Prince Charming For 1 Night. Nina Bruhns

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.”

       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