like Miss LaRue to join me,” he told her as the fickle crowd roared for the new cutie who’d just come out onstage.
The waitress took the dress and veil from him. “Sure, hon. I’ll have her come to your table.”
He pulled off another bill. “No, somewhere private.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m afraid Ms. LaRue doesn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Private parties. She’s strictly a stage dancer.”
“Really.”
Now, that was interesting. Apparently being a St. Giles let her pick and choose her jobs. Normally the private VIP rooms upstairs were where the big money was made by these women. And the big thrills. Personally, he’d never gotten into the whole lap dance thing. A nice sensual session in the privacy of your own home with a woman you knew and liked, sure. But an anonymous grind for cash? A bit sleazy if you asked him.
“Well,” he told the waitress, “then it’s good I only want to talk to her.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sure you do, hon.”
He could understand her skepticism. Hell, he was skeptical, and he knew he only wanted to talk to her. Honest.
He peeled off a few more bills and pressed them into her palm. “Tell Miss LaRue I have information about her sister. And that I’ll match whatever she just made onstage.”
Where she’d practically seduced him, by the way. But the woman didn’t do lap dances. Something didn’t add up about that picture.
The waitress shrugged. “You’re wasting your time. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She beckoned him with a crooked finger.
He strolled along behind her to the back of the club and followed her up the red-carpeted stairs to the second floor, where the inevitable small, “private entertainment” VIP rooms were located. Though gentlemen’s clubs weren’t Conner’s favorite hangouts, one couldn’t be a defense attorney in Vegas without doing a certain amount of business in them. Especially since his frequent pro bono work tended to involve hookers and runaways. So he was fairly familiar with the standard club setup.
Because of its enduring fame, Old Vegas reputation and pricey cover charge—and thanks to a complete renovation in the nineties—the Diamond Lounge wasn’t too bad, compared to most. Clean. Sophisticated decor. Unobtrusive bouncers. Nice-looking, classy ladies. He supposed if you had to work in a place like this, the Diamond Lounge was definitely top drawer.
But once again he wondered why über-conservative Maximillian St. Giles let his daughter work at all, let alone take off her clothes for money. Even if she was illegitimate, and as far as he knew, unacknowledged, a negative reflection was still cast on the family.
Not that Conner was objecting to her taking off her clothes. Hell, no. The woman had an incredible body.
She also had his family’s ring.
He wanted it back. That was his primary objective here. And nailing down Darla’s involvement in his cousin’s murder. Not nailing Vera LaRue. But if in the course of things, he ended up close and personal with her, well, who was he to protest? Especially considering the unmistakable signals she’d given him from up onstage. She had to be expecting this.
Handing the waitress his credit card, he did a quick survey of the tiny, soundproof room, then sprawled onto the heavy, red leather divan that took up most of one wall. Soft music played in the background. Scented candles littered the surfaces of two low tables at either end of the divan, as well as on the heavy wood mantel of the fireplace across from it. The tasteful cornice lighting was recessed and rose-colored, lending a pastel glow to Oriental rugs over cream-colored carpet and gauzy curtains that looked more like mosquito nets draped all around the walls of the room. It was like being cocooned in some exotic Caribbean bordello.
Oddly arousing.
The curtains over the door parted, and Vera LaRue suddenly stood there, holding a sweating champagne bottle and two crystal flutes. She’d put the wedding dress back on.
Hey, now.
“Hello,” she said, her voice throaty and rich like a tenor sax. “I understand you wanted to speak with me about my sister.”
Suddenly, talk wasn’t at all what he wanted.
Wait. Yes, it was.
“Why don’t you come in and open up that bottle,” he suggested, indicating the champagne in her hand. The hand with the Tears of the Quetzal diamond on it. Focus, Conner.
“I, um…” She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, sir. I really don’t think so. Truth is, I don’t do this.”
He hiked a brow. “Drink champagne?”
She blinked. Flicked her gaze down to the bottle then back to him, even more flustered. “No. I mean yes, I drink champagne. Of course I drink champagne. Everyone does. But I don’t do lap dances. I only came because you mentioned my sister. Now, what was it—”
“I understand,” he cut in agreeably. Not having to endure her gyrating on his lap without being able to touch her was probably a good thing. If maybe a little disappointing. Fine, a lot disappointing. “Let’s have some bubbly and then we can talk.”
She gave him a look. What? She didn’t believe him, either? “Sir, I’m serious. It’s nothing to do with you. You seem like a nice guy. I just really don’t—”
“Please. Call me Conner. If you don’t want to dance for me, Ms. LaRue, that’s fine. As appealing as that might be, it’s not why I’m here.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Here. I’ll open it.”
When she still balked, he stood up. That made her jump. But she recovered quickly. She gave him the bottle and pulled back her hand a little too fast. As though she were…afraid to touch him?
Impossible. The woman who’d practically had sex with him with her eyes from the stage could not possibly be nervous about physical contact, regardless of what he might or might not have had in mind for this tète à tète.
Which was just to talk.
Honest to God.
Or…did she perhaps realize who he was? That hadn’t occurred to him. Had Darla warned Vera someone might come looking for the ring? Maybe asking questions about a murder? Was this modesty thing all a big ploy to throw him off?
Nah. If so, she would have run away, not flirted mercilessly and then locked herself and the ring in a tiny room with him.
The cork flew, startling her into raising the flutes to catch the golden liquid. Her satiny gown rustled against his legs as he stepped closer to fill the glasses. The scent of her perfume clung to the air around her—sweet and spicy. Very nice.
Suddenly, the most insanely irrational thought struck him. What if she really were his beautiful bride, that this really was their wedding night and he really was about to peel that bridal gown off her and—
Whoa, there,
