Sin on the Strip (7 page)

“Here you go,” she said, opening his car door.

“Being polite, or trying to get rid of me?” he asked, half smiling.

He leaned against the passenger door. Loosening his tie, he slipped it off, unceremoniously tossing it in the back seat. Eyelids closed and head skyward, he undid the top few buttons of his shirt. She withheld her drool. The man was stunning.

“I hate ties,” he said, the relief on his face only adding to his good looks.

“Really?” Thankfully, he misunderstood her effort to unglue her tongue and thought her comment derisive.

He opened his eyes. “A tie is
not
high heels. I don't wear them to look . . . hot.”

“Are you suggesting I wear heels to portray an image unbecoming of a lady?”

“No.” Lips curled in a provocative grin, he took a step toward her. “You wear them to look
hot
.” He glanced down at her bare feet. “And I am in no way complaining, but you don't need them.” His eyes did a slow climb up her body, only to stop and burn into her own.

Unable to move, the sweet scent of chocolate that seemed to always accompany him swallowed her whole. It gave her an irrepressible urge to lick him, uncertain where to sample first, not sure it even mattered, just as long as she got to taste.
Holy cow
. She was losing it. Lack of sleep could do that to a person.

“I have to get back to my guests,” she said, spilling word over word. If she stayed with him any longer, she might act on all the inappropriate thoughts sparking in her head.

He nodded and slid into his car. Maggie shut his door, thankful to put metal between them.

He started his engine and through the open window said, “Can I see you tomorrow morning? Say ten o'clock?”

Distracted when he put on his sunglasses, her mouth got the best of her. “I'm not working tomorrow. I'll be here.”

“Perfect. I won't keep you long. I'm sure you'd like a day to yourself,” he added. “See you then.”

She was going to object, not having meant to invite him back, but he started his engine.

Dumbstruck, she watched as he pulled away, their eyes meeting in his rear-view mirror. With or without shades, the man was sexy. Now she'd have to endure being alone with Mr. Chocolate, in her house. Alone. All alone, her and Mr. Smell Me, Lick Me.

Had she lost her mind?

She was just about to head back when she spotted a man leaning on a car some thirty feet up the street, staring at her. Despite the warm weather, a cold shiver ran up her spine.

“Maggie,” Jason called out to her, his hand waving in large arcs. “I'm going. This was fun.”

She hadn't the heart to tell Jason wakes weren't fun. “Thank you for all your help.” She looked back at the man in the street, realizing the broad smile on his face was for Jason. Feeling ever the more foolish, would she have to add paranoia to her repertoire of faults? “Your ride is here.”

“That's my dad. He drove me. Now he's picking me up. Want to meet him?”

“Some other time, okay? I have guests I have to return to.”

Jason gave her one of his famous wide grins and jogged off to his father, reminding her of a sweet baby colt getting used to his new legs.

She hurried up the stairs to her friends circled around the patio table. Stepping on a stone, she yelped, and hobbled to her chair to await the onslaught of questions. Never let it be said her gals would let an attractive man slide past their lusty perusal.

Maggie rubbed her foot and slipped her shoes on. Sitting back, she waited for the barrage.

“Is he married?” asked Wendy.

“No ring, dummy.” Alice rolled her eyes.

“That means nothing.” Wendy crossed her arms.

“True,” Alice agreed.

“Who cares?” added Maggie.

“You should,” Wendy seemed happy to point out.

“He's arrogant,” jumped in Shannon, clearly not impressed.

“Confident,” corrected Alice.

Maggie groaned.

“Hot, hot, hot,” Wendy sang, forever playing matchmaker or trying to toss Maggie into bed with some hottie. Her get-it-done attitude created the most sought after accounting firm in Vegas. Unfortunately, that attitude carried over to Maggie's love life, or lack thereof.

“Stop trying to set me up,” Maggie scolded. “Shannon is right, and he doesn't like me.” For the first time, Maggie found the thought disturbing and that was just stupid.

Why didn't he like her? She didn't mean in a sexual kind of way, although she had caught him staring. He'd been pleasant today, but suspected that was out of respect for Heather. He knew nothing about Maggie. Nothing about why she did what she did. He saw only what he wanted to see, just like her father. His attitude infuriated her. Beck lumped her in with the rest of the dirtbags who searched out young girls who turned to stripping in seedy dumps, or worse, simply to feed themselves. She'd seen it before.

As her friends discussed the merits of Mr. Beck, the waiter came out with her cordless phone. “Call, Ms. Anderson, a Mr. Corfu.” He handed her the phone.

It had been three weeks since any of them had heard good news from the private investigator they'd hired. Maggie had all but given up. Heart pounding, she thanked him and took the call, putting the phone on speaker. Her friends stopped their silly debate.

“Hello, Nick.”

“I have a lead. I've sent two associates to Mexico.”

Maggie looked up to find three worried faces staring back at her. “He took her across the border?”

She could hear Nick's excitement over the line. “Looks like it. They were spotted getting gas just outside Santa Helena. I found out his grandfather passed away three months ago. I figured he'd run to the house the old man left him. With his wife dead, the bastard would assume no one would look for him.”

“Never assume,” Wendy drawled.

“Precisely,” Nick agreed. “I'll call you the moment my men have them. We may need to bribe a few officials to get the kid back into the country. They're going to wonder why she's not with the man she crossed the border with.”

“Whatever you need, Nick. Just get Maria back, safe and away from the pond-scum who calls himself her father.”

One girl lost, another hopefully found. Bless her grandmother Belcort and her money. Where would Maggie and the girls be without it?

C
hristian sat in his car outside Ms. Anderson's house. He'd tried all night to reach Sheppard, but Casanova had gone to some charity function in Dallas with his latest arm trophy and wouldn't accept his calls. Trying later would be pointless as it was an unwritten rule never to disturb Sheppard while he entertained. Great, his boss was off getting laid and Christian was stuck with unanswered questions and no one he trusted to do some hacking. With Blake undercover in New York on his new assignment, Mamoso in the mountains of Argentina searching for the Augusti Rum heiress gone missing, and Tank in Armenia, Christian was left to his own devices.

For years Sheppard had preached the benefits of technological warfare, but assigned to jungles and no electric outlet up his ass, Christian hadn't seen the benefits of a computer. Whatever information he wanted, one of his buddies would deliver.

Just before sunrise, he'd headed to La Vida Towers to borrow their equipment. He'd only been able to find public documents about Ms. Anderson—or rather Ms. Hopewell—and nothing of real value. He checked out the mortgage on her home—there wasn't one. Business was good or so he thought. He then googled a newspaper article giving condolences to Mrs. Hopewell on the death of her mother, Willemina Belcort, owner of Anderson Industries, one of the largest prosthetic companies in the world. The company also dabbled in robotics, making Belcort worth millions when she died.

He'd discovered more about the lady than she'd probably be comfortable with, but if he was going to get anywhere with her, he'd have to tell her.

He had to get Ms. Anderson to trust him. Serial killers didn't need a reason to kill, but this one, this one had it in for this particular club and something told him it had nothing to do with the color of the tablecloths in the joint. He couldn't shake the feeling that Ms. Anderson had caught the killer's attention and Christian had to know the why to help him nail the who.

He opened his car door, eased out and pressed the security button on the white stucco gate wall. He told himself his eagerness was in response to knowing he'd be leaving with answers, not because of Ms. Anderson.

“Hello.” Even through the muffled tone of the speaker she sounded sexy.
Damn
.

It was time to admit that she may not be his type, but that snarly thing she did when someone got her back up turned him on. Thank God his attraction to her ended there, because any more and whatever drew the moth to the flame, burned its ass.

“It's Beck.” He smiled, willing to do whatever it took to make her comfortable enough to spill her secrets.

Everything pointed to her using the club to help these women. At least she wasn't rash enough to go into the streets directly. God help her if she was that naïve. He'd recovered enough women who hadn't considered their situation dangerous to have developed an allergic reaction at the mere thought of someone being that reckless.

So was the secrecy just to keep the preacher's name out of the papers? Was it as simple as that? Or was the saintly act to hide a devil in high heels? Had the daughter rebelled against the famous father? He discarded the idea. If that had been her reasoning, she'd have gone public. On the flip side, helping might come naturally to her, but in a club? Why not a shelter for women? There had to be a reason for a woman like her to end up in a strip club, just as there had to be a reason a killer had targeted Heart's Desire.

“You're early.”

The sharp edge of her voice told him this was going to be harder than he'd hoped. Then again, he'd done this on purpose. “Sorry,” he replied. Glancing at his watch, he'd known it was nine and he'd told her ten. But he was hoping to catch her a little off guard.

He went back to his car and waited. A buzz hummed overhead as the wrought iron fence eased open, then closed after he'd driven through.

Getting out of the car, he rolled up the sleeves of his white fitted shirt, glad to be rid of the suit. As he walked up the concrete driveway, he wondered what she was wearing, then ground his teeth. “Get a grip,” he muttered. “Not your type.”

He couldn't afford distractions. Instinct told him the murderer was still in Vegas and in all likelihood would strike again. Contrary to what everyone saw on television, serial killers didn't often have a set plan. This one did.

Today, he'd get answers. Then maybe he could put the preacher's daughter and her luscious legs in the care of the feds. If she hadn't been expecting him this early, he hoped she looked like shit, one of those women who required plenty of wake-up time before they were ready to greet the world. It would help to keep his mind on the case, where it should be, and not on her.

He should have insisted they meet at the club, because luck was not on his side. She waited for him, all that porcelain skin set off by the dark red wood of her front door. Hair tied back in a high ponytail, this woman needed no make-up.

“I'm sorry Mr.—Beck, I didn't expect you this early. I was about to go for a run.”

He hadn't failed to notice the ivory running bra or the matching shorts hugging her hips. She extended her hand to greet him, but his eyes locked onto the tiny tattoo below her navel. He couldn't resist. Propping his shades on his head, he bent in to take a better look and had to clench his jaw when her stomach muscles flexed. Considering where those wings trailed, he figured it would be a little presumptuous to ask to see the rest. Plus he doubted she'd appreciate the bulge in his pants.

“Angel wings,” she informed him. “My friends' idea.”

“The tattoo or the wings?” he asked, tamping the urge to touch the colored ink embellishing silky skin.

“The wings,” she said, leading the way.

He stifled a groan. The back view of those shorts was even better than the front.

“Does it mean something?” he asked, hoping she didn't turn around and notice him staring at her assets.

“Sort of.”

“Now you have me curious.”

“Let's just say it's kind of a good luck charm and drop it.”

Now he really wanted to know, but he'd drop the subject for now.

She led him into a sunken living room and pointed to the couch. “Want some water?” She glanced over her shoulder. “No fizz.” Flashing him a saucy smile, she sauntered toward the bar on the far side of the cozy room. On her way, she grabbed a white zippered hoodie off the couch and slipped it on.

“Thanks,” he answered, but only for the pleasure of watching her sweet ass walk away.

Christian pushed his keys into the front pocket of his jeans and looked around the large room he'd already been through, searching for a distraction more than to admire the decor. Oddly on the masculine side, the tan walls were a nice contrast to the oversized couches. A deep russet, they matched the clay tile throughout the front hall and living room. He set his sunglasses on a blue mosaic coffee table and sat.

“You like southwestern?” He admired the wheel-like rustic chandelier.

She shrugged. “It suits the adobe. That piece is an antique.” She pointed to the light fixture. “It's from some medieval castle in England. I had it converted from candles to electric. This is more casual,” she said, talking with her hand. “I'm not really a girly girl.”

Christian raised an eyebrow as she walked over and handed him the bottled water.

“What?” she asked.

“Except for today, I haven't noticed you wearing anything but heels.” He'd enjoyed every minute of seeing those toned legs propped on pencil-thin stilettos. He couldn't deny it. He was a leg man.

“That's different. When I don't have to dress up, I don't.”

Even dressed to work out, Christian couldn't see her lounging in sweats. Of course, he could see her out of those sweats and covered in a sheen of moisture for different reasons. He forced himself to keep eye contact when where he wanted to look might piss her off.

“So can we start?” he asked, better to stay on track.

“Sure, ask away.”

“Look,” he started, hoping she wouldn't blow a fuse, “I know who your father is.”

She remained standing, opening her own water bottle with a forceful twist, her evil glare a sure sign she wasn't happy.

He'd better say something before she kicked him out. “It's not rocket science. You changed your name to protect his. Right?”

She stared at him, her expression cautious.

He trudged on. “You were the sole inheritor of your grandmother's estate and were named the chairman of the board.” To say he'd been relieved would be to admit he cared how she made her money; to deny it would make him a liar.

“What I don't know is why you're not sitting in Boston behind a big-ass desk.” He wanted Ms. Anderson to be one of the good guys. He wasn't sure why it mattered, just that it did. The house, the car, none of it was bought from the shirts off the strippers' backs. So why the strip club?

She brought the water bottle to her lips and drank.

That one simple swallow, the tip of her of head, the parting of those pink lips, and he forgot what they were talking about. How the hell did she do that?

She smacked down the sipping spout on her bottle, jarring him. Something flashed in her eyes, too brief for him to place. “What else do you know?”

He started to tell her but her phone interrupted them.

“Excuse me.” She walked over to the bar to answer it, again gifting him with a perfect view of her ass. “Hello.” Slowly, she turned, a smile crossing her lips. Her eyes closed and she let out a long sigh.

Whatever she'd heard on the other end had made her happy, more than happy—relieved.

“Thanks, Nick, you're the best. Call me when you reach Vegas.” She hung up.

With a little more lift to her walk, she made her way back, setting her water bottle on the table. Kicking off white sneakers, she sat, tucking her feet beneath her legs. She propped an elbow on the back of the couch and leaned her cheek onto her hand. The patio doors were tinted, allowing only enough sun to bask the room in a comfortable glow. He knew exactly what she'd look like with a sunset behind her.

“Run often?” he asked, needing a reason to look at the running shoes, not the owner.

“Three, four times a week.”

Whatever that phone call had been about, it had changed her mood.

“I love to run,” he offered, hoping to keep this casual, non-confrontational. “The opportunity just hasn't presented itself lately. I'm getting soft.” He patted his belly.

Her eyes drifted over his body. “You don't look like the couch potato type.” She crossed her ankles and then uncrossed them, trying to get comfortable. That, or he'd just made her nervous. “Okay, enough with the pleasantries. Spill. What else did your fancy PI work tell you about me?”

“You write a lot of checks to the local colleges and universities.” She paid for the dancers' educations.

“Is that it?”

“Isn't it enough?” he asked, getting the impression she was hoping it was. So what else was he missing? “I just don't know why? You worked with group homes for years. So I get it. You're used to helping street kids. But this? Why not stick to counseling? Answer me that, and I promise I won't tell anyone who your daddy is.” Not that he was going to anyway. The last thing the case needed was a media frenzy.

“You've known who my father is for a while. If you were going to rat me out to the press, you'd have done so already. And if you bothered to open your eyes you'd see I
am
counseling. Only the women come to me.”

“There had to be an easier way other than taking on a profession the media would have a field day with.”

“True, and regardless of my less than stellar relationship with my father, his ministry does some great work. I didn't want to mar that with a scandal that in reality has nothing to do with him. So I changed my name. The simple truth, Mr. . . . Beck, is I love working with these women. There's no reason for me to hide that. Anyone who frequents the club can see they are like family to me and in return I to them.”

Something he guessed her estranged father wasn't supplying. “But how did you end up in a strip club?” It didn't make sense to him.

“Why would I explain my reasons to a sanctimonious ass like you?”

Stunned speechless, it took him some seconds to recover. “I am not sanctimonious.” He'd been called a lot of insulting things, some rightly so, but never that.

“Sure you are. You judged me without knowing me and because I run a strip club you figured you were better than me. I'd call that sanctimonious. Wouldn't you?”

She had him there. “You're right, and I owe you an apology. I'm sorry for thinking you would be like
every
other slime making money off these women.”

“That isn't an apology,” she pointed out. “That was a ‘forgive me for jumping to the right assumption.'”

“Okay,” he said, conceding, “but you have to admit, you run a strip club. People expect the worst.”

“This is Vegas. There are many, many kinds of clubs. Any tourist knows that. You assumed my club was sleazy. Why?”

“If I tell you, will you tell me why a strip club?”

She considered his offer then nodded, reached for her water bottle and took another swallow.

Maybe if she understood him a little better, she'd open up more. “When I worked for the feds I was assigned to a special task force. My job was to find and shut down human traffickers.”

She choked on her water.