Sin on the Strip (19 page)

“A pleasure to meet you, Christian. Maggie, you didn't tell me you had a boyfriend.” Her mother gave Maggie's cheek one last inspection then went to close the front door.

Boyfriend! “He's n-not my boyfriend.”

“Oh?” Her father's voice deepened. “Then why were you kissing him?”

Yup, this was the man she knew. “I can kiss whomever I want,” she threw back at him.

Her mom groaned. “Can the two of you not get along for five minutes? James, please, you didn't come here to argue with our daughter.”

“Why did you come?” Maggie snapped, needing to know the answer.

“If we're not welcome,” her father said, “we can go.”

“Maggie, your father is trying,” her mother interjected, picking up her fallen purse and setting it on the glass coffee table. “Please, for me.”

Unable to refuse her, Maggie complied. “I'm sorry, Dad. Of course, you're welcome.”

He grunted as if he didn't believe her. He was right.

After an uncomfortable pause, Beck broke the silence. “I should go.”

“We want to take Maggie out to dinner tonight.” Her mother smiled at Beck. “Why don't you join us?”

Beck didn't give Maggie the chance to argue. “I'd love to.”

Twice now he'd nailed her into complying, first at the church, now this. No way was he winning. “Don't you have a meeting?”

“For you, sweetheart, I'll cancel. How often do your parents come to town?”

Maggie bit her tongue before she said something she was sure to regret and gave him a tightlipped I'll-get-even-with-you smile. Much to her chagrin, he had the last unspoken word. With a light kiss on the cheek, he ruined any chance of her getting out of this. In that famous drawl he said, “See you tonight, darlin', Mrs. Hopewell, Reverend Hopewell.” He nodded to each of them and left her holding the bag.

As he walked out the door, she realized he'd never told her why he'd come in the first place. Why he'd had that awful look on his face.

“What a nice gentleman.”

No, that wasn't the word Maggie had been looking for.

“Alison, how would you—?”

When her mother's head snapped around to glare at her father, he quickly recanted. “You were always a good judge of character.”

She smiled and turned her attention to her daughter. “Who is he, dear? You never mentioned anything about a man in your life.”

Maggie really didn't want to lie. But what was she going to say?
He's a private investigator investigating the death of two of my dancers?
And she'd slept with him. That'd go over real well.

“We just started seeing each other.” That was the truth. Seeing someone didn't mean you were dating.

“What does he do for a living?” asked her father.

She considered her answer and saw no reason to lie. “He's a private investigator.”

“How did you meet?”

“On the job,” and before he could ask another question, she cut him off at the pass. “So, why are you here?”

Regarding each other, saying unspoken words only they knew, her mother prodded her father with a nod.

“I thought we could talk after dinner. Maggie, I feel like I don't know you. I want to,” he quickly added.

“Since when?” she asked, failing to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

“I deserve that,” he agreed.

Stunned, all she could do was stare at him. Her father would never admit to such a thing. She'd heard him claim human failings in his sermons, to his followers. But that was like window dressing, a simple flower in his lapel to make him appear more down to earth, approachable. Her father was neither of those.

“Let's go to dinner, talk. You can tell us,” he placed his hand over his heart “or me, what you've been up to.”

“You know what I've been up to,” Maggie said, amazed at her own control.

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Can that be all that's going on in your life?”

Not if you threw murder and Beck into the equation. “We could go over to the Bellagio. They have several restaurants to choose from. Or I know a great steakhouse across the street from the Monte Carlo.”

“I was hoping for something less . . .”

She knew what he wanted and still it stung. “Less public?”

“Yes. With my new book, I've been in the papers lately, and I'd prefer not to be recognized. I want to spend time with my daughter.”

Sure he did. If that was his story, he'd stick to it. Oh, he didn't believe he was lying. The fact that he was killing two birds with one stone wasn't lost on her. No public to bother him, no public to ask about the other woman at his table. The fact that Maggie was never mentioned in any article written on her father hadn't gone unnoticed over the years. She hadn't made it easy for the press to find her, changing her name and living on the other side of the continent. But he'd failed to mention her in any of the many personal questions the media wanted answered. Maggie Hopewell had gone to a private all-girls school and was never heard from again.

Convenient.

“All right, there's a great restaurant off the strip, but let me call Beck and tell him he can join us another time—”

“Don't be ridiculous,” her mother jumped in, “we want to get to know the man in your life, but I thought his name was Christian.”

“It is. Can I get you two something?” No way she'd call him by his given name. She didn't want to get that comfortable with him. What was she saying? She'd slept with him.

“No, thank you, Maggie,” her father replied. “Our bags are with your doorman and I think we should head to the hotel and get settled.”

“Where are you staying?”

Her mother smiled, her father cringed. “My editor insisted on Caesar's Palace.”

“Your editor is paying for the hotel? Nice perk.”

“He's meeting us on Friday. It was at his insistence that we fly out here.” Then catching what he just said, he backtracked. “He knew I wanted to talk to you. We were going to call you and ask you to fly home.”

“It's the truth, Maggie,” her mother added.

“Why would you tell your editor you wanted to talk to me? Our personal differences are not something he needs to know.”

Her father hesitated, another first. “It's the new book.”

Every inch of her shouted to brace herself. “What's the book about, Dad?”

“It's called
Love Your Children Well
.”

A
fter her parents left, Maggie changed into cutoffs and slipped on a fitted gray tank. Now she sat on the concrete sofa, Bon Jovi rocking through her headset. She ignored the ache in her back and brooded. Why hadn't she said anything?
Love Your Children Well?
Was he completely out to lunch? Unconditional love? Open communication?
Right
. Two things he knew nothing of.

Who was he kidding, telling her the book had been written with her in mind? Instead of writing a book to resolve their differences, why not pick up the phone? Only he would be arrogant enough to think the right solution would present itself on paper. Dumbstruck, she couldn't believe he'd turned their troubles into what was sure to be another bestseller.

Groaning, she shifted her position on the sofa, swinging her feet over one of the armrests and dangling her head and shoulders off the cushions. When that didn't work, she flung her legs over the back and hung upside down, shut her eyes and allowed blood to recharge her brain.

Her father had managed to use their differences to his advantage just as he had when she was living at home. The wayward teenager who needed a firm hand.

“Just look at how the Reverend handles his daughter,” they'd say, never bothering to whisper. “I heard she got a B in math last semester but look at her now, an honor roll student.”

Nothing she ever did was good enough for the almighty preacher.
I love you
was always followed with a
but
.

Indulging in a wallow of self-pity, she listened as Jon Bon Jovi crooned about making love on a bed of roses and wondered what it would be like. Inevitably, Beck popped into her brain. Giving in to his constant intrusion into her mind, she let herself daydream, then switched songs when her imagination took her places she told herself she'd never revisit—Beck in her bed.

She'd slept with a man she hardly knew. And this man would be having dinner with her parents. How on earth had that happened? The man was incorrigible and more likely dangerous, not to mention a few other things she had to stop indulging in.

She opened her eyes to faded jeans and a pair of black boots. Struggling to get up, she tumbled feet over head and landed on her sore back.

Beck stood over her.

Mortified and cringing, she flipped onto all fours and accepted his hand.

“How did you get in here?” She glanced at the apartment door, popping out her earphones.

In his hand, he had what looked like a bobby pin. At closer inspection it was a solid piece of metal. “Tools of the trade?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“That only works in movies. It's a tiny screwdriver.” He held it up for her to see. “I did knock.”

She pointed to the small tool. “Oh, so what's the screwdriver for?”

“My sunglasses. On the way up in the elevator I had to tighten a loose screw. Speaking of which, what exactly were you doing upside down?”

“Relaxing.”

He looked at her like she just told him the world was flat. “Like a monkey in a tree?”

“More like a bat.”

“They're nocturnal.”

She shrugged. “I work in Vegas. Day and night don't exist.” She nodded toward the door. “How did you get in here?”

Beck drew closer. “Shannon gave me a key. I did knock,” he repeated and grinned, a cocky, unrepentant smile. Licking his lips, he reached out and gingerly slipped the tank top back down over her belly. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her tight against him. “So, you enjoy head rushes?” He brushed her disheveled hair away from her face; his fingers igniting tiny sparks where skin touched skin.

She told herself to ignore the sexual charge between them. Her mouth, however, had other ideas. “Whose head are we talking about?”

He smiled, and before he returned with a comeback, and she was certain he'd have one, she added, “Why are you back? Why did Shannon give you a key?”

Beck sat, dragging her with him. He scrunched up his face. “This sofa . . .”

“Yeah, go figure. So, want to tell me why Shannon gave you a pass and the key?” Remembering the conversation she'd had with Shannon, Maggie wondered what her friend was up to. “And why would you let my parents think we're dating?” she added, surprised that she wasn't more mad.

“Knowing your father, I doubt he'd have approved of you kissing a man the way you were kissing me if you weren't in a relationship with him. You weren't exactly giving me a peck on the cheek.”

“You kissed me,” she said.

“We can argue that later.”

“Later?” She wriggled out from beneath his arm. “Why are you really here?”

“First, I want you to know I am here for you,” he said, turning sideways to face her on the couch.

“Yeah, you said that earlier. Now, you're scaring me.” Her heart began to thud, uncertain if it was fear or proximity to the man.

“Damn. Don't be scared,” he said, leaning forward to cup her head with his warm hands. The kiss stayed feather light, the tenderness making it all the more pleasurable, all the more tempting. It was odd. She swore his mouth attempted to convey a message. Before she could think what, he deepened the kiss, his hands holding her still for him to taste. Barely able to catch her breath, her thighs clenched as if he'd stroked her, the pleasure sudden and shattering. She straightened, drawing toward his lips. Uncertain why, but for the first time in a long time, she wasn't afraid. She wanted to cry from the sheer relief.

He ended the kiss the way it began, with a hint of more to come.

Christian pressed his forehead to hers, wanting her near, wanting her safe. “I need you to trust me. To know I won't let anything happen to you.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

As bizarre as that was, it pleased him. It was dumb. He knew that. He always approached his work with a single-mindedness that left no room for anything or anyone. He liked the tunnel vision. It kept him sane. Maggie was a distraction. Distracted he was no good for her, for anyone. And exhausting a great deal of energy worrying about her would make him a miserable prick. Still, he couldn't help but want her. And not just in his bed. Didn't that just sucker-punch him. Because when he finally extracted his revenge on his sister's murderer, Christian would leave to find a new case.

“I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“No.” He picked up her hand. Stroking her knuckles with his thumb, he started again, this time taking care not to alarm her. “Your father is a very public figure with a large following. I'm not saying religion is the catalyst, but unstable people have in the past used faith as an excuse to kill. Your dad has some very high morals. He preaches against overindulgence of any kind. To some, your club breaks all the rules.”

Maggie sat silent. He saw her absorb what he just told her and the beginnings of comprehension wrinkle her forehead.

“Someone may have discovered your secret.”

Maggie's complexion, the one he'd come to love, paled. “This isn't about the club, but me?”

“Maggie—”

“No. Is someone killing because of who my father is, or because he's my father? I've drawn attention to these women. If you're right, someone doesn't think his daughter should be doing what she's doing. Am I the beacon, or the one he's punishing?” She pulled away and stood. “This is my fault.”

“This isn't your doing. It's like saying the rape victim is to blame for looking too good, or wearing the wrong clothes. It doesn't work that way. This guy is psychotic. He'd have found another option. Your club didn't all of a sudden click something in his fucked-up brain. It was already fucked up.”

“The fact remains, I run this club. If I was someone else's daughter these women wouldn't be dying.”

He saw her logic but she wasn't at fault. This bastard, if his suspicions were correct, had been killing long before this episode with Maggie. When Christian was done giving her all the facts, he'd tell her. He stood and held her shoulders. “If I'm right, this killer targeted your father, not you. You've kept your association with the place under wraps. If he's a follower of your dad, then he went looking for you.”

She shook her head. “That doesn't matter—” She spotted his luggage sitting by the front door, right where he left it. She stepped back, away from him. “Going somewhere?”

“I'm exactly where I need to be.” Needed and wanted to be.

“What's going on?”

“I'm staying with you,” he said, plain and simple, end of discussion.

She blinked, her gaze darting from his luggage to him. “Okay, I'm not stupid enough to think this about sex, so why don't you just come out with it.”

“Let me make it clear, Maggie. I want you. Very much so,” he added making sure to keep his hands to himself. “But, you're right.”

“You think I need protecting?” She raised a hand, her fingers clutching at her chest. “That he's coming after me?”

Damn, he was going about this all wrong. “How 'bout we go sit on the patio?” He glanced back at the poor excuse for a sofa. “My daddy's Chevy is more comfortable than that slab of concrete.”

“You're doing it.” She shook a finger at him.

“Doing what?”

“Using that southern accent to your advantage.”

“Maggie—”

“Don't bother.” She held up a hand. “Please, quit stalling. It's not helping.” She was out the patio door before he could argue.

Catching up, he pulled out a wicker chair and sat beside her.

“Let's hear it.” She was leaning back into the cushions, as if she didn't have a care in the world.

He wasn't fooled.

“You remember hearing Miss Mackenzie's car was found at the scene?”

She nodded, crossing her legs, the nervous habit he'd come to recognize. A light breeze caught her hair and she tucked a stray strand behind her ear, the innocent gesture reminding him of her fragility. He ached to touch her face. Instead, he slid his own chair closer to hers.

“Miss Mackenzie's keys were on the ground beside it, next to a knapsack.”

She dropped both feet to the ground and sat forward, putting less space between them. Their knees touched. “Green and pink, with a big peace sign?”

He thought back to the report, his mind scanning the description of the items found. “I'm not sure about the peace sign, but they found her wallet inside.”

“I bought her that knapsack.”

He covered her hands with his. “When this is over, I'll remind Cooper to return it to you.”

“You know, she didn't have any family. Her father, if you could call the pig that, died in prison and the woman who gave birth to her,” she added with a look of disgust, “she overdosed. You're not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but those two . . .”

He'd read the file on Miss Mackenzie. She'd spent her adolescence in and out of foster homes and her younger years in and out of hospitals. By the time she was fifteen she was living on the streets, working them while she stripped on the side, until Maggie found her.

“I couldn't get Heather to stop stripping.” Maggie's eyes glassed over. “I wanted her to, but a part of her couldn't give it up. She had a huge following and when it's the only adoration you've ever known . . .

“Well, it was her decision to make, not mine.
Preaching
isn't my style, but I have women at the club, good, honest, intelligent women, who enjoy dancing. They like the cash and don't mind doing what they do. So, who am I to knock it?” She wasn't defending her actions, but theirs. He never thought he'd do this, but seeing it through her eyes, he had to agree. “All I can do,” she said, “is to provide a clean, safe environment.” She looked away. “And hope to God I can help the ones that want it. I failed Heather.”

“Not from what I hear.”

“She's dead,” she argued.

“Maggie—”

She snapped her head around. “Car keys found at the scene and . . . finish.”

For now he'd take her lead. “They found paint scrapings on the ends of some keys, the kind you might find if you keyed someone's car. Cooper had the sample analyzed. You mentioned a seeing a white SUV, asked Cooper if it was a cop. Then when I followed you from the church, a white Durango got between us. The paint matched the car model.”

Her eyes grew wide but she said nothing. He stroked her hand, wishing like hell the lab had been wrong. “The feds believe your father is the connection. I don't want to scare you, but if he's trying to get to the preacher, what better way than through his daughter?”

“You plan to protect me, or use me as bait?” she asked, far too calmly for his comfort.

“Maggie!” He'd have been really insulted, except a few weeks ago if presented with this situation he'd have jumped at the chance. So it shouldn't have irked him that she considered him capable of such a thing, but it did.

She closed her eyes. “Sorry, sorry. You wouldn't do that.”

He was such an ass.

It pained him to think she was trying to hold it together. Remembering the day she'd wept in his arms, he knew what it cost her to be the pillar of strength. He wanted to tell her she needn't bother—he was there for her. If he did, it wouldn't be on Shannon's poor excuse for furniture that he'd be comforting her. It would be in his bed, in his arms.

Instead, he continued with the rest. “When I left, there was a white Durango sitting on the road outside this complex.”