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 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
