Sin on the Strip (20 page)

The last of her color drained from her face, but he told himself to keep going. She needed to know. “The truck drove away when he spotted me. I took off after it, but lost him in traffic. I waited outside to see if he'd return. He didn't.”

“He's stalking me,” she said, her monotone voice putting him on edge. “Did you see who it was?”

“No, tinted windows. Cooper ran the plates.”

“That's good, right?”

“Plates are good, but the truck was a rental. Cooper will let us know if they find anything. Maggie, I won't let him get anywhere near you.” He had to say something, to assure her she was safe. This tough act was a waste of her time.

Then her stoicism slipped. “Me? What about the girls?”

The incident with the pimp flashed in his mind, her attempt to rescue Hannah, regardless of the danger to herself.

Her eyes rounded, her words panicked. “My parents, I have to warn them! What if he goes after my mother?”

This he could make certain would never happened. “He won't get within twenty feet of her.”

She shook her head. “You can't promise me that.”

It troubled him to think she managed to maintain her cool, but for her dancers, her mother, she lost it. “I can,” he promised. “I brought in bodyguards, two, yesterday.”

“I don't understand. How?”

“Your father's publisher told him his popularity had risen to the point of needing protection. Add a few prank calls and a veiled death threat and he was convinced.”

“His editor would do that because?”

“Because ICU has friends in all the right places.”

She nodded slowly, pensively.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I think I might understand my father's objection to eating at the Bellagio. Thank you,” she smiled weakly, “one less thing to worry about. It's a good thing he has a big ego. So, are you appointing yourself my bodyguard?” she asked, eyeing his luggage through the wall of glass separating patio from loft. “Why would you want to do that? Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for everything you've done. You have no idea how much so. But I'm sensing there's more to this. Okay, we slept together, but you're not responsible for me. So what is it?”

He'd thought about that himself. Could he not shake off the agent he'd been for nearly ten years? Or had “recover at all cost” become so ingrained that this was nothing more than a mission he was determined to complete? Better still, was Maggie filling a void, a need for justice? A way to make peace with himself, and his sister? Maybe. Partially. Maggie wasn't wrong. There was more to their relationship. He just wasn't sure what.

“Beck, please, I need the truth. This is more than being my hero. Don't leave me in the dark again.”

That stung. So maybe not telling her there was a serial killer stalking her dancers hadn't been his best move, but he'd had sound reasons. At the time. He'd made the mistake of comparing Maggie to his mother and she was nothing like his mother. What was it inside some people that made them crack?

Maggie was staring at him, waiting for answer.

“I'm no hero . . .” he started to say, but the truth of it bit into him more than Maggie's words. So he opted for evasion. “What do you want to know?” Really fucking stupid of him.

This was Maggie. Leave it to her to pull out the one question he wasn't prepared to answer.

“If you catch this guy, get to him before the cops, what do you plan on doing to him? What does Mr. Wiseman expect from you?”

C
hristian quickly tried to calculate how far up a creek he was and exactly how many gators were going to snap at his ass. “Are you asking if I'm an assassin?”

“No.”

She didn't come across as mad, simply curious.

“There are many rumors concerning ICU's involvement in some high-profile missing persons cases,” she said. “And a lot of unanswered questions. Questions no one was, is, in any hurry to answer.”

If a case were particularly sensitive or secretive, Sheppard made certain the media exposed only what he wanted, and occasionally he leaked false rumors. If Maggie had been snooping around, yet again, was she aware of them? “Such as?”

While his team never set out for revenge, the unsolicited opportunity often created a dilemma. Straightforward kidnappings weren't part of their dossier, and the involvement of less than ethical men, often on both sides of the case, was par for the course. His men recovered the “package” and the other teams ensured it was returned to the rightful owner, no ifs, ands, or buts. If, along the way, people died, well, like Maggie, they weren't running a Sunday school. How would she react to that? How much did it matter to him? Because didn't a part of him want to be her hero?

“After Shannon told me an interesting story, I googled your boss,” she said, not answering his question. “Interesting man. His company was credited with returning a rum heiress to her father. She'd been kidnapped with her maid. That poor woman never made it back, although the heiress did.”

He'd hated that mission. Not that it had been a particularly bad one, but the Paris Hilton knockoff had been a royal pain in the ass, an ungrateful, spoiled, yappy princess. He was never more relieved than the day he passed her off to Blake. For the first time in his life, he felt sorry for the pricks who'd snatched her from daddy's plantation. Cold he knew, but never once had the spoiled brat considered the cost to find her.

“And?”

“No mention of what happened to the Colombian militant group who'd kidnapped her. Nada, not one word.”

“She'd been taken in Colombia, so it stands to reason the results weren't made public.”

“True, but she was returned to her father, a U.S. citizen, in Florida.”

“It was a high profile case. He didn't want any of the details released, just in case someone tried to do it again,” he countered, those gators already snapping at his ass.

“Or money wasn't the reason she'd been taken . . . and the men responsible had already been dealt with and everyone involved wanted that kept quiet.”

He couldn't help but grin. She'd gotten most of it right and he had to admire her tenacity.

“What exactly is it you want to know?”

She pushed her chair back and stood. After what seemed like an eternity of soul-searching eye contact, she went to the balcony.

Just how screwed was he? He wanted to drag her back to him, tell her who or what he was didn't matter. Unfortunately, she was still a preacher's daughter, and he was paid to get the job done. That's what he should be concentrating on. If he didn't regain some control—start to think rationally—he'd never catch this bastard. Then where would Maggie be?

Though the Unit offered complete secrecy for its cases, it had over the years developed a reputation and not all of it good. Ryan had used this to his advantage; the more obscure the rumor, the better to keep everyone guessing, the more advantage to each mission.

He couldn't have Maggie doubting him, doubting he'd be here for her, at least until he'd brought this killer down. He also didn't want her to spend whatever time they had together looking at him sideways. He and Maggie had similar goals in life. They just approached them in different ways. He couldn't tell her the truth. She had enough on her plate. How do you tell someone your job is to search, recover and make sure it never happens again?

“What did Wiseman hire you for after his daughter turned up dead?”

“You're reading too much into this.”

“Am I? Is his faith in the American justice system that questionable? Or did he want his own justice? According to Shannon, he has lots of money, lots of shady business practices, and, more important, plenty of shady friends.”

“His daughter had gone missing,” he said, recalling the day she'd turned up dead. “That was the only thing that mattered.”

“A man who hunts down kidnappers in the jungles of Colombia and spends a year tracking the killer of girl he never knew, just because someone paid him to? Must be some paycheck.”

To allow her space, he'd remained seated, but no more. He hated the tone in her voice, reminding him of when they first met. “Maggie.” She didn't move, her eyes on the glittering Vegas skyline. He went to her.

The setting sun caught the glass façade of the Wynn, a fireball of light baking the hotel in a deep amber hue. The stunning view paled against Maggie. Sunbeams caught in her golden hair, her face glowing. She was a prize you needed to take great care in handling. That scared the shit out of him. Fragile was one thing he didn't do. Fragile things broke. Eventually.

“This is somehow personal for you, isn't it? There's something you're not telling me. You've told me often enough I can trust you. Well, you can do the same with me. Money isn't the driving force. So tell and trust me, Beck.”

Christian stiffened. Holy shit. How did she figure it out, then get under his skin, make him want to spill his guts, all the dirty details of his life, his family? All that bullshit aside, she needed to know about the man he hunted.

“Okay, we'll talk, I promise,” he said. “Why don't we deal with your parents first, and then I'll tell you everything.”

“Why not now?”

“It's getting late and this is something I don't want to rush through.” It wasn't a great appetizer before dinner with her parents.

She looked at her watch and nodded. “Fine, you win. But I'm not letting this go.”

“Fine, and I'm sticking to you like a wet T-shirt.”

She sighed. “Again with the water.”

“Seems to be our thing.” He pressed his lips lightly to hers, taking care to hold back, because if he took more there'd be no stopping.

Giving in to a need to have her near, he draped an arm over her shoulder and led her back inside. “Now, show me the spare room.” Trying not to sound optimistic, he added, “Or am I sharing yours?”

“Ha, ha,” was all she said.

 

Maggie agreed to let Christian drive her Spider to dinner. She sat as a passenger in her own car, probably wondering what she'd gotten herself into. True, he'd given her little choice, but even with her suspicions, she had to know he wouldn't hurt her, not physically anyway.

“Maggie, you and I, we still good?”

“Well, on one the side, if you are a hit man, then your target is the killer. Morality aside, I'm not sure how I feel about that. The world would be a better place without the miserable sacks of shit that call themselves human. On the flip side, Horace wouldn't defend a criminal organization. That said, I'm not stupid and I believe the Unit's operation works below the law's radar. Just how much is the million-dollar question.”

“I'd never hurt you. Ever.”

“And there's my answer.”

She had to believe he'd never harm her. “Maggie—”

“You know, I often ignore my instincts telling me to run, but I don't hear warning bells where you're concerned.”

“Would you listen if you did?” Headstrong as she was emotional, he wasn't sure.

She sighed. “The moment I slid open the fire escape window and pushed Hannah out, I knew I wouldn't come out of it unscathed. I always know when trouble is headed my way. I'm just no good at dodging it.”

Like the time she'd taken on Desilva. And that scared him almost as much as the killer stalking her.

As they drove, a blues radio station filled the car with a melancholy tune. It seemed out of place, the sad song a stark contrast to the backdrop of flamboyant, sometimes gaudy, Vegas lights reflecting off the windshield.

“You like the blues?” she asked.

“Reminds me of home. Can't go anywhere in the city without hearing keyboards or horns preaching the truth through music. Grow up in New Orleans, and it's your lullaby. It soothes the soul, calms the nerves, like you hanging upside down. Which, by the way, is still odd.”

Maggie snorted. “Is everyone in New Orleans judgmental, or is that character trait special to you?”

“How am I being judgmental?” Twice now she'd accused him of being judgmental, a label his mother had all but worn with pride. And look where that got her. He was nothing like his mother, at least he tried not to be.

Maggie eyed him with curiosity. “I'm sorry. I was only teasing.”

He nodded. “Yeah, of course.” Wow, he'd been thinking far too much about dear old Mom, so he put her back where she belonged, locked away, literally and metaphorically. “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

“No, but I'd like to. I listen to all kinds of music, but I prefer jazz live. I hear the clubs are amazing.”

“Miss Donna's my favorite, a local hangout, maybe a ten-minute walk outside the French Quarter. Not too many tourists, unless someone gives them the heads up on the place. Monday nights the local musicians get together and jam. When this is over, I'll take you.” He placed a hand on her knee, the gesture familiar.

Maggie wondered what it would be like to share the same roof with this man. He'd changed into a black suit, tailor made and smoking hot, with a salmon pink shirt to set off his golden skin. She couldn't get over how handsome he was. So what the heck did he see in her, a preacher's daughter from New England? She'd bet everything that he'd been all over the world, seen and done things she'd never get to do. Not that she wanted to leave Vegas or her work, but could they be any more different?

“You're sure this is going to end?” she asked, trying her hardest not to sound defeated.

“I don't lose, Maggie. I'll find a way to catch him. I promise.”

Or kill him?

Maggie laid her head on the neck rest, closed her eyes. He seemed so sure of himself. Beck drew circles with his palm over the silk fabric of the skirt covering her thigh, not trying to seduce, simply to comfort. She let herself relax and recognized the sweet aroma she'd come to know as Beck whenever he wore a suit. Finally, here was her chance. “All right,” she said opening her eyes, “why do you smell like chocolate?”

“Excuse me? Smell like what?” He tilted his head, lifting one eyebrow.

“Chocolate, but only when you wear a suit. What's up with that? Is it some kind of funky cologne?”

For a minute he seemed dumbstruck, then his face lit with an ah-ha. He dug his hand under his seatbelt and into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a well-worn lambskin folded pouch. He handed it to her, the scent of chocolate teasing her senses. Curious, she peaked inside and found another pouch filled with loose tobacco. Bringing it to her nose, she discovered the origin.

“It was my grandfather's brand,” he said. “I don't smoke, but carry it around to remind me of him.”

“Ah, that's sweet. But only when you wear a suit?”

He smiled. “He bought me my first suit. My cousin was getting married and my mother . . . my mother wasn't up to it. Dad was going to but Grandpa insisted. Then he bought me lunch and gave me my first drink.”

“How old were you?” she asked.

“Fourteen.”

Maggie's jaw dropped. “Fourteen! Didn't your grandfather understand what being a minor meant?”

“Sure, he just didn't care. He always said clothes might make a man, but good bourbon distinguished him.”

“How did you get served?”

“In New Orleans,” he laughed. “Eighteen years ago, it wasn't that hard. Besides, my grandfather was very well respected. His ancestor fought in the Battle of New Orleans with Andrew Jackson and ended up staying in the city after falling in love with a Cuban girl. Everyone knows my grandfather.”

“Oh” she said, “that makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Your dark skin, the strong features. You could pass for Hispanic.”

“I'm the only one in my family with brown hair. Odd man out.” He laughed. “Put me beside my sister and you'd have thought I was adopted.” Then, his smile dropped.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. She knew that look and debated asking, the question personal, but she wanted to know, wanted to help if she could, if he'd let her. She waited for a red light. “Why did your sister run away?”

The light turned green. “How about we talk about that later, after dinner.”

“Sure.” Some things were too painful. She'd tried to get Shannon to open up about her rotten childhood, but her friend couldn't seem to get the words out.

Most of the time she felt like the bartender of life, people spilling their guts to her. She'd listen with a sympathetic ear then sometimes felt guilty about wishing they'd just shut up and go to confession. Regardless of what Shannon thought, Maggie didn't have a savior complex. But now, she hated the tight lines on Beck's face, hated how he was staring out at the road in front of him, knowing his mind was elsewhere, alone.

They pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.

She reached for the door handle but he stopped her. He stroked her arm, his eyes glued to where his hand glided across her skin. An electric charge ran down the column of her spine and she clenched her teeth to stop a tremor.