped one. “You were going to say…pleasure?” He felt heat. Swallowed.

“Because it sure wasn’t business that I had in mind, Agent Duncan.”

His throat began to thicken, and his brain headed south. “Sorry, no can do.” But be damned if right at this insane moment Lex was suddenly feeling it was all he wanted to do. This woman, up close, was pure bewitchment. He had to get out of her aura, suck in a dose of desert air, figure out what the hell to do about this stunt she’d pulled. He turned to go, just as the dance music was heating up and lights began to pulse over the floor.

“Wait.” She grasped his arm. “At least give me this one dance?”

Lex stilled at the sensation of her hand on his bare arm, cognizant of the fact that he was still naked from the waist up. Her hand moved a little higher, and his stomach tightened sharply. He turned, slowly, and looked down into her deep liquid-brown eyes. Mistake.

Because suddenly he couldn’t seem to pull away. “It’s…nearly midnight,” he managed, his voice thick. He tried to tell himself it was the excitement, the adrenaline pounding through his system. But it wasn’t. It was her. She was doing this to him.

She laughed. “What? You worried your SUV will turn into a pumpkin?” she said naughtily with a little pout on her red lips, and he knew he was going to be toast if he didn’t move. Real soon.

“I…have to report to work early tomorrow.”

“Is it always about the job for you, Lex?”

He studied her brown eyes, drowning in them for a long moment. “Pretty much.”

And his orphans. That was his life right now. That was the way he liked it.

Her eyes flickered, a mischievous glint in them. “We’ll have to do something about that, then.”

Oh, boy. On impulse he snagged a tequila from a passing tray, swigged it back, felt the oily burn through his chest. Another mistake. It seemed to shoot straight to his groin. Making him hotter, not to mention hard.

She moved her curvaceous body closer, almost pressing up against him. He could smell her fragrance, her warmth. The lights dimmed. Colored spotlights played over the dance floor, the crystal in the chandeliers shimmering in dazzling small pinprick shards of light. A low primal beat began to swallow the dance floor.

“Come,” she whispered against his cheek. He felt her hand sliding down his arm, her fingers gently encircling his wrist. He could feel the warm swell of her breast against his bare torso, the soft champagne breath from her lips against his face, and she lured him, as if manacled, drawing him onto the dance floor. “Just one dance,” she said. “Then I’ll let you know where to pick me up tomorrow night.”

Lex glanced desperately at the massive art deco clock on the wall. The luminous hands showed three minutes to midnight—the average length of a song. He vowed he’d be outta here within those minutes. Then he’d find a way to weasel out of the date. He was convinced she’d set him up. Because what were the odds of this being a coincidence? She’d have to have been living under a rock not to know he was the lead agent on her sister’s homicide case. And under a rock was the last place this casino princess would be.

Then again, as Mr. Skydiver had pointed out, this was Vegas. Weird stuff—magic—really did happen. A gambler could bet a single quarter and pull a slot machine handle, and it would spew out one million dollars. Another could plunk down his life savings and lose his entire fortune with the simple flick of a card.

Luck. Fate. Chance. The only sure thing about Las Vegas was that nothing was sure, nothing predetermined. No one ever knew what could happen next.

It’s what made Sin City so exciting.

So dangerous.

Jenna placed her hands on his hips, guiding him to the rhythm of the beat, and Lex’s brain went blank. His blood began to thump in time with the music. And before he knew it, the trademark Ruby Room clock began to chime. Midnight.

Music halted momentarily for effect, twirly strips of silver confetti shimmering down like crystal rain as the lights strobed white. Like silver, like money. Like magic. The Vegas sleight-of-hand. And Lex knew, on some level, he’d been witched, by a pair of big brown eyes and a goddess body in a shimmering red dress, and it had happened somewhere in those three minutes before the stroke of midnight.

In panic he snagged another shot of tequila, knocked it back, thinking of Dutch courage and skydiving. Because he sure was free-falling right now, out of control, and gaining speed each time Jenna batted those big browns and arched against him.