Sin on the Strip (6 page)

She slipped on the glasses and glanced up at the first sunny sky of May. Was it still cool back home? She wouldn't know. Her mom hadn't called in weeks and Maggie had begun to worry, and miss her. Maggie looked forward to their weekly chats, as long as Daddy never came up in conversation.

“Mags,” Wendy called out through the French doors. “There's someone here to see you,” she sang out. Her friend smiled at whoever waited inside and waved them forward, stepping aside to let them pass.

Mr. Chocolate. Of its own volition, her heart beat faster. She was nervous, that's all. He'd been snooping around, asking about the club, and about Maggie. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her dark skirt. Forgetting to apply sunscreen this morning, she took a chair under the slated cedar pagoda and motioned for Mr. Beck to follow. He wore a dark charcoal suit, matching tie and crisp white shirt, and over his eyes, a pair of black tinted Ray Ban's. She smiled as an image of him in her Spider popped into her head. He smiled back, and she found that sexy mouth had her wishing he wasn't who he was. While she'd consciously nullified her sex life, she couldn't deny the man was beautiful.

He withdrew his hands from his pockets. “This is the first time I've seen you really smile. It suits you,” he said, taking her by surprise.

“Thank you,” she managed, heat awkwardly rushing to her face. “You know this is Heather's wake?”

“Yes. The funeral was beautiful.”

“You were there?” She'd seen Horace and a few others, but not him.

“I stood in the back.”

“Oh?”

“I didn't want to intrude,” he explained. “ ‘Amazing Grace' was my grandmother's favorite. The tenor you chose was talented.”

Although impressed he'd bothered to attend, she wondered how he knew she'd been the one to hire the tenor. What else had his snooping uncovered? And just how much trouble was he going to stir up?

She looked over to see Jason step outside, a tray of canapés in one hand, napkins in the other.

“Lizzy sent me out,” his voice far too loud. “She said I could help serve while I waited for my ride.” He puffed out his chest. “I set up and she said maybe next time I can help cook.”

“That's great. Why don't you let Mr. Beck try one of those? They're tasty,” she said, returning her attention to Beck. “The caterer is the best this city has to offer.”

He looked like he was going to pass, but one look at Jason and he complied. Not that Jason, now eagerly shoving the tray in Beck's face, would have taken no for an answer.

“Thanks,” he said choosing a canapé and taking a bite. “Mmm. Do you know what that sweet-tart flavor I taste is?”

Beck surprised her by asking Jason, who, except for her staff, most ignored. At least the man had one redeeming quality.

“Aged Balsamic vinegar under the goat cheese,” he answered, pride to have pronounced it correctly lighting up a toothy grin. “Did you know they made cheese from goat's milk?”

“I've heard,” Beck replied. “Ever milk a goat?”

“Nah.” Jason laughed. “But the house took us to a farm once. I got to milk a cow,” he beamed.

“Thanks, Jason,” Maggie said, the young man would go on forever if she didn't stop him. “Why don't you go back inside and see what else Lizzy has for you to do.”

He nodded enthusiastically and managed to balance the tray and run at the same time. If only more had his heart.

“The chef? Friend of yours?” he asked, polishing off the last bite.

She motioned to the cushioned chair across the table. “She used to work for me.”

“She danced for you?”

“Don't look so shocked, Mr. Beck. Most strippers don't dance their entire lives.”

Some were college students just making tuition. Heather Mackenzie didn't fall into that category. She'd been stripping long before coming to Heart's Desire.

“Are you here to give condolences, or some other motive?”

“Like I said, I don't want to intrude. I just wanted you to know I'll do my part in finding her killer. I've come to learn how much these women care about you and you for them.”

“Most of my girls don't have family. And some that do have broken the ties. So we make our own. Family is important.” Even if not every family member understood that.

“Yes, ma'am, I couldn't agree more.”

Needing to keep her hands busy, she pulled the sunglasses off her head and did her best to gently set them down on the teak table. Southern slang or not, if he called her ma'am one more time . . .

“I talked to Ms. Joyce. She confirmed what you told me.”

“Did you think I lied?”

“No, but honestly, I was hoping to get some clues out of her.”

“Clues?”

Christian had discovered that, along with Ms. Anderson and two other women, Wendy Harper and Alice McAllister, Shannon Joyce owned several restaurants and bars throughout California and one in New York. But they didn't just own restaurants and bars. They owned successful restaurants and celebrity-frequented bars. Clubs where people went to be seen. Clubs where, if you weren't on the A-list, you never got beyond the front door. Clubs that perhaps had ticked off the wrong person? It was a long shot, but he'd rule nothing out.

“You and Ms. Joyce share mutual investments,” he said, more of a statement than question.

If he had blinked, he'd have missed the flash of anger in those blue eyes.

“Are you investigating me?” she asked, sliding her sunglasses back and forth on the table.

“Do you have something to hide?” he answered, simply to enjoy the way her eyes pinned him to his seat.

“You assume that because I run a gentleman's club I must be a seedy villain, curling my moustache with a boo-ha-ha,” she said without an ounce of humor.

He couldn't help but smile at her sarcasm. She was beyond defensive. What did she expect in her line of work? She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. Was she deliberately trying to distract him? It worked, because even though his mind tried like hell to stay on the case, his body trotted off in a whole “fatal attraction” kind of direction. Granted, her skirt wasn't that short, but those legs . . . What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn't control his dick? Did he have some unknown masochistic urge she'd managed to tap into?

He forced himself to look at her face. “I'll admit that was my first impression. I may not agree with your choice of occupation, but it's none of my business.” Really, it was neither here nor there as far as the case was concerned. “But I have to ask. Why would you choose to stay in Vegas and run the club instead of, say, Club Trix in New York? I've been there once or twice. It's one of the hottest spots in Manhattan.”

She didn't hesitate with her reply. “I'm needed here.”

And he'd bet his last paycheck she didn't mean in the business sense. She liked working with these women. He considered questioning her about her father, but if he pushed the wrong buttons, he'd be screwed and Cooper might just make good on his threat. By now, the feds would have the inside scoop on Ms. Hopewell, and if they thought Reverend Hopewell was a topic needing discussing, let them handle it. But did they know the relationship she had with the Vegas police, and could someone she might have helped put in jail be targeting the club? He kicked himself for not thinking about it sooner and made a mental note to call Cooper and ask.

A waiter came out with a tray of drinks. Bending down, he offered Maggie one. “I was told to tell you the one on the left is Canadian iced tea.”

Christian raised an eyebrow, but the waiter just shrugged.

She laughed, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxing. “It means sweetened and with lemon. It's an inside joke.”

“Oh,” they said in unison.

He liked the sound of her laughter. Infectious, it made him want to smile. Had he been granted a glimpse at the real Maggie Anderson? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A square-cut emerald stud glittered on a delicate earlobe, drawing his attention to the graceful column of her neck.

“Are you thirsty, Mr. Beck? There's water on the tray.”

“I'm good, thanks,” he replied, forcing himself again to stay on task.

“I asked if you were thirsty. I didn't ask you if you were good.”

“If you'll excuse me,” the waiter said, “that's my cue to leave.”

Christian grinned. The lady had a sense of humor. “You know, you opened the door to a comeback.”

Setting both feet on the patio, Ms. Anderson slid her chair back, shading her face from the sun slicing through the spaces between the cedar planks of the pagoda. “And you'll keep it to yourself, right?”

“You started it.”

She crossed her legs again, slivers of sun now catching her knee.

“True,” she replied, oblivious to the fact that her black skirt had ridden up her legs, baring more tempting flesh, exposing them to his gaze.

Damn
, she wasn't wearing stockings.

Needing a distraction from those long limbs and black pumps, fast, Christian glanced over at the pool. When he returned his attention to her, she'd taken off her blazer. Beneath it she wore a black silk camisole, suspended on soft pale shoulders by thin straps, the kind one finger could slip off as you kissed your way down smooth skin.

This was
his
cue to leave.

“Would you mind if I talked to your staff again? Maybe tomorrow? With the funeral behind them they might remember something more.”

“As I told you before, if there is anything I can do to help—but the FBI have already talked to them. They asked for everything in Heather's locker, including her old phone. I'd just bought the one she had.”

He made another mental note to ask his contact if they'd found anything. “That was generous of you.”

“It was an early graduation present. The police have it now,” she said, swallowing so hard, he saw her throat work.

“I'm sure they'll return it when they're done with it.”

She nodded, tension visible around the eyes that minutes earlier had sparkled. “I'll walk you out. This way's faster.”

She showed him to a side gate hidden behind lush greenery and then down a granite staircase that led to the driveway. Halfway down, she stopped, placed a warm hand on his arm and surprised him by pulling off her high heels.

“Much better,” she moaned. Seeing where her hand had gone, she yanked it away. “Sorry, I didn't mean to lean on you.”

He checked out her red toenails. “Wow, and to think you looked right at home in those things.” He nodded toward her shoes.

She shrugged. “Deceiving, I know. The stupid stuff women do to look good.”

“You could have worn flats,” he observed.

“Are you telling me I'm too tall to wear heels?” she asked as she continued down the stairs, her back to him.

Without the shoes he guessed her at five eight. “No, ma'am. Simply that your legs don't need heels to look good.” As soon as the words left his runaway mouth, she stopped. He braced himself so as not to run into her. Had he offended her?

“Look,” she said and turned, her hands perched on a pair of slender hips. “Stop calling me
ma'am
. I'm no teenager, but I'm not a ma'am either.”

Christian laughed then stopped when she frowned at him. She was serious. “I'll make you a deal. I won't call you ma'am . . .” Without thinking, he pushed away a stray hair caught in her lipstick. Her skin pure silk beneath his fingertips, he'd have been tempted to tuck that strand behind her ear had she not gone suddenly still. “I won't call you ma'am,” he repeated, “if you call me Christian.” Normally he liked formalities. It kept his clients at arms' length. But she wasn't a client and he'd better dump those formalities. They'd only serve to remind her that she should be on her guard.

He didn't understand what the big deal was, but she took her time considering his offer before answering. “I'll meet you half way,
Beck
.” Heels in hand, she made her way down the rest of the stairs.

Beck, it was.

He had to remind his professional side to remember what she did for a living, what paid for the fancy digs. Why the hell did she have to walk him to his car? Or look so hot in that tight black skirt? It hugged her ass and made him forget she wasn't his type. Money bought her one great house; it couldn't buy her scruples. Great boss, great friend, great whatever, she still made cash off these women. So she talked some of them into going back to school. Great. What about the ones she put at risk?

Maggie could hear him close on her heels, or bare feet. She'd chosen to walk him out in an attempt to keep things casual between them. When his fingers had touched her face, she'd regretted the decision. A woman could melt under those chocolate eyes, and around Mr. Beck, she needed to be on her guard.

She had to maintain her cool. He already knew too much about her. How far into her past had he gone snooping? Did he know who her father was? And would he use that against her? As callous as it was, Heather's murder was headline news and the press, along with Beck, continued to sniff around the club. She had to keep her name out of the paper, not give them any reason to print it or pry further. Her father would have a cardiac arrest.

If the truth ever got out—well, it just couldn't. She'd help Beck, but her personal life was off limits.

At the bottom of the stairs, she picked up the pace. Maggie spotted his car parked beyond her gates, the silver hood in clear view. He walked beside her now, his arm brushing hers, his suit jacket soft against her bare arm. The man had taste, expensive taste, right down to the tailor-made Armani suit. It must pay to work for ICU.