LITMIR.BIZ

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on the errand his uncle Harold had sent him on: attempting to retrieve the Tears of the Quetzal diamond from police custody. The priceless ring was being held by LVMPD as material evidence in a high-profile murder trial—the victim being Conner’s own cousin Candace Rothchild.

      Her murder had hit the whole family hard, especially Conner’s uncle. Hard enough to make Harold set aside a lifelong animosity and deliberate distancing of himself from all things connected with his rival brother—including his two nephews—in order to beg Conner for a favor. Get back the ring, or Harold was absolutely convinced terrible things would befall everyone in the family, due to some ancient curse connected with the ring. His daughter Candace had apparently been killed when she, against her father’s strict orders, had “borrowed” the ring and worn it to a star-studded charity function at one of the big new casinos. She was just the first to die, Harold had warned. The man seemed genuinely terrified, convinced the so-called curse was real. He had become obsessed over retrieving the ring…especially after the near-fatal accident that befell his other daughter, Conner’s cousin Silver, a few weeks back. An accident her new fiancé, AD, now suspected was a murder attempt.

      Conner didn’t believe in curses, but he did believe in family. He had a good relationship with his own parents and brother, but relations with Harold and his various offspring, Conner’s cousins, had been more than strained for as long as he could remember.

      Growing up, the deceased Candace and her coven of siblings and half siblings—Natalie, Candace’s twin, who was now a Metro detective; Silver, the former pop star who’d recently made a stunning comeback; Jenna, the Vegas event planner; and the newest addition, Ricky, the devil child—every one of them used to bait him mercilessly about being born into the “wrong” side of the Rothchild family. Conner’s highly respected attorney father, Michael Rothchild, was worth millions, but not billions like casino magnate Uncle Harold. Of course, that side of the family didn’t even get along with each other, especially tabloid-diva Candace. Things had only gotten worse when she’d married and divorced a drunken loser drummer in a would-be rock band, leaving two beautiful but very neglected children in the constant care of nannies.

      Wasn’t family wonderful.

      But to everyone’s credit, things had changed dramatically after Candace’s murder. Olive branches had been extended. Although, to be honest, he’d been reconciled with his cousins Natalie and Silver for a while now. They’d actually become good friends over the past few years…much to the chagrin of Uncle Harold. But he had changed now. And this was Conner’s big chance to help bring the whole Rothchild family—imper-fect as it was—back together. He did not intend to blow it.

      Which was why he’d agreed to try to retrieve the ring from the police. Technically, the Tears of the Quetzal belonged to the entire family, having been unearthed in the Rothchild’s Mexican diamond mine by his grandfather over five decades ago. But Uncle Harold had always been the ring’s caretaker. And now with the ring’s disappearance, he was obsessively worried it would bring danger to the family.

      Although Conner still dismissed the ridiculous notion of curses, he did agree the diamond was not secure, even surrounded by hundreds of cops. As a lawyer, Conner knew firsthand that evidence disappeared from police custody all the time. Lost. Tampered with. Deliberately “misplaced.”

      And wouldn’t you know it. Two weeks ago when he’d gotten to the evidence room, minutes after running 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.

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