Sin on the Strip (4 page)

“Maybe,” he said over the sound of running water, “we should wait until your bartender returns. Take this to your office?”

Dear Lord
. Why did she have to have a thing for accents?

She looked up from the sink and found his brown eyes locked on her. “He, uh . . . he should be back soon.” She turned the water to cold, gave her cloth one last wring and dried her hands.

He nodded in that annoying manner of his, assessing her. If she despised one thing more than anything, it was being under a microscope. She'd had enough of that to last a lifetime. But it was how she'd ended up here, in Vegas. And she
was
making a difference. This man could shove his condescension up his tailored suit pants.

“Mags?” Debbie called out from the service bar.

Maggie looked over her shoulder, not having heard the waitress's order come through the chit reader. “Sorry, Deb.” She retrieved the two beers on the order. First one popped open easy enough, the second cap was stubborn and the forceful tug snapped the bottle's neck. Broken glass tore into her palm, blending blood with foaming beer, turning it a grisly shade of pink.

Debbie squeaked and stood on her toes. “Maggie, you all right?”

She nodded, grabbing her bleeding hand. “It must have been cracked.” She gasped as the alcohol stung her skin, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Let me see.” Warm hands tugged on hers. She looked to see Beck in front of her.

She was wrong. The cologne smelled better on him than in any bottle. “I'm fine,” she snapped as he pried her hands apart. Blood oozed over her thumb and down her wrist.

“Don't think so.” He grabbed her arm, then wrapped her injured hand in a clean bar towel.

Jack returned then, took one look, drew the wrong conclusion and flipped the bottle of vodka in his hand creating a makeshift club. “Back off. Let her go, and I might not crack your skull when I toss you out on your ass.”

Christian looked over his shoulder at the bartender. “I wouldn't if I were you,” he warned and swore under his breath. Faster than a hungry black fly sunk its teeth into your neck, two beefy bouncers headed toward them.

“Jack. Guys.” Ms. Anderson gave them a reassuring look. “This is Mr. Beck, a friend of Horace's. Apparently he thinks he's a first responder.”

“Your boss cut herself on a beer bottle. Where's your first aid kit?”

“Yeah, sorry. Her office,” Jack volunteered. “Left hand side when you walk in. Want my help, Mags?”

She winced as Christian drew her forward. He brushed his thumb against the underside of her wrist. Her skin was wet and sticky. Lowering his voice, he met her skepticism with a smile. “I can handle this.”

Several assessing seconds later, she was the first to break eye contact. “That's all right, Jack, see to Debbie's order. This way, Mr. Beck, but I think you'd better let go of my hands.”

“I want to keep the pressure on the bleeder.”

“I can manage it. Thanks,” she insisted, tugging her hands free.

Giving up, Christian tipped his head, deferring to her, and followed. While certainly concerned about the gash, he was thankful for this opportunity. People tended to reveal more information when distracted. Time was not on his side. If he had to charm his way into getting her to talk, so be it.

From the middle of the lounge, another over-juiced bouncer approached and nodded toward her hands.

“I'm fine, Vinnie,” she assured him.

He grunted, giving Christian the evil eye, then whispered something in her ear. She scowled, the same flash of temper she'd turned on him in the coffee shop igniting. “Throw him out. He's drunk. His wife just left him. But tell him if he tries it again, a wife won't be the only thing he's missing.”

Attila pursed his lips and puffed out his chest. “Sure thing, Miss Maggie, and,” he added, glaring at Christian, “if you need me I won't be far.” Then he left to toss whomever out on his ass.

“Trouble?” he asked.

“Nothing I can't handle,” she assured him. “People think what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Not in my club. If anyone plans to test that trite bullshit marketing strategy as a get-out-of-jail-free card, they'll end up flat on their face, kissing the asphalt.”

He smiled. Horace said she ran the club like a fierce mama bear, never allowing the men near the women. Blake had said the same thing. Patrons got to look, but if they touched, well, you wouldn't want to be that guy. Her staff seemed to be faithful bloodhounds. For Christian, it didn't change the fact that she profited from these women. Of course some men were suckers for pretty faces, and he had to admit hers had done a number on him. Although she wasn't his type, a man could have serious erotic dreams about those legs.

Her tough-girl act intrigued him, but there was something he couldn't put his finger on. Perhaps the tough street persona just didn't fit with the rest of her? Then again, one of her dancers had been murdered. That kind of stress could make anyone nasty. He had the mental scars to prove it.

Reaching her office, she nodded toward the knob. “I'll need you to open it.”

“No problem,” he drawled. “You sit. I'll get the first aid kit.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “To your left, cabinet on the far wall.”

The office, spacious enough for a couch, a forty-two-inch flat screen and a three-by-five bar in one corner, still afforded plenty of room for a desk and two filing cabinets. He found the kit, opened it and laid out what he thought he needed. She sat sideways, crossing her legs to avoid staining her pink skirt with blood. The fabric hiked well above her knee, baring a long, silky thigh and sexy calf. The woman worked out.

Thankfully, she was too focused on her injury to notice him wondering what it would be like to slide his hand over those legs and under her skirt. He cleared his throat and told himself to stick to his agenda. Kneeling, he gently lifted the bar towel, and hissed. Her grated skin had puffed with a long sliver of green glass imbedded in the fleshy part of her lacerated thumb. “That's gotta sting.”

“Ya think?” she said, heavy on the sarcasm.

He grinned, unable to tear his eyes off hers. Damn, if she didn't have the sexiest baby blues he'd ever seen. Oh yeah, the kind that called you back to bed and made you never want to leave. He shook off the thought. “Blood flow has slowed down.” His had gone in a whole different direction. “Ready for this?” He held the peroxide over the wound. It was going to hurt.

“Do you know what you're doing?” She lifted a curvy eyebrow.

“I once worked undercover as a paramedic. Does that qualify?”

“Well, I once played a tree in a school play. Doesn't mean I was one. Wait.” She yanked her hands away from his grip. “I thought you said you were a PI?”

“I used to work for the Bureau.”

“You were FBI?”

Why didn't it surprise him she didn't believe him? “Five years. Look,” he dipped his head toward her hand, “are we going to do this or what?”

“Okay, do your worst.” She reluctantly gave him back her hand, turned her head and squeezed one eye shut to peek with the other.

He couldn't help but laugh. “Hang on.” Grabbing the tweezers out of the kit, he poured peroxide over them, then plucked the glass free and cleaned her cut.

She winced, sending a jolt to his stomach. What the hell was the matter with him? Seeing someone in pain had never bothered him before. He'd seen men bleed out, for Christ's sake. But for a split second, her freckled nose, all scrunched up, made him think of her as sweet, innocent. How fucked up was that?

Over the odor of the antiseptic, he could smell her perfume, soft, enticing. She smelled so good, he was tempted to nuzzle her neck.

Her eyes darted up, catching them both off guard.

“Doesn't look like you need stitches,” he said, breaking the awkward moment. He placed a piece of thick gauze on top of the ointment he'd just spread and cut pieces of medical tape. He brushed his thumb across the sticky fabric, once, twice, three times, her skin tempting him again. “Done.” He stood, leaning against her desk, his palms braced on the edge. “Go ahead and wash up. Just be careful not to get my handiwork wet.”

“Thank you.” She admired the job he'd done with a tight smile. “Mr. Beck—”

“Can we lose the formality? Call me Christian.” He reasoned, as she was already leery of him, moving to a first name basis might help.

She hesitated. A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Forgoing formality won't find this killer.” Her gaze shot to her bandaged hand, protectively drawing it to her heart. “I want Heather's killer caught . . . and punished,” she added quietly.

She seemed to genuinely care for these girls. But as a manager protecting her employer's investment, or a mother hen guarding her flock?

Before he could ask her any questions, her eyes darkened, and that stern club manager reared her head. “Find him, or I'll find someone who can.”

F
or a split second, Christian considered laughing at her ultimatum, but thought better of it. Tossing a drunk out on his ass was one thing, gunning for a killer another. She couldn't be that naïve.

“I'm sensing a real lack of confidence here,” he said drolly.

“Just use that FBI background you've got going for you and help find him.” She leaned back in her chair, and with an almost shy grin, looked him straight in the eye. “Horace could use some extra help. He runs a great department. Don't get me wrong. But they've been subjected to cuts like everyone else. If that company you work for is as fancy as everyone says it is, then you might have resources the police don't. Right?”

She was quick to recover. He'd give her that. She hadn't meant to blurt out her threat. But this wasn't the first time she'd reacted with an emotional response. Not a good thing in the life she'd chosen. Show emotion in this lion's den and the lion bared his teeth. If he didn't get a handle on her soon, his head would split from all her ping-ponging personalities—girl next door or ball-busting . . . aw hell, he didn't know what to make of her. Damn, he was beginning to understand why everyone else thought she walked on water. But he wouldn't let her, or those legs, distract him, no matter how tempting. And man, she was tempting. And a little scary. Emotional responses could land someone into a situation he'd been hired to get them out of.

Tonight, he'd call Sheppard about one Ms. Maggie Anderson. He'd only asked Blake for the basics; criminal record, etc. Now he suspected there was more. Much more. She was too smart and too classy to run a joint like this, no matter how ritzy the place. He considered asking her directly, but suspected she wouldn't be open to the idea of telling him.

In the meantime, she could still help him. “I'm going to need your cooperation.”

She uncrossed her legs and stood. “Anything.”

“Shannon Joyce, the owner.”

She walked out of his line of vision. He stayed put, keeping his back to her, hoping to cut her off from his senses. He heard the roll of a desk chair and the soft squeak of springs as she sat. He envisioned her sitting, crossing her long legs, her skirt riding up a smooth thigh. Shaking off the image, he took a seat. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“I'm having a hard time reaching her.”

“She's in Reno. On business,” she offered.

“I need to ask her some questions about Heart's Desire.”

“Shannon's name is on the deed, but I run the club.”

Just as Blake had told him.

“Heather Mackenzie was in this club's employ, and Ms. Joyce is the club's owner. I'd like to talk to her.” He had to know if the killer had targeted Ms. Joyce, or simply her clubs.

She swiveled in the leather chair. Her hand toyed with a pen as she considered his request. Why did she look nervous?

She blinked, lifting a questioning brow. “Did you not understand what I said, or do you simply have a problem with it?”

She was back in ballbuster mode.

“Look, I get you're upset. You've lost someone close to you but I need to cover all the bases, rule out all possibilities.”

“As in someone from the club?”

A knock on the door interrupted his reply. Not waiting for an answer, a raven-haired beauty stuck her head inside. “Mags, you okay? Deb told me you cut yourself. Let me—oops, sorry.” The woman gave him a lingering appraisal.

He shifted in his chair, oddly uncomfortable under her close scrutiny.

“I didn't know you had a guest,” the woman purred.

She looked much older than the girls he'd seen in the club, but bootie shorts and T-shirt torn in all the right places definitely tagged her as an employee.

“Rhonda, this is Mr. Beck. He's working with Lieutenant Horace.”

“Really? Good, I hope you catch the prick.” She paused, studied him brazenly. “You look awfully familiar. Have we met?” She leaned on the doorframe to take another long, scorching look.

Come to think of it, there was something familiar about her as well. “Have you ever been arrested?”

“Heck no. I'm a good girl.” She brushed by him and headed toward her boss, her hand extended. “Let me see the cut, sweetie.”

“It's fine,” Ms. Anderson insisted, but offered up her bandaged hand.

“Rhonda was studying to be a paramedic,” she said, explaining the other woman's overzealous scrutiny of the dressing. “Maybe that's where the two of you crossed paths?”

“I don't think so. I'd have remembered you,” he said, which made the woman smile before she turned back to her boss.

“Mags, you come get me if your hand . . . or anything else,” she added with a flirty grin directed at him, “requires my attention. I'd stick around but I'm on in ten. Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” she finished, a Siamese cat's gleeful grin on her face.

Whatever he thought about Maggie Anderson, one thing was certain—her staff was loyal. Then again, if these girls did the circuit, they were used to dickwads. Anyone near pleasant would be considered a step up.

“Where were we?” she asked when the door shut behind the dancer.

“Exploring the possibility that Heart's Desire may have something to do with Miss Mackenzie 's death. Maybe she was a target for some reason that was tied to the club,” he said, the connection to all the victims in the forefront of his mind. If this club wasn't it, perhaps it was Shannon Joyce—or the club manager herself. That idea was oddly unsettling.

She was silent for a moment, her brows drawn together. “You really think Heather's murder is linked to your case?”

When he nodded, she released a deep contemplative breath. “No offense, but I still don't understand why Horace would let you interfere.” She really didn't want to trust him.

“Let's just say my boss and Cooper's captain go way back. Like you said, I have resources the lieutenant could use. And I used to be one hell of a federal agent. Most important, I'm good at what I do. As long as I don't interfere with his men, we're good to go.”

How would she react when the FBI told her the girl
had
been the latest victim of a serial killer? All the law enforcement agencies affected had agreed to keep any critical information to themselves. A copycat killer made it harder to track down the real psycho, and they didn't want another life taken for the mere pleasure of some shit getting his rocks off seeing his name in print. But his sources had told him a press release was imminent.

He remained silent, allowing her to mull over things while she leaned onto her desk.

A vase filled with pink orchid stems lay between them. She pushed the delicate flowers aside. The buttons on her creamy silk blouse strained, giving him a glimpse of flawless skin, except for a small, kissable mole on top of her right breast.

Finally she looked him in the eye, and he could see she had reluctantly accepted that he was her best hope. “Should I be worried about the other girls? If they're in any kind of danger, it would be unfair of you not to tell me.”

All the victims had been raped, something the feds were keeping quiet for now. He wasn't sure knowing that would help keep her dancers safe, but he was glad he wouldn't be the one telling her the details of how the victims died. Details hadn't helped his mother. In fact, they'd had the adverse effect.

He'd been tracking this guy for a long time, and he wasn't about to drop his chance at nailing him. Not after the scum had made the mistake of killing a woman who still worked for Heart's Desire, solidifying the commonality among all the victims. He had his first real hope at stopping this asshole, or if his client got what he paid for, worse. If Christian reached the killer before anyone else, Christian would decide who got first dibs. If there was anything left, maybe he'd hand over the scraps to the cops. Highly doubtful, but he liked to tell himself he was cooperating with the locals.

Unbeknownst to Ms. Anderson, an undercover police car would be stationed outside the club. The lieutenant had assured Christian she'd warn the girls against traveling alone, and they'd follow her instructions. How she'd manage that was beyond him. He respected Sheppard, but if his boss tried to tell him what to do, he'd be told to mind his own damn business. Either way, his conscience was clear.

“It's an ongoing investigation. I'm not at liberty to discuss it. Client privilege. As for the girls, there's been a murder,” he said soberly. “One of your dancers is dead. Diligence would be in order, don't you think? Encourage them to stay on guard, buddy up when they leave the club.”

He paused for effect, then drove his point home. “Keep in mind, you're not exactly offering Sunday school lessons here, and this isn't Bible camp. Shit always happens in places like this.” He hadn't meant to do it, hadn't meant for his sarcasm to link her to her famous father, but he saw it on her face, the moment it clicked and she figured out he knew who her daddy was. If his suspicions were correct, she'd be less than happy about her secret getting out.

And there it was, that cold, hard stare. She said nothing.

“Do you have a number where I can reach Ms. Joyce? An address in Reno?”

He might have been reading too much into it, but he could have sworn he'd seen a flash of fear cross her face before frustration took over.

She hesitated, then opened her top drawer, pulling out a business card. “Shannon keeps an apartment there.” She handed him the card. “Louise is the receptionist at her law office here in Vegas if you can't reach her by cell. You know Shannon is a lawyer?”

“Yes, I've been told. Thank you.” That was another thing. Why would a snazzy lawyer own a strip club? He nodded. “I'll have more questions for you later, if you don't mind?”

“You know where to find me.” She graced him with a sardonic grin.

Oh, he'd hit a nerve all right, although she was doing her damnedest to conceal how upset she was. Slapping the armrests with his hands, Christian stood. He'd ticked her off. They were even. She hid something behind that polished veneer.

 

Maggie escorted Mr. Chocolate to the front entrance and reached for the door handle, but her doorman, Joe, intervened.

“Let me,” he offered, looking down at her bandaged hand.

She gave Joe an appreciative smile, not missing the stern nod Mr. Beck gave him as he walked through the door. Did he dislike everyone who worked here, or were his judgmental opinions reserved for her? Well, at least her father would have company. A father she now suspected Mr. Beck knew about. What she was going to do about it, she didn't know.

“I'll be in touch.” Giving her what she supposed was his best southern smile, and it was a hot one, he left. Mr. Pickle-up-the-butt made a stunning hunk. Shame about his affliction with deli products.

Watching him get into his car, Maggie tried to control the panic doing laps in her stomach. Perhaps his analogy to Bible camp had simply been a jab at the club, not her? And if not, why hadn't he just come out and asked her? What, if any, game was he playing?

She grunted, assuring herself he was just an ass, and headed back inside. No way would he not have thrown her father in her face. Just what was the PI not telling her?

“You okay, Maggie?” Vinnie glared in the direction Beck had taken. He looked like he wanted to throttle a certain southerner.

“Sure.” She sighed. “All good.”

Christian Beck wouldn't get under her skin. There were enough creepy crawlies burrowing there. As she reentered the darkened club, she bumped into Jason. She smiled up at the gentle giant who, as per his way, blushed. The kid, or more correctly, the man, went pink faced anytime she or any other female so much as looked at him.

“Hello, Jason.”

“Hello, Maggie,” he answered, his deep voice and handicap making him sound like he spoke to her from the other end of a long tunnel.

When she'd considered hiring him, she'd called the group home where he lived and discovered that, although his intelligence was that of a ten-year-old, he functioned well. Having overheard the music spill onto the streets, Jason had wandered inside the club, ignorant of where his feet had taken him. It had taken Jake several glasses of water to calm the flustered man. She'd never seen anyone's eyes dart so fast in someone's sockets as he strived to look anywhere but at the half-naked women who'd come out to see what the fuss was about. It brought a smile to Maggie's face every time she saw Jason, a man who preferred his women clothed. With a deep appreciation, albeit over the top, for music, he made the perfect candidate to help her DJ. When her staff was dressed, he treated them like queens, and when they weren't, he avoided any and all contact. The fact that he was sweet as pie hadn't hurt either.

“Are you starting your shift?” she asked.

His smile brightened, flashing his new blue braces and playing with the gold around his neck. “My dad just dropped me off. See what he gave me.” He reached into his T-shirt and pulled out a tiny gold cross.

“Nice,” she said, having given up her own cross when she'd come to Vegas, not wanting religion to come between her and the street kids she'd worked with. But . . . his dad? She was certain the home had told her Jason was as an orphan. Then again, she'd caught him twisting the truth on more than one occasion. Nothing major or worth talking to him about, just odd stuff, like the expensive lunch he had. Or the one time he'd come in recounting all the funny people he'd met on the bus, when clearly she'd seen him get out of a car.