Prince Charming For 1 Night. Nina Bruhns

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.