into Darla St. Giles, he’d discovered, to his frustration, the unique and unmistakable chameleon diamond ring had vanished. Switched. Replaced with a paste copy that had gone missing from Harold’s current wife’s jewelry box. At Metro police headquarters, the theft had been pulled off by a cop who had apparently simply walked in and checked the real ring out of the evidence room on the pretense of having it examined for DNA, and left the clever fake in its place when he returned it an hour later.
Conner had gone ballistic. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they check ID? His cousin Natalie, the LVMPD detective, had led the search.
Then he’d remembered Darla arguing outside with that not-quite-right cop only ten minutes before he’d discovered the theft. And that’s when he’d figured out what was wrong with the guy. His boots. They’d been brown and scuffed up. Regulation was black and spit-polished.
Conner was absolutely convinced that phony cop and Darla St. Giles were responsible for the theft of the ring from police headquarters. Damned unexpected, but not outside the realm of possibility. According to the tabloids, Darla had been scraping the proverbial bottom of the barrel of late, friendwise and behavior-wise. Dating fake cops, stealing jewelry and hanging out at strip clubs would be right up her alley.
The question was, was the pair also involved in his cousin Candace’s murder? He couldn’t believe it of Darla. She was a wild party girl and definitely sliding down a slippery slope. A thief, yes. But a murderer? He could be wrong, but he didn’t buy it. Still, he owed it to the family to find out for sure.
Naturally, after Conner raised the alarm, by the time Natalie had launched a search, Darla and the man had been long gone. Just in case, Conner had spent hours on the computer with Natalie by his side, looking at photos of every single police officer in Las Vegas. The man he’d seen was not among them. Therefore his instincts had been right—the culprit was not a real cop.
On that same day Darla had dropped out of sight completely, confirming his suspicions of her guilt. Despite Natalie assigning an officer to stake out her penthouse apartment 24/7, other than a single roommate, no one had seen hide nor hair of her there, or anywhere else, since.
Until now.
At least, ten minutes ago…But he’d lost her.
With mounting frustration, Conner had searched the Diamond Lounge from top to bottom for the illusive Darla. Twice. And come up empty.
Where the hell was she?
“Can I get you something, doll?” one of the waitresses asked him with a sultry smile. She was pretty. Blond. And topless.
Hello.
He glanced around, catapulted back to the present by the sight of so much skin. Whoa. Where had his famous powers of observation vanished to?
The Diamond Lounge was an Old Las Vegas landmark, a throwback to the times when total nudity was permitted along with serving alcohol. Naturally, he’d vaguely noticed the naked woman dancing on the stage. But how could he have been so angry and distracted that he hadn’t noticed the all but naked women prancing around him carrying trays of drinks?
“You looking for someone special?” she asked, her smile growing even more suggestive.
Oy. He slashed a hand through his hair, composing himself. One always learned more playing nice than coming off like a demanding nutcase. And, hell, she was hot. No hardship there.
He smiled back. “Yeah. I thought I saw a friend of mine. Darla St. Giles. You know her by any chance?”
“Oh, sure,” the waitress said, interest perking. He could practically see dollar signs flashing in her baby blues. As one of the rich and reckless, Darla’s male friends were sure to be rich and reckless, too. Emphasis on the rich part. “She’s in here all the time.”
Popular landmark or not, that surprised him. “She is?”
“Uh-huh. To visit her sister. She works here.”
He-llo. A St. Giles? Working at the Diamond Lounge as a topless waitress? Hell’s bells. O1’ Maximillian St. Giles must be spitting disco balls over that one. Except now that Conner thought about it, he had never heard of a second St. Giles sister. There was a brother, Henry, but not…Unless…He tipped his head. “Are you sure they’re sisters?”
“Half sisters, if you know what I mean. Although that’s all hush-hush.” The waitress waggled her eyebrows and leaned against the bar, folding her arms under her bare breasts so they pushed up toward him. Oh. Subtle. “Guess she likes walkin’ on the wild side, or somethin’.”
Or something. Whoa. All Conner’s stress just oozed out of him. A deep, dark St. Giles secret, eh? A secret so hidden that Darla felt safe coming here tonight, even when she hadn’t been to her apartment in two weeks and hadn’t called her own family. Hell, all he had to do was put a watch on the secret sister and sooner or later Darla’d turn up here.
The Tears of the Quetzal was as good as found. And Natalie could bring her in for questioning about Candace’s murder as well.
Damn, he was good.
“How ‘bout you, doll?” the waitress asked, interrupting his thoughts again.
“Me, what?” he asked.
“You like walkin’ on the wild side?”
He smiled at her. “Maybe.” Then took a second look at what the blond waitress was offering up. He was used to women throwing themselves at him, one of the perks of his looks and his famous last name. Normally he was just too damn busy to take advantage. But what the hell, it had been a long time; maybe the Parker case could wait another night. But first…“Darla’s sister, she around?” Just so he’d know who to look for. Tomorrow.
“Sure, she’s coming on right now. That’s her.” The waitress pointed toward the stage.
The stage? He tore his eyes from her and turned. “You mean she’s a—”
He froze, literally, instantly oblivious to everything else around him.
The sister…At first Conner thought it was Darla; they looked so much alike. But then she stepped into the spotlight, and all resemblance vanished. The woman was the most amazingly, lusciously gorgeous thing he’d ever seen in his life. She glided out on the horseshoe-shaped stage to the tune of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. Eyes cast demurely down, she was dressed in a frothy, whipped-cream wedding dress, complete with a long poofy veil covering her face and spilling over her shoulders and back clear to the floor like some kind of gossamer waterfall.
Wow.
Normally, the merest glimpse of a wedding dress made him break out in hives and sprint hell-bent-for-leather in the opposite direction. Not this one.
“Her?” he asked the waitress, totally forgetting that just seconds ago he’d been contemplating—
Never mind. What waitress?
Was he actually hyperventilating?
“Yeah. How about we—”
“What’s her name?” he asked, his eyes completely glued to the perfect
