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

“I know you have no reason to believe me,” he continued, “but I honestly regret not getting to know you like Darla did. You’re my little sister. I should have made the effort, not cowed under to my father’s…stupidity.”

Wow. She hadn’t known what to expect from Henry St. Giles when he stopped her, but this definitely wasn’t even on the list.

“That’s, um, very nice of you to say.” Not that she particularly believed him.

“You look like her,” he said, with a little smile.

“Yeah. So we’ve been told.”

The man actually looked bashful. Either he was a hell of an actor or he was sincere. You could have knocked her over with a feather.

He held out a business card to her. “This is me. I’ve written my private line on the back. Call me. I’d love to get together for lunch or dinner. Get to know you. If you like.”

She decided to be flattered. “Thanks. Maybe I will.” Could she actually be getting a brother? She reached for the card. The second he spotted the ring on her finger, Henry’s eyes popped. “What the—” They shot to hers in shock, even wider. “Vera, is that what I think it is? The ring from Candace Rothchild’s murder?”

She smiled at his bewilderment and shook her head. “No. It’s paste. Pretty good copy, though, don’t you think?”

“Where on earth did you get it?” he asked, still awestruck by the jewel.

“Long story,” she said with a laugh.

“I thought it was stolen?”

“No, the original was stolen. Well, actually both. But now they’re back—”

“Miss Mancuso?” the doorman interrupted. “Your limo is here, miss.”

“Thanks, I’ll be right there.” She tucked Henry’s card in her beaded bag and held out her hand to him. “It was nice to finally meet you, Henry. And I will call. I look forward to lunch.”

He nodded and waited just inside the entrance, watching as she walked to the white stretch limo and got in. He waved as the chauffeur closed the door.

Vera let out a long sigh of relief, bending down to pull off her shoes and wiggle her toes on the plush limo carpet. Thank God the night was over. Just one more thing to do. She picked up the phone to the driver.

“Yes, Miss Mancuso?”

She gave him her home address.

“But Mr. Rothchild said—”

“Change of plans,” she said. “Just take me to the address I gave you.”

“Very well, Miss Mancuso.”

She didn’t want to think about Conner right now. Didn’t want to let herself be depressed about their doomed affair. Or her bastard of a father. Or even about not making any headway on the investigation of Darla and the theft ring.

She did smile when she thought of Henry. Well, at least the night hadn’t been a total disaster.

Her brother. Who’d have thought he’d want to get to know her after all this time?

It was so amazing, it almost made up for losing Conner.

Almost.

“Babe? Where are you?” Conner jetted out an impatient breath. “Vera, pick up the damn phone!”

Her answering machine clicked on. Conner slammed down his receiver and paced back and forth in frustration. “Damn it!” Where was she? She must be there. Ignoring him.

He knew he’d be in trouble over that freaking date.

He ripped off his bow tie and threw it onto his bed. The bed Vera should be tucked into, waiting for him.

Not that he blamed her, if he were honest. He wouldn’t have been nearly as civilized about it as she was if she’d turned up with a date for the evening. He would have ripped the guy’s throat out.

Or at least kicked him out of the limo onto his damn ass.

He picked up the phone again and dialed the number of the bodyguard he’d hired to follow her tonight.

“Barton.”

“Where is she?” he demanded, not bothering with the niceties.

Barton rattled off the address of her apartment. “Limo dropped her off just over an hour ago. She’s still up there.”

“You sure? She’s not answering her phone.”

Barton was wise enough not to comment. “I’m camped out in the lobby, and I paid the security guy to keep an eye on her, too. I’ll know if she budges.”

“Good. Anything else I should know about tonight?”

“Some guy spoke to her as she was leaving the event.” Conner heard the sound of notebook pages being flipped. “Name of Henry St. Giles. Gave her a business card.”

Darla’s brother? Hell, Vera’s brother. What did he want? “Was it amicable?”

“Seemed to be.”

As opposed to her confrontation with Maximillian. Her own father. “You’ll be there all night?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good. I’ll expect your full report in the morning.”

“Will do, sir.”

Thoughtfully, Conner put the phone back in its stand. Should he go check on her? Or just let her cool off…He wasn’t too worried about her safety, not with Barton there standing guard all night. And Conner’d hired a cleaning crew to tidy up the apartment after the FBI was done with their evidence collecting, so she didn’t have to deal with that.

But, damn it, he missed her.

He’d been bored stiff all night, stuck at that stuffy ball with his stuffy family and the stultifyingly sophisticated Annabella Pruitt, slowly drinking himself numb. Or trying to. Unfortunately, he’d remained distressingly sober the entire time, despite the copious amounts of alcohol that had passed through his system.

Guilt?

Possibly.

Probably.

He wasn’t proud of the way he’d treated Vera. In fact, he was downright ashamed. What was wrong with him? Was he such a damn wuss that he couldn’t just tell his socially paralyzed father to take a flying leap if he didn’t like Conner’s choice of women?

Not to mention the whole Maximillian St. Giles thing. Conner should have pounded him into the dance floor like a wooden peg. Or at least shamed him into apologizing to his daughter, admitting he was being an ass.

So, why hadn’t he?

Because Conner was an even bigger ass, that’s why.

Setting his lips in a thin line, he strode into the hall. “Hildy!” he yelled. “Get the limo back here! I’m going out again.”

Naturally, Vera refused to answer the intercom. So Conner had to talk the security guard into letting him into the penthouse.

Luckily, he’d been introduced as Vera’s lawyer the other day after the break-in, so he didn’t have too much trouble convincing the man he was worried about his client and wanted to check on her well-being. The C-note deposited discreetly in his uniform pocket didn’t hurt either.

Conner found her in the bathtub. Up to her neck in bubbles, the mirrors steamed up and a dozen scented candles lit. The room smelled like a hothouse filled with damask roses. A bottle of red wine was propped on the edge of the tub. Half-empty. No glass.

The fake Quetzal was sitting on the tub’s front rim, winking in the candlelight like a multicolored disco ball.

“Go away,” she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

“How do you know who it is?” he asked, chagrined that she wasn’t worried and didn’t even check. He could be the thief returning, for all she knew!

“I can smell you,” she said thickly. “The demonic scent of wealth and temptation.”

Had he just been insulted? He made a mental note to change his cologne.

He stepped into the room and closed the door. “Sweetheart—”

“Don’t!” Her hand shot up from the water, fanning out a cascade of droplets. “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me, you…”

His eyes widened as she called him a very bad name.

Ho- kay , then. Looked like he wasn’t the only one drinking himself into oblivion. “Been watching reruns of Deadwood?” he muttered. Walking over, he plucked the wine bottle from the tub and deposited it on the marble vanity counter.