God. More than once, she thought with half-hysterical irreverence. And last night, too.
She blinked, frozen by the howlingly inappropriate thought, with her hand in his. The one with the ring on it. His ring. “Um. Yes. But, uh, not as—I mean, I’m just working—”
He glanced at the fake Quetzal, then up again. “I just wanted to thank you.” At her deer-in-the-headlights look, he added, “for helping with—” he glanced around “—well, you know.” She did. She was just surprised he did. “Your discretion is appreciated.”
“My, um—” She was about to say “pleasure,” but it wasn’t really, was it? So she just let the inane half comment hang there.
“Greatly appreciated.” Michael Rothchild was still holding her hand. So firmly she couldn’t politely extract it. He kept looking at her, taking in her whole person, expensive outfit and all, and it was like he saw straight through her charade. “I don’t approve of your sister,” he said. “but I respect family loyalty. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He released her hand, gave a little bow and walked away to join a petite ashen-haired woman who must be Conner’s mother. The woman smiled at her uncertainly, then they both turned and vanished into the crowd.
Okay. That was very weird. Talk about cryptic.
“Who was that old geezer?” Gabe asked.
“Michael Rothchild.”
“Dude! You know them, too? Man, Vera, for someone who doesn’t get out much, you sure get around.”
He had no idea.
She turned to Gabe. It was getting late, and she was ready to call it a night. She’d been dancing around the topic of Darla and her craziness with everyone all night and gotten nowhere. So she decided to just come out and ask. “Gabe, have you ever heard of Darla being involved in anything illegal?”
He regarded her skeptically. “Like what?”
“Like stealing jewelry.”
“Whoa, dude.” He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”
Vera nodded. “Good. I’d heard a rumor. But I just couldn’t believe it myself.” She met his eyes. “If you ever hear of her being involved in—”
“What the hell are you doing here?” The furious words were growled from behind. A firm male hand clamped around her arm and yanked her away from the group, then pushed her off toward a large potted palm that was part of the decor. She could hardly keep up and nearly tripped several times. Alarm zoomed through her. He wouldn’t let her turn to look at him. But he didn’t have the right color hair. It was thick and silver. Like—
She gasped. Please, anything but this.
They were attracting stares, so he slowed down until they reached the palm, then spun her to face him.
God help her. It was him.
Maximillian St. Giles.
Her father.
Vera’s heart thundered so hard she was afraid it would pound out of her chest. She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Daddy,” somehow didn’t seem appropriate. So she firmly shut it again.
“You little gold-digging whore,” he snarled, his piercing green eyes identical to her own glaring at her in hatred. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
The bastard.
She resisted the urge to slap him across his sanctimonious face. For the insult. For all the insults she’d endured over the past twenty-four years. For snubbing her her entire life. For abandoning her mother, leaving the poor woman pregnant and alone with only a token cash settlement as compensation for a ruined life. But mostly for being a selfish, womanizing, egotistical prick.
She resisted, but her control was hard-won. She started to shake with bitter fury. And a stinging hurt that refused to be ignored.
“Why I’m here is none of your business,” she snapped, glaring at his hand on her arm. She’d dealt with plenty of men like him. Bullies covering up their insecurities with threats of violence. “Let me go, or I’ll call security.”
He finally let her go. And leaned his anger-reddened face right into hers. “It is my business if you’ve come here to make trouble for me and my family.”
“Trust me, you are not worth the bother,” she spit out, keeping her chin up, shoulders straight. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.
“You’ve been asking questions about my daughter,” he accused. “My real daughter.”
More pain sliced through her chest. How could he say that? She fought to keep tears from filling her eyes. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Darla’s disappeared. I’m worried about her.”
He snorted. “More like upset she’s not there for you to leech off.”
She curled her hand into a fist to keep from smacking him. But maybe she should give in to her first impulse. A fist in that hypocritical, self-righteous face sounded really good about now.
“Get out of here,” her father sneered. “Go back to that strip club where you belong. And if I catch you asking questions about my daughter again, I’ll hit you with legal action so hard you’ll be living on a grate for the rest of your life.”
With that, he turned on a heel and stormed off.
She stood watching his wake disappear into the crowd, fighting to control the trembling in her limbs.
Okay, then.
Another sentimental family reunion. Always a fun time.
“Are you all right?”
She looked up to see Conner. Her tongue tied in knots and she couldn’t speak. Because suddenly, she had a blinding insight.
Conner Rothchild was just like her father.
Oh, not abusive, or overtly insulting. Nothing like that. But he was the same kind of man. With the same kind of lifestyle. And the same kind of prejudices. Against people like her.
Conner was ashamed of her.
That was why he’d insisted she come to the event as his assistant. Why he’d accepted a date with Ms. Paris Vogue. Why he hadn’t told his brother, or anyone, the true nature of his relationship with Vera. If you could call two days of monkey sex a relationship.
“N-no,” she stammered. Shook her head. “I mean yes. I’m fine. Really. Go back to your date.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Conner, please. I’m tired. There’s nothing more to learn here. I’m going home now.”
He frowned, managing to look concerned. Maybe he really did care. Yeah, that she’d
