Sin on the Strip (21 page)

A lingering moment passed. “Tonight, I'll tell you everything.” Then he pressed his lips to her cheek. The kiss seemed to go on forever as he brushed the other side of her face with his knuckles. When he withdrew, he ran his fingertips along her chin, his thumb over lips. She wanted to stay in the car forever, melting under the heated gaze of chocolate eyes.

“Let me open the door for you,” he offered, his voice heavy with an emotion she couldn't place.

Once inside the restaurant, a statuesque redhead ushered them to their table. Breasts propped high in a low-cut black wrap top, the woman had the audacity to toss her long mane over her shoulder and ask Beck if this was his first time in Vegas, fishing to see if he lived in town. Maggie and Beck weren't a real couple—no more real than those boobs—but the saucy tart didn't know that. As her temper boiled, he surprised Maggie with his answer. “No.” A simple, to the point, polite, no. What, no southern charm?

“Maggie?” Beck ignored booby girl and was holding Maggie's chair out. Sitting, she no longer regretted wearing the blood-red wrap dress. Score one for A cups.

The table, small and intimate for four, afforded little room, but it didn't seem to bother her parents. They sat there, side by side practically in each other's laps.

After ordering drinks, everyone settled into polite conversation. As expected, Beck was a gentleman and the best accomplice she'd ever had. As he sipped a glass of Gentleman Jack, he rivaled Shannon in his ability to twist the truth without lying. He steered the conversation away from work with a gentle nudge and made her father talk about his congregation and new book.

Beck entertained them with anecdotes about growing up in the South. Maggie enjoyed the play of emotions on his face when he talked about his grandmother, the woman who had helped raise him. His admiration, love, and then sadness at her death touched Maggie. The man loved his family. She found herself envious of the bond he'd shared with his grandparents, having only really known her own grandmother for four years. When asked about his mother, a dark shadow swept across his handsome features. Her parents didn't notice and accepted his explanation. The woman had had a breakdown when he was teenager and never recovered. Maggie, on the other hand, had seen more, heard more.

There had been a tight sound in his words, the kind easily misinterpreted as regret instead of the anger it truly was. Beck didn't like the woman. Why? Had she worn that expression the few times she talked about her father? She hoped not, because, despite their differences, she did love him. He was the man she'd once admired, and whether she openly admitted it, the man whose approval she wanted. Like it or not.

Maggie's mother was charmed by Beck, no surprise. There were no words to describe her father's behavior. He didn't prod Beck on his job, how much money he made, what religion he was, how many women he'd dated or when he'd been potty trained. The father she remembered would have been bold enough to pry, thinking it his duty to know everything and anything about the man who dated his only daughter.

Maggie sipped chardonnay and kept her face neutral as she watched the odd, flirtatious exchange between her parents.

“This is a lovely restaurant. Don't you think, James?”

“It's a little dark for my taste. I like to see what I'm eating.”

“Yes, but it's very romantic. Dim lights, candles everywhere, soft music—it seems to attract couples, dear. You're just getting old and need to put your glasses on.”

“True,” he agreed and patted her hand. “Then everyone would wonder what such a beautiful, young woman was doing with an old geezer.”

Her mother playfully slapped his arm with a girlish giggle.

Maggie blinked. They were teasing each other? Picking at her salad, Maggie wondered who this man was and why he hadn't made a comment about the open-toed, five-inch pumps she'd worn with her wrap dress. Cut low with an open vee, he hadn't even lifted an eyebrow.

The waiter arrived with their steaks. Her parents were distracted with their food and each other when Beck touched her thigh, the gesture not meant to comfort as it had before. Stifling a gasp, she jerked her leg away. He took it as a challenge and squeezed before sliding his hand higher. She considered crossing her legs, but was afraid of ending up in a worse situation. So she inched to her right. In such tight quarters it did little to deter his wandering. Wander, he did. While tempted to wipe that smirk off his face, when his fingers crept under the slit of dress and crawled their way up, she all but moaned.

The grip on her steak knife tightened as she debated what to do. She could stab him with it, but then her parents would know something was up. She
should
put her knife down and peel his hand off . . . uh . . . out of her panties. She snuck a peek at him, intending to warn him to stop. He chose that moment to taste his creamy potatoes and when his lips curled around the spoon, when he slowly dragged it out of his mouth, when his pinky touched the dampness between her legs and he moaned, it was all she could do not to jump out of her chair. The bastard.

When finally he had to cut his steak or let it get cold, she clamped her legs shut, more to dampen her looming orgasm than restrict him access. How on earth were they to share the same roof? As she and the pat of butter on her baked potato liquefied, she realized how much she enjoyed being with him. If she weren't careful, she'd end up sleeping with him again, or worse. He turned, looked at her, and smiled. She just might fall in love with the jerk.

Totally freaked, she shifted her attention to the odd, wordless conversation between her parents and couldn't help but wonder what else had changed with them. If somehow they'd learned, or rather her father had learned, to be more accepting, less stringent, would his views on morality also be affected or at least come into the twenty-first century?

After the dishes had been cleared, her father rendered her speechless. “Maggie, I'd like you to come to the book launch in San Francisco.”

Stunned, it took her a few second to formulate a reply. “Daddy, I'm not a stranger in this town. If I get photographed with you—”

“I don't care.”

“You did,” she said, unable to keep years of frustration and anger out of the accusation.

Exactly what was going on? She glanced at her mother, the hopeful expression in her eyes knotting Maggie's stomach.

“It's next Monday, my editor is going as is my agent, Jonathan. You remember him.”

“The weasel with the dandruff?” For her mother's sake, Maggie bit back a more caustic description. She'd rather have coffee with the jerk that delivered her beer order at the club. At least he let you know what he was thinking. Her father's agent was one of those guys who plastered on a business smile but whose eyes never seemed to focus. Either he had his own agenda or dollar signs had clouded his vision. She'd seen Jonathan in Vegas on more than one occasion, and had gone out of her way to avoid him.

“Grooming habits aside, given the economy and changes to the publishing industry, he's managed to negotiate fair contracts. Not as lucrative as with the second book, but I'm not in this for the money. He's set up some interviews and thought it would be nice if they met the family.”

The family? “This was your agent's idea?” She pushed aside the hurt, because really, what did she expect from her father?

“His suggestion, but—”

“Really, don't you see? He's hoping someone will recognize me. Good or bad, publicity would sell the book and boost whatever contract he negotiates next time.” Was he really willing to risk it all? Did he honestly expect her to support this fantasy life he'd created just to promote his new book?

“Maggie, I know you don't like him, but even he wouldn't stoop so low. Look, I want . . . no need, my daughter back in my life.”

“Daddy—”

“Please, think about it. It's all I ask.”

“The publicity, if anyone puts two and two together?”

“I don't care. It's time. I've been wrong, Maggie.”

Had the world stopped spinning? Maybe pigs were suiting up to fly. “You've never in your life admitted you were wrong.”

“May God forgive me my sins. Christian, if you ever have children, never take them for granted.” He took her mother's hand into his. “Do what you need to do to protect them, to keep them safe, but always let them know you love them.”

“Yes, sir,” Beck replied. Uttered with such conviction, Maggie didn't doubt he would do just that. As if on cue, she followed his gaze to the men seated two tables down from them. While dressed in dark suits, both looked like they belonged in military garb. A warm hand squeeze her knee and she returned her attention to her father before anyone noticed she was staring at the bodyguards. It was the reminder she'd needed.

She'd waited years for him to admit he could be wrong, and if he meant it, it was only half of what she wanted. But what exactly was he admitting to? He'd been wrong to put his career before her? He'd been wrong in not supporting her? Or had he been wrong in telling her she'd bitten off far more than she could chew? Right now, none of it mattered. These murders had changed everything. As much as she wanted to ask her father these questions, she had to keep him and her mother at arm's length. Out of her life and out of danger.

“This is all fine for you. What about my club?” she asked as indignantly as she could.

“What about it?”

She'd never expected this and was ill prepared. He had no idea what he was asking of her, or the risk he was taking, the secret she and Shannon had worked hard to bury. Maybe if she told him she owned the club, he'd drop this. She considered her options, and chose to keep her mouth shut. It would discourage his need for full disclosure just as easily as it would destroy any chance at a full reconciliation.

“I can't afford the publicity any more than you can.” No truer statement could be said. “It's too late. Had you been more accepting in the beginning, the press might have brushed me off. Now, you're too big and I may not be a mistress in your bed, but they'd paint this as a sex scandal just the same, simply to sell papers. I can't have the press harassing the women I work with. They have enough on their plates.” Part of that certainly was accurate.

The look in her mother's eyes came close enough to breaking Maggie. “Maggie, please.”

She forced the image of Heather's body on that cold slab of steel to the front of her brain, and spat out, “Too little, too late. And this really isn't the time or,” she glanced at Beck, “place to be discussing this.”

“Fine, agreed. Christian shouldn't have to listen to us bicker, but promise me you'll think about it.”

She was going to say no, but one look from her mother stifled the comment. “All right, I'll think about it,” she said. Nothing was going to change her mind.

For now, her father's approval, what she'd longed for all her life, would have to take a back seat.

C
hristian kept one eye on the road, the other on Maggie. “You all right?”

“Sure,” she said, staring into her lap.

Not exactly the answer he'd been hoping for. But when your estranged father offers you an olive branch and you have to reject his offer to protect him, Christian guessed
sure
was good enough for Maggie, if not for him.

“You know, I can turn this car around. We can go to your parent's hotel and tell them everything. I can keep them safe.”

She glared at him. “Are you kidding? My mother wouldn't want to leave my side and my father . . . my father would know he was right.”

“About?”

She shook her head and focused on the Vegas strip outside. “Never mind.”

Even though it was ten o'clock, the wattage on the Vegas strip made the streets brighter than fifty Fourth of July fireworks. He'd seen frustration play across her face as clearly as if it were high noon.

While he couldn't fault her for not wanting to draw the killer's attention to her parents, there was something else she wasn't telling him. “Maggie, what happened between you and your father?”

“You mean, besides his not approving of his only daughter running a strip club? Of his only daughter soiling his good name? Is that what you mean?”

“That's too easy, Maggie. What else? The animosity between the two of you is deeper than that. I'm not trying to tick you off, but anyone could see he was making an effort to put your differences aside. You could have told them what was going on. I could have tripled the men watching them, kept them out of harm's way. Flown them out of the country even.”

She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “How much do you know about me? How much did Horace tell you and what did you dig up?”

“Besides the club, I know about the kid you found and,” he paused, more to control his temper than gauging Maggie's reaction. “I know about Desilva.”

She sat forward in her seat. “What do you know?” she asked, sounding more like an accusation than a question.

“It would seem you have a penchant for getting yourself into trouble.” He couldn't help his voice growing louder. She'd come damn close to getting killed. “Your father might not like you working in the club, but he should be grateful. Does he know about Desilva?”

She reclined back into the seat, turning her attention once again to the strip. “No. Horace made sure my name never made it into the paper, and to protect the women that were taken, the files were sealed.”

He knew there was more to this. She'd seen the scenery a thousand times over, so she was refusing to make eye contact. Why? What nerve had he struck? “So what is it, what's the problem between you and your father?”

“Our issues started long before I came to Vegas. Remember when I told you I don't preach to these women? All I can do is give them options. They can choose to accept my help or opt to stay where they are. I want them to know they're worth everything I offer, that they have choices. The girls who feel trapped, the ones who hate stripping, quit. I find them jobs elsewhere, but the same rules apply. It's not so I can control their every move, although I have to admit,” she said sheepishly, “I've been called a nag. But I never want to be controlling—not like him,” she added more to herself than Christian. “My father and I fought over school. I'd earned a scholarship at UCLA. He'd bought me a pass into Mount Holyoke and Wellesley, and expected I'd attend one of those.”

“All-girl schools?”

She nodded.

So she wouldn't do to these women what her father had done to her. He got that. “Didn't he write a book on the purity ring?”

“Uh-huh.
Withhold and Behold the Sanctity of Love
.” She sneered. “He dedicated the book to me. ‘For my own angel.'”

“Trying to make his little girl feel guilty?”

“Can't have sex when Daddy dedicates a book about abstinence to you.”

“Did it work?”

“I have to admit, I have my issues.”

So maybe the morning after they'd made love had had nothing to do with him? Or was male ego getting the best of him?

“So that's it? You fought over schools?” he asked trying to keep his mind from recalling that night and wanting a repeat performance.

She shrugged. “I took the scholarship. After fighting about it for months, I'd had enough. Like two wayward orphans, Shannon and I fled in the middle of the night, me from my controlling father, Shannon from her own demons.”

“You ran away from home?” Just like Claire. His fingers flexed over the steering wheel.

“My father wanted jurisdiction over everything. He saw my conduct as a reflection on himself. Nothing I did was ever good enough.”

Not so unlike his mother's treatment of Claire. “I guess he thought he had a reputation to protect.”

“Don't defend him,” she snapped.

“I'm not. I wouldn't.” His sister had the same frantic emotion, to flee a controlling parent. As a kid, he'd wanted so desperately to understand why she ran. Why she never called home. Even now, knowing the true reason they never heard from Claire, the ten-year-old boy inside him still searched for answers.

“It went beyond protecting the social morality of his station. He was ambitious. Still is, considering his new book,” Maggie added. “I couldn't go to the bathroom without the town knowing. It was suffocating.”

His sister had said that. “Don't tell anyone, Christian. I need air. Mom is suffocating me. I love you, squirt.” They were her last words to him.

In a vain attempt to shrug off the past, Christian watched for any parked vehicle as he pulled into Shannon's complex. He was relieved not to see one. He flashed his pass to the guard and drove into the parking lot. A quick glance at his watch told him it was ten past ten. For Vegas, this was an early evening. He opened her door and held her hand while she got out of the car and was disappointed to see those legs disappear behind a curtain of fabric.

In the lobby, they smiled at the security guards and headed for the elevator, his hand at the small of her back. She made no attempt to pull away and no mention of his staying the night. He'd spotted the bodyguard he'd hired at the restaurant and knew her parents were safe, but he was taking no chances with Maggie. He was staying.

At one point, she'd just been another piece to the puzzle. Now things had changed. And not for the better. The idea of this killer going after Maggie riled the angry kid he'd tried so hard to control. Only on search and rescues had Christian unleashed the ugly resentment caused by his mother's betrayal and his stupidity. Ryan was right. Christian always kept his missions at arm's length. He'd crossed the line with Maggie. When this was over, he'd have to find a way to uncross it. When this was over.

As the elevator doors opened, she said, “I want you to understand where I'm coming from with my father. He was, is, very protective. He not only wanted to choose my school, but my everything, including my friends. He and Shannon never got along.”

Inside, they stood side by side when what he wanted to do would shock the guard watching the security camera. “Yeah, that I could understand.”

She eyeballed him. “
She's
my best friend.”

“And a very nice woman,” he said “when she's not threatening to stomp your balls.”

Maggie nudged him playfully. “Lawyers. Go figure. She's always understood what it was like for me, having a father famous for preaching the gospel. His climb to fame didn't just happen in the last ten years. When his popularity grew, so did the number of eyes on me. I was under a microscope. Being a teenager is hard enough. Try a role model.”

“You blamed your father.” The elevator door opened and they stepped out.

“I was a kid who wanted her father to love her the way she was.”

“So you ran.”

“I ran, Shannon by my side. Everyone knew about the scholarship. My disappearance was easily explained. He never forgave me. When I started at the club, our relationship was already tenuous. He didn't like me working on the streets.”

“Can't blame a father for worrying.”

“It went beyond that,” she said. “Now can we change the subject? I've had enough of my father for one night.”

“Okay, but let say me this. If the press printed the real reason you run the clubs, the publicity wouldn't be bad.”

“That wouldn't sell papers, would it? Besides, now is not the time and you and I know the reason.”

The hallway was eerily silent as they made their way to the loft. Inside, she flicked on a row of pin spotlights in the entry. The white walls acted as a mirror, illuminating the entire first floor in a muted glow. The lights from the showy Vegas strip a few miles away glittered like colored stars through the window panes.

Christian locked the door behind them. The soft click catching Maggie's attention, she turned. He'd told himself he wouldn't push, would let her come to him. So he made the token offer. “I could plant myself outside the apartment door, if that makes you more comfortable?”

What he really wanted was to be pressed up against her warm, sweet skin, listening to the sounds she made when he made love to her. He wanted to see her lips full and wet from his kisses, her skin flushed from his touch. He ached to bury himself inside her and forget the ugly business that had brought them together, if only for tonight. Tomorrow morning they'd wake up in each other's arms. She, alive and safe, he, determined to keep her that way.

She laughed. “I'm fine with you sleeping in the guest room.” Her voice lacked conviction and he took it as a good sign.

He removed his jacket, tossing it over the couch and stepped toward her. Startled, the keys in her hand fell to the floor in a clatter. He knelt on one knee to retrieve them, taking an appreciative inventory of the long legs inches from his face. Wrap dresses were a great invention, he thought, easily parted, easily disposed of. Taking his time to stand, his eyes lingering on her flat stomach and the breasts he longed to kiss, would kiss. With her keys in hand, one shoulder pressed to hers, he asked. “Do you really want me to sleep in the guest room?”

They didn't talk, simply stared at each other. He considered answering his own question, considered turning his back on her and going to bed, alone. It might be better for her. She wanted the killer caught, but would she approve of someone wiping the bastard off the face of this earth? She'd already accused him once of being an assassin. How would she react if she knew she wasn't too far off the mark? You could take the girl out of the faith, but the faith out of the girl?

That was their dilemma.

Christian's faith in anything died with his sister. He had to put his remaining ethics aside to do what he did. He'd been paid to find Samantha Wiseman's killer and deliver him to her father for some down-home justice. Well, Wiseman would have to get in line.

Maggie's differences with her father didn't change who she was, a street angel who saved the fallen. Could she save him? Did he want salvation? He hadn't come to Vegas to be saved, but to hunt down a killer.

Right now, he cared about one answer. He shouldn't. Sleeping with her again was a bad move. Tough. Lost in sinful blue eyes, he searched her face. Would she share his bed again?

“We—we have a . . . you promised we'd, um, talk.” She smiled dreamily. “You have the prettiest brown eyes.”

“Do I?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

He took her mouth, unable to resist, even knowing no good could come of this. One way or another, the killer would die, and the preacher's daughter would have no choice but to push him away. Burying those thoughts, he lost himself to the woman in his arms.

Strong arms held Maggie in place for open-mouthed kisses to the tender flesh of her neck and the ticklish hollow between her jaw and earlobe. Beck tasted her as a demanding hand molded her bottom, pushing her hips into his hard, grinding arousal.

She should put a stop to this. Soon. Maybe? And why again was that?

She gave up trying to grasp a coherent thought and gave in to the man liquefying her knees. A pleading moan escaped her as he tortured her aching body with meticulous attention to the skin exposed by the plunging neckline of her dress. Lightheaded with pleasure, she surrendered her weight to him. He obliged her by walking her toward the sofa and tumbling their pressed bodies onto the cushions.

He'd been right when he'd said the back of a pickup would be more comfortable. But being crushed between the hard cushions and his muscular body drew out a wicked sensation, a shuddering tremor that almost made her teeth chatter. Taking her breath as his own, he kissed her with an intensity she found hard to resist.

A warm hand touched her neck then slid past her shoulder, down her to rib cage. His thumb continuously swept across her nipple, until the thin fabric of her bra abraded the puckered flesh. He kissed her, tasting of bourbon and chocolate, of desire and sin. Soon, she'd stop him soon. They needed to talk. She needed to know who he was. Tonight she hadn't been beaten up, didn't need to know she hadn't made another mistake.

The morning after they'd made love hadn't ended well, having been reminded she didn't think before leaping into something that might very well lead to her holding the short end of the stick—again. But nothing bad had happened. And while what Beck did for a living was questionable, what did it have to do with her? This gorgeous man had done nothing but protect her, and her parents. Reluctantly, she drew back. His eyelids heavy with desire, he looked confused.