Читать книгу Prince Charming For 1 Night - Nina Bruhns - Страница 10

They were letting her go.

Vera couldn’t quite believe it. But she wasn’t about to question her good luck.

Right up until the devil’s Agent Lex Luthor—whose name actually turned out to be Duncan—said to her as he handed over her bag of belongings, “Your attorney, Mr. Rothchild, has posted your bail and personally vouched for your whereabouts until the arraignment. As a condition of your release, you must agree to check in with him at least three times a day.”

She stopped dead. “You can’t be serious.”

“Bear in mind you are a potential murder suspect, Ms. Mancuso,” the agent said sternly. “Personally, I’m opposed to releasing you at all, but the Rothchild name wields a lot of influence—”

She handed him back her bag. “Forget it. If that’s a requirement, I’ll stay arrested, thanks.”

The FBI guy’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“No one ever listens to me. I’ve told you over and over, he’s not my—”

“Actually, he is.” Duncan held up a paper. “Court appointed. I have the order here if you need proof.”

She blinked. Oh, for crying out loud. The man was totally relentless. “Let me see that.”

It didn’t matter that for some mysterious reason she found the loathsome Conner Rothchild so incredibly, toe-curlingly sexy that every time she looked at him she practically melted into a limp noodle at his feet. Or that the whole time he’d sat in the audience at the Diamond Lounge—before she knew who he was—she’d girlishly pretended he was the only man in the whole room, and danced for him alone. When had that ever happened before? With any man? Never, that’s when.

But even so. She wasn’t about to trade sex for lawyering. Or anything, for that matter. She knew what he must have in mind, and she wanted none of it. Well. Not like that, anyway. She probably wouldn’t say no under other circumstances or if he were anyone else. But selling herself? No way. Regardless of how mouthwateringly and wrongly tempting he was. And how much she really wanted to find out what it would be like to lie under his ripped, athletic body and—

Oh, no. Banish that thought.

She looked over the paper that Duncan had handed her. Sure enough, it was a one-paragraph court order appointing Conner as her legal counsel.

What. Ever.

At least she didn’t have to pay him. Or owe him in any other way. That was a huge relief.

But did she want to have to check in with Mr. Cutthroat Playboy Attorney three times a day like she was one of his low-life parolees? Heck, no.

“Have you ever been to prison, Ms. Mancuso?” the federal agent asked. Apparently mind reading was part of the FBI arsenal.

“Of course not.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t enjoy it.” He took back the paper and slid it into her file. “Mr. Rothchild seems like a decent attorney. Let him help you.”

She regarded him. “Special Agent Duncan, if I were your little sister, would you be saying the same thing?”

He gazed back steadily. “If you were my little sister, you wouldn’t be in this mess, and you sure as hell wouldn’t be stripping for a living. You might think about what kind of future you want for yourself before choosing sides, Ms. Mancuso.”

With that, he put her bag of belongings back in her hand, took her arm and hauled her down the hall and out into the reception area where Conner Rothchild was waiting.

Why, the arrogant bastard! She’d never been so—

“Everything okay?” Conner asked, eyeing the two of them. Vera was so mad she didn’t trust herself to answer. Who knew what would come flying out of her mouth, landing her in even worse trouble?

“Just peachy,” Duncan said, and unceremoniously handed her arm over to Conner, like a recalcitrant child turned over to her father for disciplining. “Make sure you know where she is at all times, Rothchild. If I were you, I wouldn’t let her out of your sight.”

“I’m sure we’ll come to an understanding,” Conner said, his face registering wary surprise.

“Just don’t forget our agreement,” Duncan admonished him, then without another word, he turned and stalked off.

“Okay, then,” Conner said when he was gone. “What was that all about?”

She didn’t know why she was so upset. This sort of thing happened all the time, whenever anyone outside the business found out what she did for a living. She could call herself an exotic dancer all she liked. To everyone else she’d always be a stripper. She should be used to the disdain by now. But it still hurt every darn time.

“He doesn’t approve of me,” she muttered.

The lawyer frowned. “He said that?”

Some people could be so righteous and judgmental. They had no clue about the vicious cycle of poverty a woman could so easily fall into. She was one of the lucky ones who’d found a way out. Or at least a way to stay above water.

She sighed. Get over it, girl. “No. He said I should trust you.”

“Well, you should,” Conner said, brows furrowing. He glanced after the FBI agent. “Listen, if he said anything inappropriate, I’ll go back in there and—”

“No, please—” She reached out to stop him…and got the shock of her life. The second she touched him, a spill of tingling pleasure coursed from her fingers—her ring finger to be exact—down her arm and through her torso, straight to her center.

She gasped.

He looked just as stunned.

She jerked her hand back. Too late. A flood of emotions washed through her. Not just physical desire, though God knew that came through strong and clear, but also a disconcerting mix of tenderness and trust. And…a kind of soul-deep recognition. That this man was her man. The man she’d been waiting for all her life. Her Prince Charming.

She swallowed heavily. Okay, so yikes. It was official. She’d totally lost her mind.

If only he’d stop staring at her like that. Like she had two heads or something.

“I’ll take you home,” he said abruptly.

“No,” she said. “I can take a cab.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He put a hand to the small of her back and ushered her out the front entrance and into the night nearly as quickly as Duncan had dragged her through the field office’s brightly lit inner corridors. Conner must have changed his mind about her, too. That was quick. Maybe that jolt knocked some sense into him. Too bad it hadn’t for her. More like the opposite. He kept getting more and more attractive every minute that went by.

The shimmering heat of the Las Vegas nighttime enveloped her as she stepped into it, calming as always. It tamed the shivering in her chest and limbs. Filled her lungs with sagescented comfort, like on long-ago evenings spent in her mama’s lap in an old secondhand rocker in a tiny patch of garden behind their mobile home.

“Please,” she said when they hit the parking lot. “Slow down. These shoes aren’t really meant for walking in.” Or maybe her knees still needed to recover from that Prince Charming nonsense.

He halted, glancing down at her four-inch-heeled glass slippers, which sparkled back at him in the reflected streetlamps.

Ah, jeez. The symbolism was just too damn perfect. She felt herself going beet red in embarrassment.

“Really, th-thanks for your assistance,” she stammered, “but I’d prefer to take a cab home.”

She turned toward the fenced perimeter and the street beyond and realized with a sinking feeling that taxis would be few and far between in this neighborhood, even during daylight hours. And it must be three in the morning by now. She’d have to go back inside and have them call—

Suddenly she found herself swept up in Conner’s arms, her wrist looped around his neck.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Kick them off.”

“Huh?”

“The shoes. Lose them. They’re ludicrous.”

“And expensive! No way!”

He made a face. “Lord, you’re stubborn.”

She mirrored it right back. “God, you’re obnoxious.”

They glared at each other for a moment.

“Fine,” Conner said. “Keep the damn shoes.”

“Thank you, I will. Now if you’ll please put me down.”

He actually snorted at her. “Can’t you just accept my help gracefully?”

Before she had a chance to respond, he was carrying her toward a midnight-blue convertible sports car sitting in the first slot of the parking lot. It was the most dazzling car she’d ever seen in her life. And totally intimidating. Low, sleek, catlike in grace and Transformer-like in technology. It had to have cost more than she earned in a year. Or two. His hand moved and a couple of beeps sounded. The two car doors rose up like the wings of a giant bird.

“Holy moly. What is this, the Batmobile?”

“No, a Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren Roadster.” He lowered her into the passenger seat. She sank down into the buttery leather and it hugged her backside like a lover spooning her body. Softly firm and enveloping. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s, um…” Luxurious. Flashy and unreasonably sexy, like its owner. Totally out of her league. Like its owner. “Nice.”