Las Vegas: Scandals

Chapter 4

“You can’t do that!” Vera exclaimed as an honest-to-goodness FBI agent spun her around, grabbed her wrists and snapped handcuffs onto them. “Hey! Watch the dress!” she cried. “What the heck—”

“Ms. St. Giles, you have the right to remain silent—”

“What? Are you kidding? I am not—”

“Vera,” Conner, her would-be john, cut her off over the drone of the FBI agent—what was his name? Lexicon?—reciting her rights, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of this.”

Not only was the man annoying but he was a real buttinsky, too. “You don’t understand. I’m not—”

“I know you’re not,” Conner cut her off again. “But obviously they think you are.”

“Move away from the suspect, sir,” her second would-be arrestor admonished her would-be lawyer briskly, with just a touch of disdain in his voice, as Agent Lexicon continued his recitation. Great. Already with the attitude.

All at once his words registered. “Suspect?” she echoed, horrified. “Me? I’m not a suspect!” she insisted, growing more frustrated by the second. And more worried. She could see a crowd gathering outside the door. If Lecherous Lou got wind of this, her butt would be fired for sure.

One thing a club in this city did not need was bad publicity of any kind. Kept the tourists away. And her boss had just been waiting for a good excuse to fire her. Mainly because she refused his disgusting advances, but also because she wouldn’t get involved in that shady business he was running on the side with a few other club managers, providing high-class dancers for private parties.

“That’s right. You’re no mere suspect,” Agent Attitude agreed. “You’ve been caught red-handed, sweetheart, guilty as hell. Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.” He snickered at his own lame joke.

“What do you mean, guilty? I haven’t done anything!”

“Vera,” Conner headed off her impending tirade, “do not say another word.” She snapped her mouth shut in irritation as he turned to Lex Luthor. “I’m Conner Rothchild, the lady’s legal counsel. She is invoking her right to silence and to an attorney.”

Wait. Oh, no. Conner what? Did he just say his name was—

“And by the way,” Conner continued, “this woman is not Darla St. Giles. So if you would kindly take off the handcuffs and let her go?”

Rothchild! As in—

Agent Lucifer whipped around and peered closer at her. “Then who is she?” he demanded.

Rothchild! Oh, no. No way, Jose. She knew the reputation that went along with the name Conner Rothchild. She’d heard plenty of horror stories from his own cousins, tabloid-diva Candace and pop star Silver, who used to be two of Darla’s best friends. Not only was Conner a sleaze-bag shark of a defense attorney according to Candace, but according to Silver he was also possibly the biggest skirt-chaser in the state.

“She’s—”

Hell, no. “I’m terribly sorry, but this man is not my attorney,” she jumped in indignantly. “And I can answer for myself, thank you very much. My name is Vera Mancuso, and Darla St. Giles is my—”

“Stop!” Conner-freaking-playboy-of-the-year-Rothchild cut her off again with an exasperated glare. “I said not another word! I am her attorney, but since she is not the person you are looking for—”

“Oh, she’s the right person, all right,” the Devil’s agent said resolutely. He pointed an accusing finger at her left hand. “Whoever she is, she’s in possession of material evidence stolen from police custody. Therefore, Vera Mancuso, is it? I am placing you under arrest—”

“What?” The rest of his words faded out as Agent Attitude pried the ring from her finger and dropped it into a small Ziploc bag. “Oh. My. God. I cannot believe this.” Her incredulity continued to pour out of her mouth all on its own as desperate thoughts bombarded her mind even faster.

Stolen? From the police? Oh, Darla! What have you gotten yourself into this time? Wait a second. Darla, nothing. Heck, what had her sister gotten her into this time? Now Darla’s request to hide the ring made perfect sense. Stolen! She could go to jail!

Despair swept over her as the FBI agents pushed her out into the main part of the club, where every single person stood and gaped in avid interest as she was led through the room in handcuffs, tripping over the bridal gown because with the restraints she couldn’t hold it up to walk. Even the new girl onstage stopped gyrating and stared wide-eyed. And, damn it, there was Lecherous Lou, looking murderous as he watched her being taken away.

Great. So much for that job.

What would she do for money now? How would she pay for Joe’s retirement home from prison? Too bad she hadn’t accepted gazillionaire Conner’s proposition earlier…and gotten paid up front. That thousand bucks would at least have bought her a week or two respite. Then, oh, darn, got arrested, can’t do the lap dance. Sorry, no refunds.

Yeah. Like her conscience would have let her do that, even if a thousand bucks to this man was merely a night’s meaningless amusement. Honesty was such a bitch.

“You have a change of clothes in your dressing room?” Mr. Persistent Attorney asked as she was herded through the club’s front door. She glanced back at him. And wondered what his real agenda was. He couldn’t possibly care what happened to her.

Yeah, like she couldn’t guess.

Conner Rothchild was a blue-blooded playboy who made the gossip columns nearly as often as Darla and Silver and their jet-setting, hard-clubbing cronies. Always with a different woman on his arm. He probably thought slumming it with Darla St. Giles’s exotic-dancer sister would be a hoot. For about five minutes. Meanwhile, she’d be outed to the world at large, and good ol’ Maximillian would be furious.

“I’ll grab your purse and follow you,” Conner said when she deliberately didn’t answer. “Don’t say anything until I get there. Nothing. I mean it.”

“Look,” she made one last stab at reasoning with him as she was being stuffed into the back of an unmarked SUV. The white frothy wedding dress filled the entire seat, and she had to punch it down. “Please don’t bother following me. You can’t be my attorney. I have no money to pay your fee, and even if I did, I—”

“Don’t worry about the fee,” he responded with a dismissive gesture.

Uh-huh. A girl didn’t need a telescope to see exactly where this was going. “And I don’t pay in kind!” she yelled just before the door slammed.

He grinned at her through the window. And had the audacity to wink.

She groaned, closed her eyes and sank down in the seat. Swell. Just freaking swell. Broke. Fired. Arrested by the FBI. And pimped out to the city’s most charming keg of sexual dynamite.

What the hell else could go wrong today?

Special Agent Lex Duncan was being a real pismire.

Conner folded his hands in front of himself to keep from decking the jerk. They were standing in the observation room attached to interrogation out at the FBI’s main Las Vegas field station. Vera was sitting at a table on the other side of the one-way mirror, looking tired, vulnerable and all but defeated. She hadn’t started crying yet, but Conner felt instinctively she was close. Very close. Duncan had been interrogating her hard for over two hours, asking the same questions again and again. He hadn’t even let her change out of that sexy breakaway bridal gown into the jeans and T-shirt Conner’d brought for her along with her purse from the dressing room. Pure intimidation. The bastard.

“Listen to me. She’s not involved,” he told Duncan for the dozenth time. He wasn’t sure when he’d started being a true believer, but he was now firmly in the Vera-isn’t-involved-in-the-ring-heist-or-Candace’s-murder camp. In fact, he was pretty convinced she wasn’t guilty of a damn thing, other than a crapload of bad luck.

“And you know this how?” Duncan asked, brow raised.

“It’s my family’s damn ring, and my own murdered cousin we’re talking about. Not to mention possibly the same person nearly bringing down a theater scaffold on my other cousin Silver. Don’t you think I want the guilty party or parties caught and fried?” he asked heatedly.

He and Candace might not have gotten along all that well, but she was still family. He’d see the killer hanged by his balls, no doubt about it. “But I want the right person caught and punished. Vera Mancuso is a victim of her half sister’s bad judgment. Nothing more.”

Duncan pushed out a breath. “Okay. Just for sake of argument, say I agree with you. My problem is, the stolen evidence was right on her finger.”

“And she explained how it got there. About fifty times. I, for one, believe her story.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to release her just because you have a damn hunch? Or more likely, have the hots for her and want to impress her with your prowess…as her attorney?”

Conner clamped his teeth. Okay, he might have the hots for Vera, but that would have ended abruptly if he’d still had the least doubt she was part of either the ring’s theft or his cousin’s murder. And, yeah, maybe he didn’t have any real solid reason to believe that, but there you go. A man had to trust his gut instincts. Especially if he was a lawyer.

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Just release her.”

Duncan started to shake his head. “No can do.”

“I have an idea,” Conner said, thinking fast. “We can use her. To get her sister. That’s who you really want to question about the ring.”

Duncan exhaled. “I’m listening.”

“Darla trusts her. She gave Vera the Tears of the Quetzal for safekeeping. Believe me, she’ll be back for it.”

“And?”

“And when she shows up, I’ll call you and you can come arrest her. You can get to the real truth. The real perps.”

Duncan briefly considered. “Even if I went along with this, what makes you think Ms. Mancuso will let you stick around that long?”

Conner shrugged modestly. “I’m not without my charms.”

The FBI agent’s eyes rolled. “And yet, she keeps telling me you’re not her lawyer. Besides, wouldn’t your representing her be a conflict of interest?”

“Not if she’s innocent.”

And, damn, she really did look innocent sitting there in that bleak, gray interrogation room, holding back her tears by a thread. Innocent, and incredibly brave. While Duncan questioned her, Conner’d had his legal assistant do a quick workup on Vera Mancuso. Her background had been far from easy. He’d been all wrong about her relationship with her biological father, Maximillian St. Giles. The man didn’t want to know her, was openly hostile to his illegitimate daughter and kept her existence deep in the closet. The scumbag.

Duncan raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but the FBI is not in charge of your cousin’s murder case. That’s strictly Metro at this point.”

Conner glanced at him in surprise. “Then why didn’t they arrest Vera?”

“Because of that ring. My current investigation is a series of high-end interstate jewelry robberies for which Darla St. Giles is a prime suspect, along with a couple of her friends. Possibly even a family member,” he added pointedly. “I got a tip from an informant that Darla was seen entering the Diamond Lounge, so we closed in. I thought she might be fencing some of her stolen goods. The manager there’s had some illegal dealings in the past.”

“So when you saw Vera wearing the Quetzal…”

“I recognized it right away. And she looks enough like Ms. St. Giles to have fooled me for a minute. I have good reason to believe Darla’s gang had targeted the Rothchild diamond on the night your cousin was killed. You seeing her with that phony cop at the police station, and the ring showing up in her half sister’s possession are both pretty strong evidence to connect her to the theft.”

“But what about the phony cop I saw her with?” Conner said. “And didn’t you say Luke Montgomery’s new wife was there at the casino the night of Candace’s murder, and was later stalked by someone wanting the ring?”

Duncan crossed his arms. “All true. But even if I agree with you in theory, my hands are tied. Until Darla is in custody and corroborates Ms. Mancuso’s story, and Vera’s alibi is checked out, I’d be insane to let the only suspect I have go free.”

Conner stuck his hands in his pockets. “Okay, I see your point. Still, keeping Vera in custody is probably the best way to drive Darla so far into hiding you’ll never find her. She certainly has the means to disappear for a good long time if she feels threatened.”

“So what do you propose I do?”

“Let Vera out on bail. I’ll pay it. Then we use her as bait, like I suggested.”

Both of them turned to contemplate Vera through the mirrored window. She’d put her head down on the Formica table and buried her face in her arms. Had she finally broken down? Conner’s heart squeezed in sympathy.

“If I agree to this crazy scheme,” Duncan finally said, “I’d want something in return.”

“Like what?” Conner asked.

“I’d want your help figuring out exactly who is part of the jewel theft ring I’m investigating. You move in the same social circles as Darla St. Giles. You go to the same parties and charity events, know the same people. I’d want you to nose around, ask questions. Narrow down my list of suspects.” He turned to look Conner in the eye. “Help LVMPD figure out if your cousin’s death was a jewel robbery gone bad, or something else entirely.”

Conner raised his brows. “Kind of a tall order, isn’t it?”

“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”

“Fine.” Obviously, Vera wasn’t going to get a better offer. Nor was he. “I’ll take it.”

Chapter 5

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.”

“Nice, huh?” He gave her a lopsided grin as he dropped down to sit on his heels next to her car door. He pulled the seat belt over her lap, leaned over and fought with the airy poofs of her faux wedding dress for a moment finding the socket to snap it into.

She heard the click. But his arms stayed lost in the voluminous folds of the gossamer fabric. Almost like he was looking for something else. His fingers suddenly touched her legs. A shiver of unwilling excitement shimmered through her body. Under the white silk skirt she was still only wearing her thigh-high stockings and a G-string. If he wanted, he could slip his hands up under and touch her. For one crazy second she almost opened her legs to let him.

Good grief, what was wrong with her?

Instead, his hands glided down her calves. Slowly. Deliberately. As though he were memorizing every inch of the descent. Her heart pounded. When he reached her ankles he paused, then wrapped his fingers around her crystalline shoes and tugged them off.

With a flick of his wrist they sailed into the narrow space behind the driver’s seat. “There. That’s better.”

She couldn’t decide if she felt more outraged, or breath-lessly aroused. “Do you manhandle all your clients like this, Mr. Rothchild?”

“Only the ones who need handling,” he said with a completely unrepentant smile. He came around and slid behind the wheel. “And it’s Conner.”

“Not if you’re my lawyer, it isn’t.”

“What, because I’m your attorney we can’t be friends?”

She searched his eyes. Which were the exact color of the morning desert, she noticed for the first time. A morning desert in the springtime, when the landscape was at its most beautiful. Falcon brown with flecks of rich green. Surrounded by long, dark lashes, and a sensual tilt to arched brows that matched his movie-star-perfect brown hair.

He was dazzling.

And so colossally out of her universe it made her stomach do crazy somersaults.

His smile widened. “I’ll take that as a yes, we can.”

Huh?

The engine revved and they took off, were waved through the FBI guard post and drove out onto the street. As they gained speed, the billowing skirt of the wedding dress fluttered up around her shoulders, filling the open convertible.

The night was dark and desert-warm, the winking lights of the Strip just ahead. Rusty mountains ringed the city, sometimes a cozy cocoon that circled the city in its own private haven, sometimes menacing omnipresent watchers of the multitude of sins that went down there in Vegas.

But for now, the bright lights reigned supreme, shiny and colorful, lending the city its famous carnival atmosphere.

As soon as they reached downtown, it started—the honking horns and the shouts and thumbs-up. Tourists waved and whistled. Obviously everyone thought she and Conner were newlyweds, coming straight from some outlandish Las Vegas wedding chapel with a preacher dressed as Elvis or some other zany impersonator.

She wanted to sink right through the soft leather seat and disappear forever. “Damn. I should have changed clothes,” she said, chagrined. “Sorry.”

Conner waved back to a blue-haired old lady walking with an equally old guy in a pair of screamingly loud plaid shorts. “Don’t be. Haven’t had this much fun since I drove the UNLV homecoming queen around the football field at halftime.”

Figured he did that.

Probably dated her, too.

Probably last year.

Damn.

“How old are you, anyway?” she asked, suddenly irrationally, absurdly and completely inappropriately jealous.

The flashing neon lights of the Strip glinted back at her from his eyes as he smiled. “Thirty-three. You?”

“Twenty-four.” Her mouth turned down. “Obviously a little too old for you.”

He chuckled. “More like a little too young. I generally prefer my women older, more experienced. Fewer misunderstandings that way.”

Red alert, girl. Well. At least he was honest about it. “I’m sure.”

“That’s a bad thing?”

She sank farther into the seat and scowled. “Not at all. Very considerate of you not to break all those young, impressionable hearts flinging themselves at you. I suspect you could do some genuine damage.”

“Hmm. Sounds like you’ve had yours broken by some insensitive older guy.”

The lawyer was too perceptive by half. She shrugged as casually as she could manage. Her heart was none of his damned business.

“I apologize on behalf of all older men,” he said. “The jerk must have been a real idiot.”

“Which one?” she muttered.

“Ouch.” Somehow his hand found hers in the folds of her dress and squeezed it. “Every last one of them.”

Their eyes met, and again that weird feeling sifted through her. Part longing, part relief, part visceral hope.

Totally insane.

She pulled her hand away. As seductions went, his technique was pretty low-key. But pretty darn effective. And very dangerous. Already she was wondering what it would feel like to be curled up in his arms, warm and replete after making love to him. To have those amazing feelings of tender belonging she’d gotten just a glimpse of, as they lay skin-to-skin and…

And heaven help her.

He stopped at the red light at Flamingo Road, just up the block from the faux Eiffel Tower. A clutch of tipsy tourists tumbled across the street in front of them. Naturally, the whole group noticed her white dress and started to cheer and clap.

“Kiss the bride!” one of them shouted. Soon they were all whistling and yelling, “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

He turned to grin at her.

Oh. No.

“Don’t you dare even think ab—”

But his lips were already on hers. Warm. Firm. Tasting of sin and forever. She sucked in a breath of shock as his tongue touched hers, and he took the opening in bold invitation. His hand slid behind her neck and tugged her closer. His other arm banded around her, pulling her upper body tight against him. His tongue invaded her mouth, his fingers held her fast for a deep, lingering kiss the likes of which she’d never, ever experienced.

Oh. No.

The cheers of the onlookers faded as the world around them spun away. Wow. The man could really kiss. She was light-headed, dizzy with the taste of him and the feel of his body so close to hers. She couldn’t help but want more. She wanted to crawl up into his lap and hold him tight and never let him go.

All too soon his lips lifted and the blaring of car horns and wolf whistles all around invaded her consciousness. She moaned. Unsure if it was the loss of his nearness or the reality of her immense stupidity that made the desperate sound escape her throat.

Oh, what had she done?

And, damn it, now he had that look on his face again. Like she was some kind of apparition or two-headed monster he couldn’t quite believe he’d just kissed.

Nope, she sighed, as a slash of hurt ripped her heart once again. Nothing quite so dramatic. Just an ordinary exotic dancer…make that stripper… from the wrong side of the tracks.

Way to go, Mancuso.

He revved the engine, and the car leaped forward. It took about three excruciating minutes to reach her gated apartment complex, where he zoomed into the underground garage and squealed into her parking spot. She was still too flustered and mortified to wonder how he’d known her address—or which slot was hers. He’d only opened his mouth again to confirm that she still lived with Darla. He shut off the engine and the headlights. The dim overhead garage fluorescents flickered and hummed.