Las Vegas: Scandals. Nina Bruhns
lowering of her eyelashes, she scooped up the dress and let it fall provocatively right into his lap. Her eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly.
Okay, seriously wow. A challenge? Clearly, she did not know him. Conner didn’t lose. And if there was one thing he never lost, it was a dare.
Oh. Yeah.
He looked up at her and conjured his most seductive smile.
Still moving to the music, she knelt down on the stage. Right before him. With those melting eyes and amazing milelong legs…encased in white thigh-high stockings and impossibly sexy crystal-clear high-heeled shoes. She dropped to her hands and knees. Just for him.
His brain pretty much disintegrated. The rest of his body was set to explode. He was hard and thick as one of those columns at the Forum. The real one in Rome.
The Rothchild heirloom flashed on her finger. His family’s ring. A smile curved his lips.
She wanted his family jewel? Well, then. He just might have to be a gentleman and give it to her.
Oh, yes. This curse could prove to be very, very interesting, indeed.
Chapter 3
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