“Here. Better get dressed before someone sees you.”
“Oh, jeez,” she said, glancing down at herself. “Not exactly street attire.”
More’s the pity. He admired how she was so totally comfortable in her own bare skin. The women he knew would be dying of embarrassment to be seen like this in public, every last one, convinced their bodies were too fat or too skinny or had some other terrible imagined flaw, making them unduly self-conscious. Women could have such hang-ups about their self-image. It was refreshing to be around one who so obviously liked how she looked.
She quickly pulled on the jeans and T-shirt. He forced himself to concentrate. “You stay down here in the lobby and wait for Duncan. I’ll go back to the apartment and take a quick look around. If there’s anything that shouldn’t be found, I’ll deny him permission to search there. Okay?”
Fear leaped into her eyes. “You’re leaving me alone? Why can’t I go with you?”
“Just in case,” he said, and she looked even more panicked. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. Duncan will get here in a few minutes.” Unable to help himself, he bent down and kissed her. The taste of her lips swirled on his tongue, and a painful ache of arousal swept through him again. Too good. He pulled away.
“Conner, wait,” she began. She glanced down at his mouth, and then his body, and something shifted in her expression. Uh-oh, trouble ahead. “I, um, don’t—”
He put a finger to her lips. “Shh. We’ll talk later, all right? I’ve got to go up.”
She nodded reluctantly. “What if someone’s up there with a gun?” she asked nervously.
“Anyone’s probably long gone,” he assured her, then led her out of the elevator, gave her a last kiss and got back on.
Watching him unhappily, she wrapped her arms around her middle. “Please, be careful.”
He smiled, touched by the sincere worry in her eyes. “Count on it.”
Once up in the apartment, he was able to give the whole penthouse a cursory search before the FBI showed up. No Darla, thank heaven. Nothing else out of the ordinary was visible in the piles of debris left by the break-in or in any of the bedrooms, either, so granting Duncan and his CSI techs access would not compromise his client.
He took one last look around. If the place hadn’t been such a mess, it would have been really nice. If nothing else, Darla had good taste. At least in interior decorating. In friends and lifestyle, maybe not so much.
Of course, an exotic dancer would normally be included in his general condemnation. In the Las Vegas legal community, aside from his take-no-prisoners ruthlessness in the courtroom, Conner was known for a generous pro bono policy toward the homeless, drug addicts and sex workers. But he’d never considered them his equals in any sense of the word. His family would disown him if they even suspected he was considering a serious liaison with a stripper…even if she was the illegitimate daughter of billionaire Maximillian St. Giles.
Hell, especially if she was the illegitimate daughter of Maximillian St. Giles. Or any other woman not in his social class or better. The key word there was illegitimate. His father had given Uncle Harold a lifetime of grief for marrying beneath him. More than once. Conner had no intention of repeating that mistake and lowering his father’s respect for him. Or giving his blue-blood family any reason to question Conner’s loyalty to their highbrow ideals, even if he thought they were at times silly and sometimes destructive.
He’d seen firsthand what those kind of elitist notions could do to families. Look at Candace. He was convinced she’d still be alive today if she hadn’t been summarily dismissed from the family fold after marrying Jack Cortland, the druggie rock-star boy. Those two poor kids of hers. God only knew what would become of them without the support of family, with only a questionable father to raise them, stuck out on some ranch in the middle of nowhere.
Anyway. Under all the broken glassware and china, disheveled books and shelf items and knife-slit, unstuffed cushions and furniture, Conner recognized a beautiful living space, subtly sophisticated and timelessly chic. He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. Pleasantly so. Some of Darla’s wealthy upbringing must have rubbed off on her, after all.
He gave a wry sigh. That probably explained why she’d gone after the Tears of the Quetzal. The ring was the classiest piece of jewelry he’d ever laid eyes on. And now it had passed from Vera’s finger straight into FBI custody. Forget about retrieving it any time soon. That place was like Fort Knox. Uncle Harold was not going to be pleased.
The sound of the elevator approaching pulled Conner back to the situation at hand. He went out to the foyer and met Special Agent Duncan as he exited the lift, followed by two other men in white jumpsuits carrying CSI cases. Vera popped out like a nervous jack-in-the-box.
“Are you okay?” she asked him before Duncan could open his mouth. “Did you see anyone? Any more messages written on the walls? Talk to me!”
“Whoa, slow down,” he admonished gently and put an arm around her shoulder. “No more graffiti. No sign of the intruders, ” he told Duncan, and gave a surreptitious shake of his head at the agent’s silent query about Darla.
Duncan looked relieved, then gave Conner’s protective arm a brief, disapproving frown.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” Conner said to stave off any comments, “but I’m turning over Vera’s case to an associate so there’s no conflict of interest.”
Duncan’s frown deepened as he signaled the CSI techs to proceed into the penthouse to get started. “That wasn’t part of our deal,” he said.
“What deal?” Vera asked.
“Nothing’s changed,” Conner assured him. “Can we just—”
“What deal?” Vera asked again, more insistently. She turned under his arm to look up at him.
“Never mind—”
Duncan addressed her. “For your release.”
“What about it?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
Damn. So not good.
“Rothchild agreed to help us bring Darla St. Giles into custody. He promised to call us when she contacts you.”
Ah, hell.
Shock went through her expression. She stepped away from him angrily. “Oh, really. What makes you think she’ll contact me? And even if she does, what makes you think I’ll tell you? How dare you! What would make you agree to such a thing?” Her voice was getting louder and louder.
“Vera, please believe me, it was for your own good.”
“My own good?” she spat out. “Are you kidding me? Betraying my sister?”
“He’s right,” Duncan interjected stonily. “You were apprehended with the Rothchild’s diamond on your finger. Until it can be established exactly how it got there, you are our—”
“Wait just a cotton-picking minute!” Her expression went even more furious. She glared at Conner. “The Rothchild’s diamond?
