Читать книгу Prince Charming For 1 Night - Nina Bruhns - Страница 8

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.

He peeled off a few more bills and pressed them into her palm. “Tell Miss LaRue I have information about her sister. And that I’ll match whatever she just made onstage.”

Where she’d practically seduced him, by the way. But the woman didn’t do lap dances. Something didn’t add up about that picture.

The waitress shrugged. “You’re wasting your time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She beckoned him with a crooked finger.

He strolled along behind her to the back of the club and followed her up the red-carpeted stairs to the second floor, where the inevitable small, “private entertainment” VIP rooms were located. Though gentlemen’s clubs weren’t Conner’s favorite hangouts, one couldn’t be a defense attorney in Vegas without doing a certain amount of business in them. Especially since his frequent pro bono work tended to involve hookers and runaways. So he was fairly familiar with the standard club setup.

Because of its enduring fame, Old Vegas reputation and pricey cover charge—and thanks to a complete renovation in the nineties—the Diamond Lounge wasn’t too bad, compared to most. Clean. Sophisticated decor. Unobtrusive bouncers. Nice-looking, classy ladies. He supposed if you had to work in a place like this, the Diamond Lounge was definitely top drawer.

But once again he wondered why über-conservative Maximillian St. Giles let his daughter work at all, let alone take off her clothes for money. Even if she was illegitimate, and as far as he knew, unacknowledged, a negative reflection was still cast on the family.

Not that Conner was objecting to her taking off her clothes. Hell, no. The woman had an incredible body.

She also had his family’s ring.

He wanted it back. That was his primary objective here. And nailing down Darla’s involvement in his cousin’s murder. Not nailing Vera LaRue. But if in the course of things, he ended up close and personal with her, well, who was he to protest? Especially considering the unmistakable signals she’d given him from up onstage. She had to be expecting this.

Handing the waitress his credit card, he did a quick survey of the tiny, soundproof room, then sprawled onto the heavy, red leather divan that took up most of one wall. Soft music played in the background. Scented candles littered the surfaces of two low tables at either end of the divan, as well as on the heavy wood mantel of the fireplace across from it. The tasteful cornice lighting was recessed and rose-colored, lending a pastel glow to Oriental rugs over cream-colored carpet and gauzy curtains that looked more like mosquito nets draped all around the walls of the room. It was like being cocooned in some exotic Caribbean bordello.

Oddly arousing.

The curtains over the door parted, and Vera LaRue suddenly stood there, holding a sweating champagne bottle and two crystal flutes. She’d put the wedding dress back on.

Hey, now.

“Hello,” she said, her voice throaty and rich like a tenor sax. “I understand you wanted to speak with me about my sister.”

Suddenly, talk wasn’t at all what he wanted.

Wait. Yes, it was.

“Why don’t you come in and open up that bottle,” he suggested, indicating the champagne in her hand. The hand with the Tears of the Quetzal diamond on it. Focus, Conner.

“I, um…” She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t think so. Truth is, I don’t do this.”

He hiked a brow. “Drink champagne?”

She blinked. Flicked her gaze down to the bottle then back to him, even more flustered. “No. I mean yes, I drink champagne. Of course I drink champagne. Everyone does. But I don’t do lap dances. I only came because you mentioned my sister. Now, what was it—”

“I understand,” he cut in agreeably. Not having to endure her gyrating on his lap without being able to touch her was probably a good thing. If maybe a little disappointing. Fine, a lot disappointing. “Let’s have some bubbly and then we can talk.”

She gave him a look. What? She didn’t believe him, either? “Sir, I’m serious. It’s nothing to do with you. You seem like a nice guy. I just really don’t—”

“Please. Call me Conner. If you don’t want to dance for me, Ms. LaRue, that’s fine. As appealing as that might be, it’s not why I’m here.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Here. I’ll open it.”

When she still balked, he stood up. That made her jump. But she recovered quickly. She gave him the bottle and pulled back her hand a little too fast. As though she were…afraid to touch him?

Impossible. The woman who’d practically had sex with him with her eyes from the stage could not possibly be nervous about physical contact, regardless of what he might or might not have had in mind for this tète à tète.

Which was just to talk.

Honest to God.

Or…did she perhaps realize who he was? That hadn’t occurred to him. Had Darla warned Vera someone might come looking for the ring? Maybe asking questions about a murder? Was this modesty thing all a big ploy to throw him off?

Nah. If so, she would have run away, not flirted mercilessly and then locked herself and the ring in a tiny room with him.

The cork flew, startling her into raising the flutes to catch the golden liquid. Her satiny gown rustled against his legs as he stepped closer to fill the glasses. The scent of her perfume clung to the air around her—sweet and spicy. Very nice.

Suddenly, the most insanely irrational thought struck him. What if she really were his beautiful bride, that this really was their wedding night and he really was about to peel that bridal gown off her and—

Whoa, there, buddy. Hold on.

Where the hell had that come from?

Totally inappropriate temporary insanity, that was where. Obviously he’d gone without sex for far too long, and it was somehow damaging his brain’s ability to function in the presence of a beautiful woman.

He eased a flute from her stiff fingers and clicked it with hers. Back to business.

But instead of a trust-inducing get-to-know-you question, what came out of his mouth was, “You do have some amazing moves, Ms. LaRue.”

To make matters worse, his rebellious gaze inched boldly down her delectable body, all of its own volition.

Help.

“Um, thanks, Conner. I appreciate your…um, appreciation. But now you really need to tell me whatever information you have about my sister, or I’ll be leaving.”

Damn, she looked good. And so sweetly uncomfortable, he pulled out his roll, thumbed off two C-notes, held them up, and confessed, “Okay, you were right. I would like to see you dance up close.”

Okay, way to go, you total moron. What was wrong with him? This was not the way he conducted business.

“I knew it.” She shook her head, taking a step backward, away from him. “Look, I’m really sorry, but this is not happening. I’ll just go find someone else—”

An incredible thought flew through his mind as she chattered on about getting him another girl. Could this befuddling change in his self-control be the mysterious power of the ancient Mayan legend-slash-curse Uncle Harold was always talking about? The part he was obsessed with portended terrible things would befall anyone who possessed the ring with evil intentions. But the other part said the spirit of the Quetzal would bring any truly worthy person within its range of influence true, abiding love.

For a second he just stood there, stunned.

He-llo?

Had he gone completely insane?

Mystical powers? True love? With an exotic dancer?

He gave himself a firm mental thwack.

And smiled at her. “No, it’s you I want, and the room is already paid for.” By the quarter-hour, no less. He held up his money roll. “Tell me, what did you make in tips onstage? I promised to match it.” To talk, he tried to compel his mouth to say. But the words just wouldn’t come out.

She didn’t even blink. “That’s very nice of you, but no. Thank you. As I said—” She launched into her spiel yet again.

But he wasn’t listening. It was like he was standing next to himself watching as he was being taken over by pod people. He should be taking it slow. From arm’s length. Gaining her trust. Not trying to jump her bones. Certainly not until after he’d gotten his answers. And his family’s ring back. He knew that. But she was simply too delicious to resist.

Ah, what the hell.

He surrendered to it. Changed tactics. Her first. Answers later. Then the ring.

Yeah, that worked.

Determined, he thumbed out several more bills, bringing her chatter to a stuttering halt. He didn’t doubt for a second she’d eventually capitulate. One thing his ruthless family had taught him—everyone capitulated. It was all just a matter of negotiation. “Four-hundred? Five?”

She swallowed. “Really. I don’t think you under—”

He started peeling and didn’t stop till he reached ten. “Let’s say an even thousand, shall we?”

That really shut her up. She stared at the money, then shifted her gaze to stare at him for an endless moment. “Why?” she finally asked.

Good freaking question.

Vera LaRue was so different from the type of woman he was usually attracted to…this was completely unknown territory. Sure, he frequently worked with hookers, dancers and runaways in his legal practice. Worked. But he was definitely not attracted to them. Never slept with them. Ever.

So what was different about this woman? What made him want her? And no—hell, no!—it had nothing to do with mystical powers or curses.

A matter of pride maybe? Conner Rothchild wasn’t used to being denied. The only time he took that without protest was in court.

Okay, bull.

Not pride. Not some stupid Mayan curse.

But chemistry. Sexual chemistry. Plain and simple. He wanted her in his bed, naked and moving on top of him. She was the sexiest woman he’d met in decades. Was this rocket science?

He wanted her. A lap dance seemed like a damned good way to convince her she wanted him, too. It was a start, anyway.

“Why?” he echoed. And gave her his best winning jury smile. “Let’s just say you intrigue me.”

She regarded him for another endless moment, her eyes narrowing and filling with suspicion. “Who are you, anyway?”

Uh-oh.

But as luck would have it, he never got the chance to answer. Because just then the door whooshed open and the mosquito net curtains blew aside as though from a strong wind. Two men in suits strode through and halted right inside, looking so much like federal agents that just on reflex Conner was about to warn Vera to not to say a word.

One of the men stepped forward. “Miss St. Giles?”

With a frown, Vera turned to the newcomers in confusion. “What?”

Conner frowned, too, when Forward Guy spotted the Tears of the Quetzal diamond on her finger, looked grimly smug, then officiously snapped up an ID wallet. “Special Agent Lex Duncan, FBI.”

Oh, come on. Seriously?

But it was Special Agent Duncan’s next words that really seemed to confuse the hell out of Vera. And him, too.

“Darla St. Giles, I am hereby placing you under arrest.”