Sin on the Strip (8 page)

“You okay?” he asked, waiting for her throat to clear.

She pressed a hand to her chest and breathed. “Yup, the spouts on these bottles are only good for running. Go on.”

“Well, some of them used strip clubs as covers.”

“Ah, I see. So you have an aversion to strip clubs in general, not just mine?”

“Something like that.” His sister had been found in the alley of a strip club, the owner a fucking pimp who claimed Claire had been turning tricks for him. So yes, he had an aversion to strip clubs, one that made his skin crawl at the very thought of her doing what that lying cocksucker had claimed she'd done. “Your turn, or are you going to make me dig?”

There it was again, that flash. Not anger, something else.

Maggie wasn't going to tell him the whole truth. She wouldn't admit why she needed the club more than the club needed her. She certainly wasn't about to open herself up to another lecture on how she reacted carelessly and without thought to her own safety. She got enough of those sermons from her friends. This man had judged her once and would do so again.

Although the police had kept her name out of the press, and the FBI had had their own reasons for sealing the case documents, she didn't know how much clout and power Beck and his agency had. But if he'd figured out her involvement in the Desilva case, she doubted he'd be keeping it to himself. Even so, the file wouldn't tell him the paralyzing fear she'd experienced on that loading dock. Nowhere was it written down, the shame she had endured—and endured still—at not being able to defend herself. When it had come time to choose between her life and that bastard's, she'd frozen.

So no, she wasn't going to tell him the whole truth. However, she saw no harm in admitting some of it, especially if it would keep him from digging further into her life. No one could know that she, not Shannon, was the club's owner. The press would ignore her reasons and go for the jugular: her father's. The dust would settle and the truth would eventually come out, but by then who knew how much damage his church would sustain from the scandal.

“Okay, here it is,” she said, hoping to appease his curiosity. “It's really not that big a deal. When I first moved to Vegas, I supplemented my income with bartending. My dad had cut me off and I, like some of these women, needed the money. The state didn't see the need to pay people who stood between kids and jail a decent income.” Things had changed a little, but front line workers still didn't drive fancy cars.

“One of my runaways had been disappearing for hours at a time, and from the wads of cash hidden under her bed, everyone assumed she'd gone back to her old ways.”

A shadow crept over his face. “Had she?” he asked with genuine concern for a kid he didn't know. Maggie wondered why. Certainly people had adverse reactions to hearing about children and prostitution, but men usually reacted with anger. Beck's reaction came off as . . . personal? It would seem Mr. Beck had his own story to tell.

She shook her head. “On the plus side, she'd come to agree it was wrong of men to use her that way. We'd reached the angry stage of her recovery. For most, that means demanding control over her life. She'd decided stripping was her answer.”

When he looked confused, she explained. “She wasn't forced to take her clothes off.”

“But,” he said cutting in, “men were still paying her. Didn't she see it as demeaning?”

“No. There are a lot of reasons why women choose to strip. For this teenager, it was still her choice. It was wrong for her because she had serious self-esteem issues, and she was underage. Decent clubs mandate twenty-one, others eighteen. She was neither. It was the only way I got her out of there.”

“You seem a little lackadaisical about it.”

“There you go again, being judgmental.”

“Sorry, go on with the story.” He pretended to twist a key in a lock over his mouth.

Maybe he was really trying. “Don't confuse my logical approach with not caring. Even Spock cared. He just didn't like anyone pointing it out.”

He laughed. “You a Trekkie?”

“A world where no one has to suffer? We should all be Trekkies. Look, when you counsel on the streets, you learn to remove yourself from the equation. You don't take what's said or done to you personally. You won't survive otherwise. Most of them don't mean it. They try to scare you off or test how far you'll go, to see if you really care, or for shits and giggles.”

“That sucks.”

“Sometimes, but you develop a thick skin.” Unfortunately, the wall needed to keep you safe could make you forget that you weren't really protected.

“Long story short, I enlisted the women in the club to impart some of their wisdom to the girl and got her to see stripping wasn't the answer for her. My relationship with the dancers grew from there and I started going in more often.” She made sure to avoid the stage at all costs. “Like I said, I was struggling to pay my bills, so when I was offered a job at the club, I took it. The guy who owned it was a little creepy but fair to the girls. Unfortunately, his problem with heroin alerted the IRS. When they stepped in, some loser wanted to buy the place. Shannon had the cash,”—Maggie's inheritance—“and one thing led to another. So here I am. Running a strip club.”

“And paying for their school?”

“It's a tax write-off.”

He folded his arms, not buying it.

She shrugged. “The clubs make money I don't need. So I fund it back to the dancers. Happy? Does that change your holier-than-thou attitude?”

He grimaced. “I admit I was a hundred percent wrong about you.”

Maggie got up and walked away. Away from those jarring brown eyes. “Whatever.” She'd told him the truth, or part of it, not to get him to like her but to stop him from digging into her life. What did she care if yet another person judged her? Her own father had done it. Others would do the same. But now that she'd told him how she'd come to be at Heart's Desire, his opinion insanely meant something. Why, she wasn't sure. “I've gotten it from lots of people. I've heard it all before you know—more, and worse.”

“Still, I shouldn't have allowed personal bias to cloud my judgment. It's something I pride myself on never doing, and again, I'm sorry.”

She nodded, accepting his apology. “Look, it's going to get hot soon and I want my run. What else do you want to ask me?” Answer his questions, she told herself, then make him leave. Not because he made her uncomfortable, but because he needed to be out there, helping the police.

“Yeah, I get that.” He rubbed the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders.

“Stiff?”

“Tension headache coming on.” A pained expression clouded his face. “You wouldn't happen to have an aspirin?”

“You don't need pills. You need to relax your uptight ass.”

He growled, and Maggie laughed to cover the shiver rippling down her spine.

“You know, a nice person would just get me a pill.”

“Well, I agree, you need to take one.”

He opened his mouth to refute her insult, but then shrugged.

“Okay, I'll do you one better,” she offered. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, right? Admittedly, she didn't like the look of pain marring his face. “You let me go on my run, and I'll let you use my gym. Deal?” Maybe if he relaxed a little he'd focus on finding the killer and quit investigating her. “When I get back we'll finish this conversation.”

“I don't have a change of clothes.” He shook his head, clearly disappointed.

“I keep spares for company. You should find something that fits in the pool house.”

“That's very generous of you.”

“It's nothing.” Having him owe her couldn't hurt. And wouldn't her friends just love this? She made a mental note not to tell them or she'd never hear the end of it. “I'll see you in an hour.”

“An hour,” he agreed.

For a second, Maggie played with the idea of not returning. But he wanted answers and so did she. Plus, if he looked half as sexy in shorts as he did in that shirt . . . Eye candy was eye candy, no matter how tightly wrapped or what kind of wrapper it came in. She gave herself a stern reprimand. She was behaving no better than the guys who came into the club.

 

The morning sun beat down on Christian as he strode across the stone patio toward the pool house. White stucco walls and a clay roof matched the style of the main house. Large windows reflected the water from the inviting, crystal-like oasis, but didn't allow you to see inside. Opening the door, he was greeted by a wall of cool air. Nice, he thought, air conditioned, just right for a hard sweat. Lately he'd had to limit his workouts to weights, his headaches getting worse if he got overheated.

It was a great home gym. A treadmill and elliptical trainer were set in front of tinted windows facing the pool. Behind, iron weights were stacked on metal shelves flanked by two mirrors. A variety of exercise and medicine balls and skipping ropes were in oversized natural wooden bins with purple yoga mats placed in a cubbyhole shelf.

The woman lived well. And at least now he knew why. Snooping, he discovered the pool house doubled as a guesthouse. Situated on the edge of the gated community, whoever slept here would have complete privacy and a fantastic view of the desert.

A living room displayed a big flat screen, and it was furnished with two overstuffed couches upholstered in a Navaho print. Not that he knew or cared about fabrics, but his father's new wife had dragged him sofa shopping last time he'd been home, and she'd taken a liking to the same woven diamond patterns of red, mustard and gray. Feeling a pang of guilt, he decided to make a point of calling his dad tonight.

It had been a few months since they'd spoken. Christian didn't care much for his new stepmother, but she seemed to make the old man happy. She was just loud and Chihuahua yappy. Then again, after what his father had suffered with his mother, Christian guessed silence was not high on the man's priority list. His life had been shit. He'd had to deal with his daughter's murder and his wife's withdrawal from reality. And then there was the regret.

Changing his clothes, Christian left them in a neat pile on the sofa and began his overdue workout, starting with weights. If his headache permitted, he'd go for a fast run on the treadmill. The idea of losing himself in sweat and sore muscles had already started to work its magic, pushing out all thoughts of the bloody case he'd worked on for the past year and the brutal memory of his sister's death that went hand in hand with it. He'd have to remember to send Maggie flowers—to thank her, of course.

After his run, he glanced at his watch and realized an hour and a half had flown by. Where was Maggie? Hot and sweaty, he grabbed his phone and towel off the treadmill and walked out to the pool. He kicked off the running shoes, pulled off his socks and discarded the sweaty T-shirt on the deck. He contemplated a cool swim, but with Maggie still AWOL, he chose to wait. Sitting on the edge, he dangled his feet in the cool, saltwater pool.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but his skin grew hotter. Sweat trickled down his face, neck, and back. He remembered the outdoor shower on the way from the gym. After a quick rinse under the cool outdoor spray, he headed back, held his breath and dove into the pool, lingering at the bottom until his lungs burned. He broke through the surface with a loud gasp and did several laps before swimming to the edge. Perfect pink toes waited for him.

“G
ood run?” he asked her feet.

“Yup. Good workout?”

“Beautiful,” he replied, his gaze sauntering up her legs.

Refusing to be affected by his appraisal, Maggie tried to remain still as he made his languid ascent up her body. She failed, toying with the frayed ends of her jean shorts. When he lingered at her paltry A cups, she squatted on the deck.

“You showered,” he said. “I was beginning to think you'd ditched me. Hope you don't mind my jumping in?”

Her hands braced the edge of the pool. Her shower hadn't taken that long. But the view from her bedroom had been irresistible to say the least; able to see out, him unable to see in. Spying on him had been far too tempting, his fault for looking so incredible.

She'd finished her shower in time to see him remove his shirt. Her eyes had been riveted as he'd splashed water on his arms and face. She'd even sighed like a lovesick puppy when he'd leaned back and allowed the sun to beat down on a six-pack no woman could resist. The man was no couch potato.

“Nah, as long as you're not naked under there, Mr. Beck.” She peeked over his head, shocked at her own behavior.

“No,
ma'am,
” he replied, splashing water at her.

“Hey.” She splashed back.

“What, you don't like to get wet?”

“There's a time and place for that,” she said, palming the water off her arms, and cringing at her words. “That's not how I meant for that to come out. I—”

“A time and place? Huh? No time like the present.”

Understanding his meaning, but too slow to react, she gasped when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the pool, head first. A resounding splash muffled her garbled scream.

Maggie swallowed a mouthful of water. She kicked to the surface sputtering. Stunned at Mr. Chocolate's playfulness, she stuck her tongue out and swam to the opposite end. “Very cute,” she hollered. Thank heaven she'd worn her bikini under her clothes.

He pursued and when strong fingers curled around her ankle, she prepared to go under. But Maggie was a good swimmer. In the summer there hadn't been much else to do in Tweedsmuir except swim at the quarry. She came up—full throttle—and plunged his head into the cool water, but his arms were longer, stronger. He snagged her waist and brought her down with him. Their bodies twisted and turned in an erotic dance beneath the water, his skin a satin caress. Their legs intertwined in between gasps of air and head dunks, neither relenting in the battle. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and dragged her to the bottom, his hard body pressed to hers, her whole body tingling. Lack of oxygen, she told herself. Needing air, they surfaced only to renew the war for several more dunks until exhausted, they floated to the shallow end. Panting heavily, they pulled themselves onto the concrete stairs.

“I think I drank half your pool.” Beck coughed.

Maggie couldn't remember the last time she'd had this much fun with a man. “You started it.”

“Guess I did,” he laughed. Lying back on the steps, he closed his eyes. “It was great. Thanks. I hadn't realized how tense I was.”

Maggie indulged in a peek. He was gorgeous, a forbidden fruit dappled in beads of water. His chest was smooth, except for a faint patch of hair trailing to a place all too accentuated by wet trunks. Aching to touch him, she sat on her hands and averted her eyes. “All work and no play, Beck?”

“Mostly, the last few years anyway.”

“You mean this case?”

Beck sat up, stared into the pool, his arm brushing against hers. “I don't want to think about it right now. Just for a few more minutes, okay?”

“Sure,” she said, thinking he'd shown a side of himself he didn't often reveal to people.

This was not the man she'd first met. He'd promised not to reveal who her father was, and he'd apologized to her. More importantly, they shared something. She too had shut down a human trafficking ring. As bizarre as it was, he was starting to become one of the good guys. He may have misjudged her, but his heart had been in the right place. He didn't like to see women being taken advantage of. Something else they had in common. But she wasn't kidding herself, there was
more
about him she didn't know.

Maggie had done a little investigating of her own. ICU not only had offices in New York and Vegas, they had one in Dallas, Los Angeles, Denver, London, and Hong Kong. Their clients had money and power. She couldn't find out much about his boss. Ryan Sheppard liked his privacy. She managed to learn he was sort of a Bruce Wayne type: a philanthropist, generous to his employees, handsome, single, and elusive.

Beck said he'd been on Samantha Wiseman's case the last year. When Maggie had gone on her hunt for information, one of Horace's officers had let it slip that Christian Beck was one of ICU's top associates. Not investigator, but associate. What did that mean? She remembered the suits he'd worn—very expensive. Yesterday, she would have thought this case was about a paycheck. Today . . .

Turning his head, he regarded her curiously as he brushed a wet strand of hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear. His fingers lingered, a soft whisper on her cheek. When he smiled, all her questions floated to the other end of the pool.

“Uh—head—headache gone?” she stammered, his intense brown eyes unnerving.

“Mmhmm . . . thanks to you. So, tell me. The wings?”

Unable to bear his heated stare, Maggie kicked her feet and watched her toes as they chopped in and out of the water.

“Leave it alone, Beck.” No way was she telling him.

“Okay, but just remember I have sources no one else does.”

She'd told her friends it wasn't a good idea, and a little sacrilegious. This was God getting even. “Fine. They're guardian angel's wings. For protection.”

“Protection from what? Bad drunks? That's what you have bouncers for.”

“I got the tattoo before I had the club.” She hoped this time he'd listen and stop with the questions. She'd get over the how-I-got-a-tattoo story. It was explaining why her friends thought she needed the wings that unnerved her. But if there
were
guardian angels, they'd done their job on more than one occasion.

He remained silent and she knew he was waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn't, his expression changed to one of understanding and he began to offer his own opinion. “I get it. Sometimes they didn't just try and scare you off. Sometimes you got hurt?” The strain in his voice was odd. This morning he didn't much care for her. Now, was he actually concerned about her welfare?

“I worked with street kids, on the streets. Lots of guns, lots of knives, lots of bumps and bruises. It's part of the job,” she explained. “I became desensitized to it. My friends wanted me to remember I was human, that I bled. So on a girls' weekend away, fueled by tequila, lots of tequila, we all got tattoos. Me, the wings. Now, how about you ask me something that doesn't involve a cliché story about drunk friends getting inked?”

Christian studied the woman beside him, and holy shit, was he appreciating her switch in careers? There were teachers who passed through metal detectors on their way to class, parole officers who only met their clients after
they'd
passed through metal detectors. Cops, guns aside, got to use handcuffs before reading Miranda rights. Imagine being the front line worker with a hard-case juvie, the kid that never listened in school, when or if he went, the one that skipped his probation meeting and didn't care if he got busted, maybe for the second or third time. Now, he had a new question. Had those guns, knives, and bruises been the reason Maggie had hung up her wings?

And
damn
, when had she gone from Ms. Anderson to Maggie?

“Did I shock you, or are you finally thinking of a question that matters to your case?”

His case, that's where his mind should be. Not dicking around all afternoon and wanting to kiss her so badly his professionalism drowned in the pool. He focused his gaze ahead, watching the ripples in the water, not the woman in a clingy, wet clothes.

“Forensics is working on the evidence recovered from the scene, but it would be a real help to know if Heather Mackenzie had been targeted for a reason.” He knew the real reason she'd been singled out, but perhaps there was a deeper connection that could lead him to the killer.

“Heather was a great girl,” she said resolutely. “She'd been clean for a long time. She was going to school, had excellent grades. When she graduated she would have been set to start a new life. I can't imagine anyone wanting her dead.”

Maggie's kicking had slowed, a pair of sexy legs and muscular calves flexing with the movement. Up . . . and down, in . . . and out. He tried to look away—couldn't. Could she be nervous? Why? Hiding something or did he put her on edge? Had she felt the sparks between them? He needed to know who was sitting next to him, the club manager or the woman? Perhaps the sun had fried his brain, because he was hoping for a woman who wouldn't mind spending time with him.

Frustrated by his thought, he put his efforts back on the case. “How about the club itself?”

“What about it?”

“Any problems with customers, other dancers?”

“Like I said, the girls are like family, even the ones who do the circuit. I won't hire troublemakers or drug users. As for the patrons, the regulars understand the rules. But this is Vegas and I get my share of tourists. My bartenders keep an eye on the amount of alcohol consumed, but every so often someone slips through the cracks and needs his butt hauled out of the club.”

“Someone ever get pissed off?”

Thankfully, she stopped and pulled her feet onto the first concrete step. Considering his question, she rested her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands.

“My men are trained in discretion and tact, but sure, there's always one who doesn't get why he's being escorted out. But to return and kill? I don't think so,” she said, shaking her head. “I installed call waiting a few months ago. My staff has kept a record of anyone calling in excess. I gave it to Horace and the FBI, but you can have a copy if you want.”

“So you did have problems?” Could this be the break?

“Not really. Some overzealous fans, nothing the dancers couldn't handle. We had a small incident with a guy who wanted to marry Rhonda. He seemed to enjoy her scare tactics, and for a while nothing was working. He tipped well and Rhonda didn't want me to ban him, but I wanted this guy to know she was off limits. We managed to track his number and I found out he lived with his mother.” She smiled wickedly. “The next time he came in, I told him I had a chat with his mommy. Considering how pale he turned, I knew I had him,” she said with a great deal of satisfaction. “When I told him I lied but had his phone number, he stopped hassling Rhonda.”

Lieutenant Cooper hadn't been kidding. God help the man who screwed with her dancers.

“Think back, Maggie. Anything else? Maybe in the other club?” He liked the way her name sounded on his lips, and going back to Ms. Anderson just didn't seem right.

She got up and headed toward the cedar shelves to the left of the open shower. Eyebrows furrowed, she stripped off her wet shorts then peeled out of her tank. Clad only in a plain yellow string bikini, he almost forgot what he'd asked her to do, because a plain yellow bikini on her was anything but boring. Still deep in thought, she opened the glass door and grabbed a towel off the cedar shelf. Oblivious to what she was doing to him, she started to pat herself dry as she thought about his question. An invisible rope seemed to drag him away from the poolside and to her. Before he realized it, he was reaching for her.

The sound of AC/DC's “Highway to Hell” broke the spell. Maggie raised an eyebrow at his choice of ringtones. He shrugged and went to retrieve his cell from the chair he'd dropped it on, unable to take his eyes off her.

He glanced at the number and answered. “Cooper?”

Maggie dropped the towel and bent over to pick it up. Her bikini bottom rode up, revealing more skin. He stifled a groan. The first breeze of the morning rustled a palm tree behind her. She hugged herself as if chilled by the slight shift of heated air. His hands itched to rub her arms, keep her warm. Damn Cooper.

“Beck, look, I'm headed downtown. You'll have to wait until I call you. I won't have you screwing up a crime scene.” There was a long pause, but Christian knew what was coming. His heart thudded. “We have another one.”

Christian turned his back on Maggie, not wanting her to see his reaction. “When?”

“Sometime last night.”

“Fuck.” Christian tried to keep his voice low, but he was too frustrated.

“Beck, what's going on?” She'd heard and sounded alarmed.

No way was he going to be the one to tell her. Besides, he didn't have any of the details. “Where?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“
You
will stay put. I'll call you when CSI clears the scene.”

“Cooper,” he ground out, but the lieutenant had hung up.

“Beck?”

He considered his options. He could say a quick good-bye and wait in his car for Cooper's call or he could turn around and attempt to convince her nothing was wrong. Either decision was unfair to Maggie, but both for her own good.

Licking parched lips, he turned. She was staring him down. Arms crossed, Maggie wore the same expression Grandma Lily had when he'd broken her favorite crystal figurine and cut his palm to boot. Irritation, concern and a don't-screw-with-me mouth.