Читать книгу Las Vegas: Scandals - Лорет Энн Уайт, Nina Bruhns - Страница 14

Vera stared up at the stunning mansion in front of her.

Holy mackerel.

The rising sun was just peeking over the desert horizon, spreading a magical spill of golden light over the soft coralcolored adobe walls and arches of the Southwest-inspired manor house and surrounding lush green lawns and gardens.

“You live here?” she asked her jailer. “Alone?”

They were the first words she’d spoken to Conner Biggest-Bully-in-the-Universe Rothchild since she’d grudgingly hunched into the passenger seat of his ridiculously ostentatious car to be driven here. To his house. Where he lived.

How she’d let herself get talked into going anywhere with the lying jerk, let alone his own home, she’d never know.

Okay, not true. It was the work of the usual catch-22: absence of money, family or personal influence.

Story of her life.

“Alone, yes. But I have a lot of friends who visit,” he answered her rhetorical question.

She just bet he did.

Never mind that ninety-eight percent of the women in the state of Nevada would kill to take her place. Or that Las Vegas Magazine’s official Most Eligible Bachelor was undoubtedly the sexiest, most attractive man breathing on this earth. Vera knew very well when she was outclassed, outplayed and miles out of her comfort zone. About ten-and-a-half miles to be exact—the distance between the mobile home park where she’d grown up and Conner Rothchild’s sprawling, multimil-lion-dollar neighborhood.

No, Vera Mancuso had no freaking business being in this place, with this man.

“Must be nice,” she responded as he drove through the ten-foot-tall iron security gate, which closed automatically behind the car. “And you have a lot of family, too, from what I hear. Quite the Las Vegas dynasty, the Rothchilds.”

“Don’t believe everything you read in the tabloids,” he said, pulling to a stop under the entry’s porte cochere.

“I don’t,” she assured him. “My information comes straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Oh?” He gave her a mildly curious hike of an eyebrow as he opened the car door for her and helped her out.

“Darla was good friends with your cousins Candace and Silver. I still have lunch with Silver occasionally.”

“Ah.”

She stopped suddenly and turned back to his car. Before leaving the apartment, the CSI techs had packed her a small overnight bag, including a pair of flip-flops, but she needed her stage shoes for work tonight. They were still behind the seat where he’d tossed them back at FBI headquarters. “I’d like my shoes back, please. From last night.”

“Of course.” He leaned over the side of the car to fish them out.

Oh, boy.

His suit pants stretched over his tight backside, revealing every luscious dip and muscle of that tasty bit of anatomy. She had to stuff her hands under her armpits to keep from touching.

He handed her the glasslike shoes with a wry smile. “Don’t lose one, Cinderella,” he teased.

She made a face and snatched them from his hand. “You know, she talked about you all the time. Your cousin Candace.”

“Did she, now.” He took her overnight bag and led her up the mansion’s sweeping front steps.

“She didn’t like you very much.”

“Now there’s a shock.” He did something with his key chain, and the ornately carved entry door swung open.

“She said you’re mean, stubborn and ruthless and will do anything to get your clients off.”

“Never a good thing in a lawyer,” he said dryly. “After you.”

She met his amused gaze, so strong and confident. Not to mention devoid of shadiness or deceit. With a sinking feeling she suddenly knew Candace was completely wrong about him.

She shouldn’t be surprised. The rivalry between the Rothchild family cousins was legendary in Vegas, where each sought to outdo the other in glamour, media notoriety and wild living. Conner was no exception. He regularly figured in the gossip columns.

But Vera, of all people, was acutely aware that a public image did not always reflect the real person. Although she got along with Candace okay, and Darla adored her, Candace always did have a family ax to grind.

“Touché,” Vera acknowledged, thinking just maybe she’d been wrong about Conner, too.

Not good. She did not want to like this man. Bad enough she was so hopelessly attracted to him physically. How depressing would it be to have him turn out to be honorable and principled, too?

He ushered her in. “Welcome to my home.”

Said the spider to the fly.

“Wow,” she murmured, stepping into a stunning showplace of glossy, contemporary elegance. Clutching her shoes in her hand, she walked from the soaring foyer into a grand salon and did a slow three-sixty, totally awestruck. She’d decorated Darla’s penthouse because when she’d moved in it had white walls and hotel furniture, and she’d been darn proud of the results. But this…this was utterly gorgeous. “Nice place,” she managed.

He chuckled. “Apparently I live for nice.”

Just then, an older woman in a fuzzy robe hurried into the room. “Oh, Mr. Conner, sir! I didn’t expect you back tonight.”

“Sorry to wake you so early, Hildy,” he said in warm apology. “This is Vera. She’ll be spending a few days with me.”

Days?

“Certainly, sir.”

The housekeeper didn’t even bat an eyelash. Obviously not unusual for her employer to bring home women at the crack of dawn and announce they’d be spending more than one night chez Conner. Vera ground her teeth. Well, what did she expect?

“Will you be needing anything, sir? Coffee, or…?” Hildy asked.

“No, nothing, thanks. Just sleep.” He handed her Vera’s overnight bag, and the woman turned to go.

“Uh,” Vera interjected before it was too late, “by ‘with me’ what Mr. Rothchild really meant was ‘here.’ As in ‘here,’ but in a separate bedroom. And ‘here,’ but as far away as possible from where he sleeps.” She pasted on a smile.

This time Hildy did blink. And glanced at Conner for confirmation.

His mouth quirked. “As the lady says. You can put her in the guest cabana. That should be far enough away.”

Hildy’s eyes met hers for a split second, and Vera could have sworn the older lady was holding back a smirk. Vera wondered idly if she’d just joined the ranks of Too-Stupid-To-Live, or Girl Folk Hero…

“Oh, well. I need the sleep anyway,” he said philosophically when the housekeeper had gone. “You’ll like the cabana. It’s very private out there. But don’t get any bright ideas about escaping. I was serious about the armed guard. I’ve already called the security company.”

She didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. “Don’t worry. I took Agent Duncan’s warning to heart.”

Before leaving the penthouse, the FBI man had cautioned her against going anywhere alone, or without Conner’s permission, for her own safety. After finding out about the connection between the stolen ring and the murder of Candace Rothchild and attack on Silver Rothchild, the whole ‘Give it back or you’ll die next bitch’ thing was plenty to convince Vera not to take any chances.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just let Duncan put me in jail,” she said without thinking.

Then she remembered.

Whoops. Yeah, she did know. Because Conner’d expected to have sex with her, that’s why. Which would surely have happened had it not been for the timely interruption of the break-in and the subsequent revelations into his motives for seeking her out in the first place.

She’d so totally lost her mind in that elevator. Thank God she’d found it since.

More or less.

Though being reminded of the delicious things he’d done to her during her temporary insanity wasn’t helping.

She looked up and realized he was gazing at her sardonically, his thoughts as transparent as hers apparently were.

“Forget it.” She wagged a finger. “No bodyguard necessary. Literally or otherwise. I saw the size of the fence around this place, and the only person I’m in danger from here is you.” And possibly herself.

“Only thinking of your safety,” he said amenably.

“Sure you are.”

Seeking a distraction, she glanced around the glamorous room, filled with the trappings of wealth, and was suddenly struck with a pang of regret. What would it be like to be part of this world, even for a few days…or nights? Would it be such a sacrifice to sleep with him, to find out?

God, no. Not in the least. The man was to die for. And she’d be using him just as much as he was using her. But…

“I’m sorry, casual sex isn’t something I do.” She felt the need to explain, but it came with a belated inward wince. “Embarrassing evidence to the contrary.”

He smiled. “Nothing embarrassing about it. In fact, it was pretty damn hot if you ask me. For, you know, not being casual sex.”

She actually felt a flush work its way up her throat to her cheeks. Good grief. When was the last time she’d blushed?

Help.

“You said something about a guest house? I really should get some sleep or I’ll be a mess at work tonight.” She sighed. “Assuming I still have a job.”

He looked surprised. “You’re going back there?”

“Hell, yeah. If the boss will let me. I have no choice, Conner. I have bills to pay. Money doesn’t grow on trees.” She glanced around again. “Well, for some of us anyway.”

He ignored the barb and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Okay. I guess I can do that.”

“You? What do you mean?”

“So quickly they forget.”

“Oh. Right.” They were stuck like glue until Special Agent Duncan decided to arrest her. Which meant Conner’d have to come to the club with her.

A memory washed over her, of him sitting in the front row sipping champagne like a dissolute sultan, watching her take off every stitch of clothing. And—oh, God—how turned on she’d been. By him. By his negligent air of wealth and power. And the hungry look in his eyes as his gaze had caressed her nude body. No wonder she’d gone off like a rocket when he touched her later on.

She swallowed. “I suppose you’ll insist on going with me.”

“Oh, absolutely. Wouldn’t miss it.” He winked.

That’s what she was afraid of.

That, and the nutcase who might now be after her because of that damn ring. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea he went with her, after all.

Bad enough she’d invaded his dreams all night like some kind of teasing succubus, but even now, the next morning, sun shining, birds singing, the little witch was still torturing him. Deliberately. With malice aforethought.

Conner frowned, taking in the sight that had nearly made the tray of coffee and croissants he was carrying spill all over the Mexican patio tiles. The French doors to the cabana had been flung open. Sheer curtains billowed out from them in the hot desert breeze. Inside the dim room, the scene was straight out of one of the erotic dreams he’d been haunted by all night.

Vera. Nude. Sprawled on her stomach across her bed…Except in his dreams of course it had been his bed. Sheets in a tangle. Her skin moist with a sheen of sweat. Her hair in a mess as though from his fingers…Except his fingers had unfortunately been nowhere near her last night.

Seeing her like that, he’d been shocked enough that his first thought was that she was dead. Lying there brutally murdered, like his cousin Candace. The memory of that crime scene had streaked through his mind, nearly tipping the tray in his hands. Thankfully she’d stirred immediately at the sound of the rattling dishes so he knew she was okay, or he would really have lost it.

As it was, he was now close to losing it for an entirely different reason.

The woman was a sensual vision. Her hot body even sexier than in his dreams.

Easy, boy.

She’d made it clear last night she was no longer interested in sex with him. He’d honored her wishes and hadn’t pushed it, although he was pretty sure he could have changed her mind with very little effort. They obviously had chemistry. Potent chemistry. And lots of it.

But this…this was unfair.

Or maybe it was an invitation? Had she gone to bed naked, hoping he would come to her?

What an idiot. He should at least have tried…

“Conner?”

He started at the sound of her throaty, sleep-muzzy voice. The dishes rattled, and he had to catch the tray for the second time to keep from dumping it.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

She turned over in the bed, and he gripped the tray even harder. Pure torture. “What have you got?”

Besides a hard-on? “Breakfast,” he croaked. “Interested?”

“Mmm.” Her arms rose in a languorous stretch. “Coffee, I hope?”

Lord, help him.

“Yep.” He reached a nearby patio table just in time, depositing the tray on the round glass top with a clatter. After righting the cups and returning the croissants to the plate, he turned, ready to abandon all pretense and just go in and devour her, when she strolled by with another stretch, heading for the pool.

“I feel divine! Haven’t slept so well in ages,” she declared, pushing her mane of chestnut hair back from her face. “I love sleeping with the doors open, with the warm air and the smell of the desert. Haven’t been able to do that since I sold the mobile home.”

He paused, nonplussed. Okay. Obviously not an invitation. He grappled for a thread of conversation that didn’t involve the words condom or go down. “Mobile home?” he asked.

She shot him a look, stopping at the edge of the pool and dipping a toe into it. A toe that was bare, just like the rest of her. “I grew up in the Sunnyvale Mobile Home Park, just outside of town.”

He knew that. He was just momentarily brain-dead. “No air-conditioning?” he ventured.

She smiled. “No.”

She executed a perfect dive into the water. He let out a long, long breath, and for a few minutes he watched her expertly cut through the water, the joy in her movements contagious. He wanted to join her in the worst way, but in a sense it would have been like some fool painting daisies into a Monet. Perfection spoiled. He forced himself onto a patio chair, peeled off his shirt because he was suddenly far too warm and poured coffee instead.

She bobbed up at the side of the pool, folding her arms along the coping. “Hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t resist a quick dip. We have a pool in our apartment building, but it’s indoors.” She wrinkled her nose as though that were a cardinal sin.

“Take all the time you like. I’m enjoying the view.”

She tilted her head. “Not misinterpreting, I hope.”

“I’ll have to admit,” he said, taking a sip of strong black coffee to jolt his mind back up where it belonged, “your…lack of inhibition did take me in a certain direction. I now stand corrected.”

She smiled and lithely hoisted herself from the water and onto the deck in one fluid movement. Like Venus rising from the sea. She padded to the table with water flowing from her lightly tanned skin like drops of molten gold, and reached for his cup. She put it to her lips with eyes closed and long lashes sparkling with water droplets. He had to grip the arms of his chair to keep from surging to his feet to lick them off. Along with the rivulets trickling down her perfect breasts.

He stifled a groan.

She set the cup down on the table. “Give me a minute,” she said. “I’ll get dressed.” Then she disappeared into the cabana.

He cleared his throat, found his voice and called after her, “Don’t bother on my account!”

And he knew then if he hadn’t before—which deep down he had, but up until this very moment had chosen total, blind denial. One thing was for damned certain.

He had to have her.

Really have her. All to himself. For a few days. A week. Maybe even a month. Long enough to explore that chatterbox mouth with its guileless smile, that amazingly sensual body and the wonderfully sassy woman inside it.

Oh, yeah. He’d have her, all right.

He’d find a way to make her want him.

And the sooner the better.

Or he might just go completely out of his mind.