Nina Bruhns - Las Vegas - Scandals - Prince Charming for 1 Night

Oh, well.

“More like an exchange of services,” he explained.

“Uh-huh.”

Her expression must have betrayed her skepticism, because he rushed to say, “I’d pay you, of course.”

She set down her cup very, very carefully. “For what, Conner?”

He exhaled. “You know that deal I made with Duncan for your release? Well, there was more to it than just reporting in on Darla’s movements.”

Okay, he’d managed to surprise her. Not that this sounded much better than some kind of sexual favor. “Like what?” she asked cautiously.

“I promised I’d help him find out about the jewel theft ring Darla’s allegedly part of. Try to narrow down suspects for him.”

“I told you I don’t know anything about that.”

“But I’d like your help investigating.”

“Me?”

“I’ve been thinking about how much you look like Darla. It’s obvious you’re her sister. You could get people to talk to you. A lot easier than I could.”

“But I don’t know anyone involved,” she said. “Who would I talk to?”

“That’s what I need your help figuring out. I’ll bet someone from her circle of friends is either in on the jewelry thefts or knows something about the ring of thieves doing them. You’ve met most of her friends, right?”

“Well. Not really. Only the ones who’ve been to parties at our apartment or who we’ve occasionally gone out with together, like to casinos or clubs. But that doesn’t happen very often. And very few know I’m her sister. We’ve mostly passed off our resemblance just as a fun coincidence.”

He tilted his head. “Really? And she didn’t invite you to other people’s parties? Social events? That sort of thing?”

She glanced away. To her credit, Darla had invited her to lots of things. Vera had even gone. Once. And stood in a corner the whole time paralyzed with feelings of inadequacy. “I don’t really fit into her social stratosphere.”

He regarded her for a moment. “Her evaluation or yours?”

“Mine,” she admitted with a shrug. “And my father’s. He threatened to disown Darla if she spread it around that he’d spawned an illegitimate child. He’d make my life hell if it got out.”

“I assume you’re talking about Maximillian St. Giles.”

“Daddy dearest.” She sighed. After twenty-four years, you’d think she’d be used to the hurt. But it still cut like a shard of glass to the heart when she thought about his categorical rejection.

“What could he possibly have against you?” Conner asked, echoing the question she’d asked herself a thousand times. Always with the same answer.

She looked back at Conner. “I take my clothes off for a living. And I suppose I remind him of his vulnerability. Or failings. Or both.”

“And whose fault is all that? Not yours.” He shook his head. “The man’s a dolt. If I had a daughter as smart, gorgeous and determined as you, I’d be showing her off to everyone, not hiding her away like she was something to be ashamed of. I wouldn’t care how she came into the world.”

Vera blinked, blindsided by the sincere indignation in Conner’s voice…on her behalf. No one had ever defended her honor so vehemently. No one.

She swallowed the lump that welled up in her throat. “Thanks. Too bad he’s not quite as broad-minded as you are.”

“That settles it,” Conner said, folding his arms over his chest and surveying her with a resolute smile. “No argument. You’re coming with me.”

Alarm zinged up her spine. “Where?”

“The Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball on Friday night.”

He had to be kidding. The Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball was the biggest annual charity fund-raiser in the city; everyone who was anyone went—provided you were a gazillionaire or a famous star of some sort.

“What, me? No! Hell, no. Are you nuts?”

“All of Darla’s friends will be there. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to ask questions. Hey!” he exclaimed with growing excitement. “Maybe the thieves are planning to work the event and we can catch them in the act.”

“One small problem.”

“What’s that?”

“Aside from the fact that I’d never in a million years be able to pull it off, I work Friday. It’s our biggest night.”

He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I’ll pay you better. Name your fee.”

“ And I have nothing to wear that doesn’t fasten with Velcro,” she added wryly.

“With a clothes allowance.”

God, so tempting. He waggled his eyebrows, and for a nanosecond she actually considered it. Then she shook her head. “I can’t. Honestly. I’d be lost at one of those fancy society bashes. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do or how to conduct myself. People would laugh—”

He took her hand in his over the table and gazed intently at her. “Trust me, no one will laugh. Not after I’m done with you.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“Ever see My Fair Lady? ”

She gave him a withering smile and yanked back her hand. “Yeah, and look what happened to Eliza Doolittle at the horse race. I rest my case.”

He chuckled. “The difference being, you wouldn’t need to change a single thing. Just be yourself as you ask around after Darla. Say she’s disappeared and as her roommate, you’re worried about her.”

“I wouldn’t be lying. I am worried.”

“Good. Then you’ll do it.”

She pushed out a breath, still unconvinced. “What if my father shows up?”

“You leave Maximillian St. Giles to me. C’mon, Vera. Take a chance. Be Cinderella for a night. Hell, you’ve even got the perfect shoes.”

She laughed at his handsome, open face and charmingly amused smile. And felt herself weaken.

She shouldn’t.

God knew, she had no business even pretending to belong at a highbrow event like that. Let alone with a man like Conner Rothchild.

“You’re wrong about Darla,” she said. “If I go to that ball, it’s only for one reason. To prove my sister isn’t a criminal.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “It’s a deal.” He looked at her triumphantly. “So, when can we go shopping?”

Silk. Satin. Lace. Bamboo, for crying out loud. When had they started making clothes out of bamboo, anyway?

Vera had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. Not even the first time she’d gone onstage at that seedy titty bar five years ago and taken off every stitch in front of a pack of drooling men had she felt this vulnerable. At least onstage she was in control.

“Utterly stunning,” the duchesslike boutique owner said with a satisfied smile at her creation. Meaning the slinky, floor-length evening gown clinging to Vera’s every curve. “What do you think, Mr. Rothchild?”

He considered. “I think the neckline could be lower.”

“No way,” Vera muttered. “Any lower and you’d have to call it a waistline.”

“So charming,” the duchess cooed. “Your lady friend’s modesty becomes her, my dear.”

Get me out of here.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “It’s one of my favorite things about her.”

“I’m standing right here, you know,” she said evenly, shooting him a warning glare.

“Well, which gown do you like best? The blue, the red, the gold or the white?” he asked with an unrepentant smile, motioning with a twirled finger for her to spin around one more time in the blue one she was wearing. She grudgingly obliged.

She’d tried on about a thousand different dresses over the past three hours at a dozen or more trendy boutiques before finding a designer Conner approved of, and he had narrowed it down to four choices. Vera hadn’t dared voice an opinion other than about the ones she didn’t care for, because she had no clue what was expected at the Lights of Las Vegas Charity Ball. Each event on the Vegas social calendar had its own dress code, known only to the city’s Chosen Ones. If you violated the Code, people knew and smirked at you behind your back. Or so she’d surmised from the stories of fashion faux pas Darla had come home telling with a superior air of glee.