Las Vegas: Scandals

She so didn’t care.

At least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

Once a minute, all night.

“Ms. Mancuso?”

She almost choked on her drink. Despite the uneventful evening so far, she’d still had the creepy feeling someone had been watching her the whole time. But probably not this guy.

A tall, elegantly dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair, who looked so much like Conner he could only be his father, or uncle, gazed down at her pleasantly.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, all her hard-won poise and confidence vanishing in a fell swoop.

He extended his hand. “I’m Michael Rothchild. I understand you came with my son tonight.”

Oh, God. More than once, she thought with half-hysterical irreverence. And last night, too.

She blinked, frozen by the howlingly inappropriate thought, with her hand in his. The one with the ring on it. His ring. “Um. Yes. But, uh, not as—I mean, I’m just working—”

He glanced at the fake Quetzal, then up again. “I just wanted to thank you.” At her deer-in-the-headlights look, he added, “for helping with—” he glanced around “—well, you know.” She did. She was just surprised he did. “Your discretion is appreciated.”

“My, um—” She was about to say “pleasure,” but it wasn’t really, was it? So she just let the inane half comment hang there.

“Greatly appreciated.” Michael Rothchild was still holding her hand. So firmly she couldn’t politely extract it. He kept looking at her, taking in her whole person, expensive outfit and all, and it was like he saw straight through her charade. “I don’t approve of your sister,” he said. “but I respect family loyalty. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

He released her hand, gave a little bow and walked away to join a petite ashen-haired woman who must be Conner’s mother. The woman smiled at her uncertainly, then they both turned and vanished into the crowd.

Okay. That was very weird. Talk about cryptic.

“Who was that old geezer?” Gabe asked.

“Michael Rothchild.”

“Dude! You know them, too? Man, Vera, for someone who doesn’t get out much, you sure get around.”

He had no idea.

She turned to Gabe. It was getting late, and she was ready to call it a night. She’d been dancing around the topic of Darla and her craziness with everyone all night and gotten nowhere. So she decided to just come out and ask. “Gabe, have you ever heard of Darla being involved in anything illegal?”

He regarded her skeptically. “Like what?”

“Like stealing jewelry.”

“Whoa, dude.” He shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

Vera nodded. “Good. I’d heard a rumor. But I just couldn’t believe it myself.” She met his eyes. “If you ever hear of her being involved in—”

“What the hell are you doing here?” The furious words were growled from behind. A firm male hand clamped around her arm and yanked her away from the group, then pushed her off toward a large potted palm that was part of the decor. She could hardly keep up and nearly tripped several times. Alarm zoomed through her. He wouldn’t let her turn to look at him. But he didn’t have the right color hair. It was thick and silver. Like—

She gasped. Please, anything but this.

They were attracting stares, so he slowed down until they reached the palm, then spun her to face him.

God help her. It was him.

Maximillian St. Giles.

Her father.

Vera’s heart thundered so hard she was afraid it would pound out of her chest. She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. “Hello, Daddy,” somehow didn’t seem appropriate. So she firmly shut it again.

“You little gold-digging whore,” he snarled, his piercing green eyes identical to her own glaring at her in hatred. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

The bastard.

She resisted the urge to slap him across his sanctimonious face. For the insult. For all the insults she’d endured over the past twenty-four years. For snubbing her her entire life. For abandoning her mother, leaving the poor woman pregnant and alone with only a token cash settlement as compensation for a ruined life. But mostly for being a selfish, womanizing, egotistical prick.

She resisted, but her control was hard-won. She started to shake with bitter fury. And a stinging hurt that refused to be ignored.

“Why I’m here is none of your business,” she snapped, glaring at his hand on her arm. She’d dealt with plenty of men like him. Bullies covering up their insecurities with threats of violence. “Let me go, or I’ll call security.”

He finally let her go. And leaned his anger-reddened face right into hers. “It is my business if you’ve come here to make trouble for me and my family.”

“Trust me, you are not worth the bother,” she spit out, keeping her chin up, shoulders straight. She wouldn’t let him intimidate her.

“You’ve been asking questions about my daughter,” he accused. “My real daughter.”

More pain sliced through her chest. How could he say that? She fought to keep tears from filling her eyes. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Darla’s disappeared. I’m worried about her.”

He snorted. “More like upset she’s not there for you to leech off.”

She curled her hand into a fist to keep from smacking him. But maybe she should give in to her first impulse. A fist in that hypocritical, self-righteous face sounded really good about now.

“Get out of here,” her father sneered. “Go back to that strip club where you belong. And if I catch you asking questions about my daughter again, I’ll hit you with legal action so hard you’ll be living on a grate for the rest of your life.”

With that, he turned on a heel and stormed off.

She stood watching his wake disappear into the crowd, fighting to control the trembling in her limbs.

Okay, then.

Another sentimental family reunion. Always a fun time.

“Are you all right?”

She looked up to see Conner. Her tongue tied in knots and she couldn’t speak. Because suddenly, she had a blinding insight.

Conner Rothchild was just like her father.

Oh, not abusive, or overtly insulting. Nothing like that. But he was the same kind of man. With the same kind of lifestyle. And the same kind of prejudices. Against people like her.

Conner was ashamed of her.

That was why he’d insisted she come to the event as his assistant. Why he’d accepted a date with Ms. Paris Vogue. Why he hadn’t told his brother, or anyone, the true nature of his relationship with Vera. If you could call two days of monkey sex a relationship.

“N-no,” she stammered. Shook her head. “I mean yes. I’m fine. Really. Go back to your date.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Conner, please. I’m tired. There’s nothing more to learn here. I’m going home now.”

He frowned, managing to look concerned. Maybe he really did care. Yeah, that she’d blow their cover and reveal herself to his blue-blood family. She’d seen him with his famous hotel magnate uncle, Harold Rothchild, and his young trophy wife. Wouldn’t they get a kick out of—

No, stop it. Conner wasn’t like that.

Except he was. And now finally both of them knew it.

“I’ll call the limo for you,” he said.

“No. I’ll take a cab.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulled his cell phone from his tuxedo pocket.

“All right, fine.” She didn’t want to argue. She just wanted to be gone from this nightmare of a night.

“The driver has the pass code for the gate.”

For a second she didn’t know what he meant. Then it hit her. He expected her to go back to his home.

Can you say no way in hell? But she decided not to tell him that. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good. I’ll tell Hildy to be expecting you.”

It occurred to her that this must be a huge relief for him. Now he wouldn’t have to come up with lame excuses as to why he needed to drop his assistant off after he dropped off his date. She’d just be waiting for him at home. Preferably in bed. Preferably nude.

No wonder he hadn’t protested.

She went to take off the ring. “You should take this.”

“No, keep it for now,” he said.

She couldn’t argue or he’d know she had no intention of going to his place. She’d just have to send it back to him tomorrow.

“All right. Go.” She made a shooing motion. “Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

He hesitated, his brow furrowed. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Go find your lady.”

“She’s not—”

But Vera was already walking away, not listening. Back straight, head up, she told herself as she threaded through the throng. How many of these strangers had witnessed Maximil-lian’s tirade against her? It didn’t matter. She just had to make it to the door without being stopped. Pretend you ‘re on the catwalk. You ‘re not naked, they are.

“Vera?”

Oh, God, now what?

She resolutely ignored the unfamiliar male voice and went right on walking.

Long fingers grasped her shoulder. “Vera, wait.”

She suddenly remembered the thief. She opened her mouth to scream. But then she recognized who it was. From pictures. In her living room.

“I’m Henry St. Giles,” he said, removing his hand. “Darla’s brother.”

Fortyish with thinning hair, he was still good-looking in a boring businessman sort of way. Darla was always telling stories about his out-of-control, crazy youth, but somehow he’d ended up selling out to their father and going to work for him after he was cut off for a year. Which explained why they’d never met.

“I know who you are,” she said curtly, bracing herself for round two. “What do you want?”

He looked abashed. “I’m sorry, Vera. I just wanted to apologize for what happened back there. With my father.”

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“We don’t all think the way he does.”

She arched a brow but didn’t comment.

“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.

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