Читать книгу Las Vegas: Scandals: Prince Charming for 1 Night - Лорет Энн Уайт, Nina Bruhns - Страница 12

Conner took one look at the destruction in front of him and instantly visions of Candace’s murder scene slammed through his brain. The wreckage. Her pale face lying in a stain of blood.

Oh, no, please not another victim.

He grabbed Vera and whisked her back out the door and pushed her against the foyer wall.

“Don’t move,” he admonished as he whipped out his cell phone and Lex Duncan’s card from his pocket. “Someone may still be in there.” Like Darla. Sprawled dead on the floor as Candace had been. Though he hadn’t seen any blood or body in the quick visual scan he’d done. Thank God.

Vera looked like a deer caught in the headlights. “Someone like who?” she asked in a strangled croak, grasping his suit jacket sleeve with both hands.

“Whoever did this,” he answered, punching buttons on the phone and trying not to think about what he’d just done with those same fingers. What he’d been about to do with them. Damn.

“Duncan.”

“It’s Conner Rothchild. Vera and Darla’s place has been broken into,” he told the FBI agent. “It looks bad.”

Duncan swore. “Darla?”

“Not here that I could see.”

“Exit the apartment and wait for me outside,” he ordered, then hung up.

“I don’t understand,” Vera said, her voice cracking. Her eyes filled as he pulled her fully into his arms. “Why would anyone write something that horrible on my wall? Give what back?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. Though he knew damn well. Silver had received a nearly identical message scrawled on her mirror about being the next one to die—just before someone maliciously brought a scaffolding down on her head. That someone must still be after the Tears of the Quetzal. And didn’t know it was now in FBI custody. Until the culprit was found, Vera could be in danger.

Conner gathered her up in his arms again, heading for the elevator. “Let’s get you away from here.”

For a second she looked like she wanted to object. But then she just put her arms around him and clung to him. Not in a sexual way—despite the fact that she was nearly naked and just moments ago had all but given herself to him—but like a frightened woman would hold a man who made her feel safe.

His stomach roiled into a clot of opposing emotions. Anger at whoever had done this. And a strange, completely alien sense of wanting to protect her from all harm.

Okay, that and a gnawing sense of panic.

Something was going on deep inside him, in his heart, that he did not understand. Did not need. Definitely did not want.

The elevator opened and he swept in, pushed the button for the ground floor.

“Vera,” he said. “I know you didn’t want me as your lawyer, but I’m hoping you trust me as a friend, after—” He stopped, suddenly feeling awkward. Damn. If not for the break-in, they’d be in bed by now, naked, and he’d be deep inside her. Making love. He was still aroused, still aching for relief. Still wanting her like she was the last woman on earth and he hadn’t had sex for at least a decade.

He cleared his throat. “In light of…what happened between us, I’ll be turning over your case to my assistant in the morning. Meanwhile, I hope you believe I have your interests as my top priority in this incident.”

For once she didn’t argue. She bit her lip and nodded. It obviously hadn’t occurred to her that her sister might be inside hurt—or worse. He didn’t intend to enlighten her. But there were also other issues at hand.

“Here’s the thing. The FBI is on its way. Vera, think hard. If there’s anything, any reason at all, they shouldn’t go into your apartment, you need to tell me now. Before they arrive.”

She gazed up at him, her green eyes wide and uncomprehending. Man, she was guileless. Did that mean his instincts were right about her?

“You mean…like drugs or something?” she asked.

Again he cleared his throat, not understanding why it was so damn important to him that she be innocent. “For example, yeah.”

She continued to worry her lip. “Um. Darla might not want them in her room. There could be…some illegal substances.”

He nodded. No shock there. “They’ll probably look the other way on that, this time. Anything else?”

“Like…?”

“Did Duncan tell you any of his suspicions about your sister?” he asked carefully.

“Suspicions of what?”

Okay, apparently not. “I’m not really sure how much I should be revealing to you, but since you’re still my client, I feel I should be up-front and warn you. That ring you were wearing isn’t the only thing Darla is suspected of stealing. There may be more.”

“Stolen jewelry?” she asked, her jaw dropping. “That’s not possible. Darla is rich! An heiress. Why would she ever…” Vera’s words trickled to a stop.

He gazed down at her. “Could it be true? Because if the FBI finds stolen goods in your apartment, it could get really ugly.”

“I don’t know,” she said worriedly. “Really. I wouldn’t have thought so, but…Darla is…Well, sometimes she gets these crazy ideas. For thrills, she says. Or to get back at our father. For his neglect. I suppose…” She looked miserable. “I suppose it could be true. I just don’t know. But I don’t think anything would be kept here. I would know.”

“Fair enough.” The elevator doors opened and suddenly he remembered what she was wearing…or rather, not wearing. He was about to slip off his jacket to give her when he realized the bag of belongings she’d dropped on the ride up was still lying in the corner of the elevator.

He grabbed it and pressed it into her hands. “Here. Better get dressed before someone sees you.”

“Oh, jeez,” she said, glancing down at herself. “Not exactly street attire.”

More’s the pity. He admired how she was so totally comfortable in her own bare skin. The women he knew would be dying of embarrassment to be seen like this in public, every last one, convinced their bodies were too fat or too skinny or had some other terrible imagined flaw, making them unduly self-conscious. Women could have such hang-ups about their self-image. It was refreshing to be around one who so obviously liked how she looked.

She quickly pulled on the jeans and T-shirt. He forced himself to concentrate. “You stay down here in the lobby and wait for Duncan. I’ll go back to the apartment and take a quick look around. If there’s anything that shouldn’t be found, I’ll deny him permission to search there. Okay?”

Fear leaped into her eyes. “You’re leaving me alone? Why can’t I go with you?”

“Just in case,” he said, and she looked even more panicked. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Duncan will get here in a few minutes.” Unable to help himself, he bent down and kissed her. The taste of her lips swirled on his tongue, and a painful ache of arousal swept through him again. Too good. He pulled away.

“Conner, wait,” she began. She glanced down at his mouth, and then his body, and something shifted in her expression. Uh-oh, trouble ahead. “I, um, don’t—”

He put a finger to her lips. “Shh. We’ll talk later, all right? I’ve got to go up.”

She nodded reluctantly. “What if someone’s up there with a gun?” she asked nervously.

“Anyone’s probably long gone,” he assured her, then led her out of the elevator, gave her a last kiss and got back on.

Watching him unhappily, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “Please, be careful.”

He smiled, touched by the sincere worry in her eyes. “Count on it.”

Once up in the apartment, he was able to give the whole penthouse a cursory search before the FBI showed up. No Darla, thank heaven. Nothing else out of the ordinary was visible in the piles of debris left by the break-in or in any of the bedrooms, either, so granting Duncan and his CSI techs access would not compromise his client.

He took one last look around. If the place hadn’t been such a mess, it would have been really nice. If nothing else, Darla had good taste. At least in interior decorating. In friends and lifestyle, maybe not so much.

Of course, an exotic dancer would normally be included in his general condemnation. In the Las Vegas legal community, aside from his take-no-prisoners ruthlessness in the courtroom, Conner was known for a generous pro bono policy toward the homeless, drug addicts and sex workers. But he’d never considered them his equals in any sense of the word. His family would disown him if they even suspected he was considering a serious liaison with a stripper…even if she was the illegitimate daughter of billionaire Maximillian St. Giles.

Hell, especially if she was the illegitimate daughter of Maximillian St. Giles. Or any other woman not in his social class or better. The key word there was illegitimate. His father had given Uncle Harold a lifetime of grief for marrying beneath him. More than once. Conner had no intention of repeating that mistake and lowering his father’s respect for him. Or giving his blue-blood family any reason to question Conner’s loyalty to their highbrow ideals, even if he thought they were at times silly and sometimes destructive.

He’d seen firsthand what those kind of elitist notions could do to families. Look at Candace. He was convinced she’d still be alive today if she hadn’t been summarily dismissed from the family fold after marrying Jack Cortland, the druggie rock-star boy. Those two poor kids of hers. God only knew what would become of them without the support of family, with only a questionable father to raise them, stuck out on some ranch in the middle of nowhere.

Anyway. Under all the broken glassware and china, disheveled books and shelf items and knife-slit, unstuffed cushions and furniture, Conner recognized a beautiful living space, subtly sophisticated and timelessly chic. He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. Pleasantly so. Some of Darla’s wealthy upbringing must have rubbed off on her, after all.

He gave a wry sigh. That probably explained why she’d gone after the Tears of the Quetzal. The ring was the classiest piece of jewelry he’d ever laid eyes on. And now it had passed from Vera’s finger straight into FBI custody. Forget about retrieving it any time soon. That place was like Fort Knox. Uncle Harold was not going to be pleased.

The sound of the elevator approaching pulled Conner back to the situation at hand. He went out to the foyer and met Special Agent Duncan as he exited the lift, followed by two other men in white jumpsuits carrying CSI cases. Vera popped out like a nervous jack-in-the-box.

“Are you okay?” she asked him before Duncan could open his mouth. “Did you see anyone? Any more messages written on the walls? Talk to me!”

“Whoa, slow down,” he admonished gently and put an arm around her shoulder. “No more graffiti. No sign of the intruders, ” he told Duncan, and gave a surreptitious shake of his head at the agent’s silent query about Darla.

Duncan looked relieved, then gave Conner’s protective arm a brief, disapproving frown.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Conner said to stave off any comments, “but I’m turning over Vera’s case to an associate so there’s no conflict of interest.”

Duncan’s frown deepened as he signaled the CSI techs to proceed into the penthouse to get started. “That wasn’t part of our deal,” he said.

“What deal?” Vera asked.

“Nothing’s changed,” Conner assured him. “Can we just—”

“What deal?” Vera asked again, more insistently. She turned under his arm to look up at him.

“Never mind—”

Duncan addressed her. “For your release.”

“What about it?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

Damn. So not good.

“Rothchild agreed to help us bring Darla St. Giles into custody. He promised to call us when she contacts you.”

Ah, hell.

Shock went through her expression. She stepped away from him angrily. “Oh, really. What makes you think she’ll contact me? And even if she does, what makes you think I’ll tell you? How dare you! What would make you agree to such a thing?” Her voice was getting louder and louder.

“Vera, please believe me, it was for your own good.”

“My own good?” she spat out. “Are you kidding me? Betraying my sister?”

“He’s right,” Duncan interjected stonily. “You were apprehended with the Rothchild’s diamond on your finger. Until it can be established exactly how it got there, you are our—”

“Wait just a cotton-picking minute!” Her expression went even more furious. She glared at Conner. “The Rothchild’s diamond? That was your ring?”

He was in such deep trouble. “My family’s, yes. But—”

She looked like he had slapped her across the face. Hard. “And you were going to tell me this little detail when?”

“Vera, who the ring belongs to is not what’s important here.”

“My God, Conner! If that’s not a conflict of interest, I don’t know what is! And you expect me to trust you? What else are you lying to me about?”

It was his turn to be indignant. “That’s not fair. I never lied to you.”

“I may not be some rich, fancy-schmancy lawyer, but even I know what lying by omission means,” she ground out. “And to think I—” Her mouth snapped shut, and she squeezed her eyes closed.

He fisted his hands on his hips, ignoring the all-too-personal dig. “Do you recall in the club when I said I had information about your sister? I was going to tell you then, but was interrupted when…let’s see…oh, yeah, you got arrested!”

“Speaking of which.” Duncan stepped between them. “Why exactly were you at the Diamond Lounge in the first place, Rothchild? Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” The FBI agent’s tone was neutral, but his meaning was unmistakable.

Conner tamped down on his quickly rising hackles. Forced himself into composed, professional lawyer mode. “Are you by any chance asking me for an alibi?” he asked coolly. “For this?” He swept a hand toward the mess in the apartment.

Duncan lifted a shoulder. “It occurs to me that a Rothchild would have the strongest motive to search Miss St. Giles’s home. Missing family heirloom, and all. And you being convinced she stole it.” He looked smug. “It would also explain your presence at the Diamond Lounge. You didn’t find the ring when you searched the apartment and Darla had disappeared, so you took a chance her sister might know where she went.”

Damn. It all sounded far too plausible.

Except it was all bull, and Duncan knew it. They both knew whoever did this was the same person who’d stalked and almost killed Silver. And possibly Candace. But, okay, he played along.

“Just one thing wrong with your theory,” Conner said evenly. “I had no idea Darla had a sister. Oh, and the fact that I do have an alibi. I was working another case. The Parker case, if you want to call my firm. I spent the whole afternoon asking questions of the dancers up and down the Strip. At least a couple hundred witnesses, plus video surveillance, I’m sure. The Diamond Lounge was my next stop.” He held up a hand. “And, yes, I do have a checked-off list to prove it. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

At least Duncan cracked a smile. Vera was still glaring at Conner.

“Okay,” Duncan said. “I’ll get that checked out, but I believe you’re telling the truth. Meanwhile, I still have the problem of Ms. Mancuso. Because if you didn’t do the break-in…”

Conner nodded. “It was most likely the same guy who’s been after the ring since it disappeared from Candace’s hand the night she died.”

Duncan nodded, too. “A thief whom Darla seems to have double-crossed. And since the FBI now has the ring in its custody—”

“He didn’t find it in his search. And since Darla has disappeared—”

“He’ll be looking for Ms. Mancuso next, thinking she knows where to find her sister, and therefore the ring.”

Vera had been watching the back-and-forth like a spectator at a tennis match, but now she finally caught on with a gasp. “Are you saying…I could be in danger?”

“Did you read the message he left on the wall?” Conner queried.

“This man has already gone on the attack for the ring,” Duncan said. “Don’t take any chances with your safety.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Ms. Mancuso was released into your recognizance, Rothchild. ” Duncan turned to remind him. “And the terms of her bail still stand. But if you prefer, I’ll take her back into custody. I can’t risk losing my only suspect. In any manner.”

“What? Hold on!” Vera exclaimed. “His recognizance or police custody? There has to be a door number three here.”

“I respect your dilemma, Ms. Mancuso,” the agent said. “But the only reason you are not in a cell right now is because of Mr. Rothchild’s spotless reputation as an attorney and his formidable social standing in the community. I’ve already stretched the law as far as I’m willing to go in that regard. He stays with you or you come with me.”

There was a pregnant pause, the silence in the marble foyer only broken by the sounds of the CSI techs’ cameras clicking inside the apartment.

“Fine,” she said at length, but obviously mad as a hornet. “I’ll move a futon for him out into the vestibule.” She rounded on Conner. “You can set it up in front of the elevator so there’s no way I—or anyone else—can slip past—”

His brows shot up. Excuse me? He shoved aside the insult. “You want to stay in a ransacked apartment?”

“Like I have a choice?” she fired back.

“Sorry,” Duncan interrupted. “Not possible. No one’s allowed into the apartment until the techs are finished processing for trace and fingerprints. That’ll take at least a few hours.”

“She’ll stay at my place,” Conner said through clamped teeth, ready to strangle the woman. A freakin’ futon? He didn’t think so.

She opened her mouth to protest but he nipped it. “I have plenty of room. And can provide an armed guard,” he added pointedly.

“Good,” Duncan said, passing Conner his notebook. “Write down the address and phone number.”

Almost sputtering, she crossed her arms over her ample chest. Sending an untimely reminder through his body that he was still more than half-aroused. But her vehement, “I am not going anywhere with you,” jerked him right out of his momentary hormonal stupor.

Which probably made him point out more sharply than strictly necessary, “I happen to know you have no money and nowhere else to go.” He ignored her gasp and went on, “And if you think I’m paying for a hotel when I have ten bedrooms sitting empty at my house, you’re dead wrong.”

She blinked and her eyes shuttered. He realized too late he’d reacted like a defense attorney, trampling her objections like a charging rhino. And he’d hurt her.

Well, too damn bad. She’d hurt him first.

He pushed out a calming breath, chagrined at his childish outburst.

God.

Was he actually whining like a two-year-old?

“I’m sorry,” he said gruffly. “That was a thoughtless and unnecessary remark. But the reality is, it’s my house or jail.”

She looked like a Nile cat chased into a tree by that charging rhino. Angry. Cornered. But undefeated. “In that case,” she said with chin held high, “I’ll take jail.”