Sin on the Strip (9 page)

Maggie glanced down at his hand white-knuckling his phone. “What are you two not telling me?”

“That was Cooper.”

“Really? I hadn't figured that out.”

Again, he debated over what to say. She was tough, but even the strongest crumbled and blamed themselves for events beyond their control. He knew that only too well. Cooper hadn't said anything, but Christian didn't doubt for one second that this last victim, like Heather Mackenzie, had worked for Maggie.

“He wants to see me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

Call it a flashback from his childhood, but whatever his reason, he wouldn't be the one to tell her. “I have to go.”

She stared back at him, not so much angry as hurt. Setting his jaw, he stepped around Maggie and headed back to the pool house.

“Wait,” she called after him. Hot on his heels, inside, she slammed the door, shaking it on its hinges.

“I need to get dressed.” He kept his back to her, not trusting himself to stay on track.

“What did Horace want?” she demanded. “He wouldn't have called you for nothing,” her voice growing louder, more determined.

He suspected mama bear would rear her head and growl, and this time he wasn't sure how he'd respond.

“Look.” He turned, taken aback by the blend of emotions on her face. Stubborn determination, rage, and alarm all played across her soft features. He'd seen the look before, in his mother's eyes, right before she'd made his father tell her how her baby girl had died. The Vegas sun had really baked his brain, because if Christian stayed any longer, those baby blues would have him confessing everything.

“Give me a minute to change.” He had to get away from her before he forgot his job, and the bastard he pursued. He told himself Maggie didn't need to know the details, better for her if she didn't—safer, saner. How he wished his father had had this same debate.

Would she react the way his mother had? Maggie considered these women family. She'd said so. Would she blame herself? He'd lost a few men assigned to him. Hadn't he taken the hit for it, regardless of the facts? He remembered what guilt had done to his mother. She had it coming, but Maggie didn't. Maybe he should tell her, tell her some sicko was targeting her club. Let the chips fall where they may—get her out of his head, out of his dreams.

But look where that had gotten his father.

Grabbing his clothes off the couch, he closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned his head against the cool wood. He saw his reflection in the mirror and he didn't like it. He'd been a man on a mission for so long that the boy his grandmother had helped raise had disappeared. Long before he'd become an agent, long before this case, that carefree kid had been flattened by the harsh reality of life. Good people died, innocent people—innocent girls. But he wasn't helpless any more.

No other family should suffer what his damn family had. Somewhere along the way that no longer mattered. What mattered was hurting the worthless piece shits who caused the pain. Over the years, he'd done what Sheppard paid him to, found whomever he'd been hired to recover and on occasion, if the opportunity presented itself, he'd gotten to make sure the client had retribution. Too bad the piece of trash that killed his sister had never been caught. No one had claimed justice for his family. Not yet anyhow.

Twenty-five years ago, if the police on Claire's case had done their job, more lives wouldn't have been lost. Instead, her death had been chalked up to street violence against a hooker, not an innocent girl who'd been abused and discarded like garbage. The details of Claire's death had been kept from him and his brother, but when he'd joined the agency, sealed documents were no longer an obstacle. Discovering how she'd been killed changed everything for Christian.

Maggie's hard knock snapped him back to the present. He stripped off his wet shorts and tossed them into the sink.

“Are you coming out?” She'd reverted to her testy self. He couldn't blame her. From what he knew of her, by keeping something from Maggie he'd done what she never allowed anyone to do—screw with her dancers. She was going to suspect he was withholding information about the case, a case that involved one of her girls.

He turned his head to her voice, his face pressed to the door. He swore he could hear her breathing. He didn't have all the answers he wanted and until he did, until he got closer to the killer, he had to keep his hands off Maggie.

Had this psychopath targeted the club? Or Maggie? Or could her famous father be the clue? He couldn't rule it out. He threw on his jeans and put his arms through the sleeves of his shirt before opening the door.

Maggie remained in the doorway, determination set deep in those perfect blue eyes.

Resting his left hand high on the wooden frame, he allowed himself one last provocative sweeping look at her body, deliberately trying to make her uncomfortable. “Are you letting me out, or are you coming in?”

She blew out a breath and allowed him to pass.

Christian sat on the couch and slipped on his socks and shoes, avoiding her heated glare. He leaned back and rubbed his thighs with his palms, his unbuttoned shirt falling open.

“Beck?” The soft plea in her voice almost killed him.

He had this incredible urge to hold her, as if that alone would keep her safe from all this bullshit. He had to stay on track.

“Maggie, is there anything about the club you're not telling me?”

“Like what? It's a club. Granted, it's not like all the other clubs, but it's still just a club. And what does it have to do with Heather? Do you think someone targeted her because of the club?”

“I'll let you know after I meet with Cooper.” After this they had no choice but to tell her, but call him a spineless jackass, he wasn't doing it now. She could wait until he knew more.

“No. You'll let me know now. Come on, Beck. This is my club we're talking about. It's supposed to be safe for these women and you're making me think it's not.”

He rose and walked over to the treadmill. She was too close. From the window, he watched a desert breeze send ripples over the turquoise water of the pool. Not twenty minutes ago, they'd been wrestling underwater. What the hell had gone through his mind? Seeing her reflection in the glass as she stood, he knew exactly what he'd been thinking. The fun he'd had with Maggie played through his mind, clouding rational thought. Her hand touched his arm.

“Why aren't you talking?”

He could answer her questions, but it would give her nightmares for the rest of her life. His mother's questions hadn't granted her the closure she'd wanted. Far from it. Learning the circumstances of her daughter's death had justifiably haunted the woman for the rest of her life.

When he didn't turn, she maneuvered herself between him and the window, still holding his arm. Silent, her eyes searched his. “How involved are you in these two murders? You seem very secretive.”

Her fingers tightened. After a few seconds, she released him and stepped aside, turning her back to him. “You're not being fair to me.

Unable to resist, he cupped her shoulders, the words spilling without thought. “I don't want to hurt you.” Goosebumps spread over her skin. The air conditioner was cold, he reasoned. “You need to put something on.” For both their sakes.

She nodded, but made no attempt to pull away. Even as he considered letting her go, he knew he wasn't going to. Her body quivered and he pulled her into his arms.

His shirt parted and the feel of her all but naked body against his bare chest destroyed any chance he had of leaving her place with his common sense intact. All restraint dissolved the moment her soft skin touched his, the instant his hand stroked her bare arm to chase away her chill. Who was he kidding? All his willpower to keep his hands off Maggie had drowned in that pool. He turned her, wrapping his arms around her. She withdrew slightly and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off.

“I'm going to kiss you,” he said. “I'll give you ten seconds to pull away. Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

On six, she kissed him.

M
aggie didn't know why she'd kissed him, or maybe she did. Maybe kissing him was better than the alternative, better than feeling vulnerable. Her instincts had kicked in and the ringing in her ears was a sure sign nothing good was headed her way. When he'd pressed his body to hers, she felt . . . what—relief? She'd been freezing, her skin iced, and it had nothing to do with the air conditioner. Then he'd touched her and the icy chill melted.

She let her hands explore his lean back and had to suppress a groan as she enjoyed the feel of all that hard muscle and those strong arms belted around her. This had to be a sin. Surely she couldn't be standing here, wrapped in this man's embrace, his kiss driving away all the demons clawing at her door, if just for a little while.

What started out as a soft touching of lips, turned heated as he kissed her again, nipping at the corner of her mouth, her bottom lip, until she opened. His tongue . . .
mmm
. . . slid inside her mouth. If chocolate was better than sex, what would sleeping with him be like? Because chocolate wasn't even in the running with how he kissed, how he made her want more, how he made her forget.

His bare skin stroked her like expensive silk, the kind sold in a boutique and wanted to rub against your face but didn't dare. A cautionary foreboding nestled in her stomach. She shouldn't be kissing him. She tensed, started to pull away. His embrace resisted, drew her closer with one hand and stroked her back with the other until a dense fog called her thoughts home and more heat flushed her body.

A full chorus of heavy metal rock belted out before Beck groaned a complaint and stopped kissing her.

“I need to get this,” he said, his forehead pressed to hers as they exchanged heavy breaths.

Maggie stepped back, common sense returning. Had he kissed her to avoid answering her questions? And she'd let him?

She felt warm skin on her hand and looked down to see Beck's covering hers. Pressing the phone to his ear, the warm smile faded and his fingers squeezed her knuckles.

“Beck?”

He shook his head, listening to whoever was on the line. “I have a GPS.” He shut off the phone.

“Gotta go, Maggie.” He started to leave, stopped and kissed her one last time. “We'll talk later, okay?” he said against her lips.

“What's going on?” she asked, frustrated he wasn't telling her.

“Later,” he repeated, and left.

She watched as he took the back stairs, his unbuttoned shirt slipping off one perfect shoulder. One perfect,
deceitful
shoulder. Maggie ran into the house, untying her bikini along the way, tossing it on the bed to rummage through her drawers for a bra and panties. She wiggled into a pair of jeans, slipped her feet into black ballet slippers and buttoned a pink sleeveless shirt as she ran back to the kitchen for her keys. Halfway to the garage she stopped. Wrong keys. She opted for the Wrangler instead. The top was still on from her last trip up the coast, and he wouldn't recognize her in the silver jeep.

No way was anyone keeping her out of the loop. If whatever had gone down didn't concern her, he would have told her. Shifting her car into reverse, she opened the front gates, pulled out and shut them behind her.

Beck had a head start, not that it mattered. Maggie slipped on her Bluetooth and requested her phone dial the police station.

“Las Vegas Police Department,” answered a stern voice.

“Bill, is that you?” she asked, taking the edge out of her question.

“And who are you?”

“Maggie.”

“Hey, didn't recognize you. What's up?” A few years past retirement, he'd taken the front desk job to keep his wife happy. He was off the streets and out of her hair, but next month was his last.

“I'm looking for Horace. Shoot, wait.” Caught in traffic, Maggie changed lanes. “Okay, sorry about that. Wouldn't want any accidents.”

Bill chastised, “Try slowing down.”

“I'm being good,” she assured him, cringing at the speedometer. “Do you know where he is?”

“He was on his way out as I was coming in, a couple of hours ago.”

She heard him crunch. Potato chips? “Any idea where he was headed? I really need to talk to him.”

“Maggie,” he warned, “that's police business.”

“Please, it's important.” She pushed aside the sickening lump in her stomach, focusing on the traffic instead.

“Then try his cell.”

“I did. He didn't pick up.” She hated lying to Bill, someone who'd gotten between her and an angry pimp on more than one occasion. But she knew Horace would see her number and not answer. He'd called Beck, not her.

“Then maybe he's too busy to talk.”

“True, but like I said, this is important. I promise I won't bother him until I see he's free.” That could be the truth, and it
was
important.

“Maggie, I know how pushy you can be. If you get me in trouble—”

“This is between us. Please.” Risking his retirement was the last thing she wanted, but she hoped he would remember when she'd played informant and all the other times she'd called and said it was important.

“He was called to the Golden Nugget, but don't go chasing him inside.”

“Thanks, Bill, you're the best.” Maggie clicked off her headset.

She glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Twelve-thirty. If she got there first, she could follow Beck in. Whizzing through side streets, she began to second-guess her decision. What if this had nothing to do with the case? What if Horace got mad?

She had to remember she was doing this for her girls. Underneath all his evasive garbage, there was something Beck didn't want her to know. Trust him? Hardly. Maggie drove into the valet parking at the Nugget, her mind already fearing the worst, her heart telling her not to jump to conclusions.

Three police, one unmarked, and an ambulance crowded the circular drive.

“Hey, Maggie.” Five years earlier, Shannon had assisted the young Cuban with his green card and this valet job.

“Hey, Carlo. What's up with the black and whites?”

“Not sure. I just park the cars.” He flashed her a cocky grin.

Yeah, he parked cars, but in a hotel, the staff knew everything. If this was bad, news would have spread quicker than butter on a Vegas sidewalk.

“I have an errand. Can I leave my car here? I won't be long.”

“Doll, for you, anything.”

“Thanks.” She tossed him her keys and hurried in. As she promised Bill, she waited outside, albeit for only thirty seconds.

Three officers stood in the lobby, but through the crowd of hotel guests, she managed to catch Beck heading for the elevator. He'd beaten her. No matter. She waited for him to get in, and once the doors closed, headed in the same direction. Then pushed eleven and followed him up where two police officers guarded the hall. Both turned as she stepped off the elevator.

“Sorry, but I'll have to ask you to go back down.” One officer held up an oversized hand, fingers the size of fat cigars.

Maggie read his gold nameplate. Luck was on her side. “Officer Anderson? That's my last name. Lieutenant Cooper called me, told me to meet him here.” Cringing inside at yet another lie, she gave him her best hometown girl smile.

He looked her over, scratching his neck. “Are you Maggie? I'm new, but I've heard a lot about you.” His awkward grin faded. “He's down the hall,” he said somberly and pointed to the right, where what looked like an impatient hotel manager was having a heated discussion with another officer. “But you can't go in there. Stay here,” he said.

She nodded again, stepping to his left, the ringing in her ears warning her to do as she'd been told.

One of the oldest casinos in Vegas, this hotel was a landmark. The Nugget had undergone major renovations in the last few years, and looking at the plush carpeted hallway, it showed. But though clean and smoke free, she could faintly make out the smell of something . . . off.

“I have guests who need tending, flights they need to make,” she heard the manager complain as the officer led him down the hall and to the elevator.

“It won't be long now,” the officer assured him, his patience clearly taxed.

“You've been saying that for hours. If guests need to change flights, I need to know. It isn't that much to ask for,” the man continued to argue.

Officer Anderson stepped forward to assist his comrade and Maggie took advantage of their distraction. Too busy with the irate manager to notice her, she slipped down the hall and closer to the suite. A CSI pushed past her. He glanced over his shoulder, but said nothing. A cacophony of voices filtered into the hallway through the open door. She inhaled a calming breath and told herself not to panic.

She chanced a peek into the room. Fingerprint dust covered almost everything and from where she stood she could see a fine powder on door handles, the flat screen, remote control, and two glasses on the coffee table. A wall blocked her view of the couch. Every light had been turned on and there was another CSI kneeling, putting his equipment away in a large rectangular case while speaking on his phone.

The door to the bathroom was open. Outside, a detective chatted with someone she assumed was another CSI. She only saw the heel of his boot but heard the snap of pictures being taken, the flash of a camera reflecting off the badge the detective had pinned to his jacket.

She flinched when she heard Horace and Beck talking in the other room.

“This isn't good.” Horace sounded agitated.

“That's an understatement,” Beck said.

The door to the bedroom opened. She could make out the edge of the bed and a golden coverlet dumped on the floor.

“Lieutenant, I'll call you with the results.”

She didn't recognize the voice. Then she heard a man grunt, as though something heavy was being lifted. The sound of a thick zipper being closed iced her every molecule and a soft click sounded in her brain. The smell, the same one that had sealed her fate and made Vegas her home. She recognized that sickening scent from ten years ago. Death.

“No,” barely a whisper, Maggie's protest sounded tinny to her ears. She knew what a body bag meant, just as she knew why Horace had sent for Beck, why he'd be here at a . . . at a murder scene. She should have known that hoping she was wrong was too much to ask. There could have been only one reason Beck had sounded so agitated, why he'd refused to tell her anything. Another woman had died. Who?
Who?
The word repeated over and over in her head, drowning out the voices around her.

Taken aback, she didn't notice the gurney leaving the bedroom or that she blocked its way.

“Uh, Lieutenant, you better get out here.”

“Maggie? Maggie. Christ, Maggie.”

Her eyes were glued to the black bag when her brain finally registered Beck voice.

“Who?” Maggie sucked in a shaky breath, “Who's in there?” She pointed to the body bag, her arm weighted and heavy.

Christian moved to block her view.

“No way, Beck.” Her mind snapped to attention, shoving fear and shock aside. “Tell me who is in that bag.”

“Maggie.”

He didn't have to say it. She knew, saw the sympathy in his eyes. A dull throb spread from her chest to her arms, each beat of her heart a painful pound. “Who?” The question carried on a whoosh of breath.

“Not now,” he replied, a gentle pleading to his voice.

“Now,” she choked out, jerking her head back to the body bag.

Horace stood behind Beck. “Are you sure you want to do this here?”

Shrugging off Beck's hands, she nodded stiffly. What difference did it make, here, there . . . the coroner's office?

Horace signaled to the man beside the gurney and she watched his fingers as he slowly unzipped the proof that another girl was dead.

She knew she would recognize the victim, and still she couldn't help the sharp intake of air coming too fast. She wanted to run like the coward she was, like the failure she was—only her failure wasn't merely personal. No, the fallout of her ineptitude hurt her dancers.

“Sonya.” Maggie closed her heavy eyelids. “No,” was all she could add, anything else would cause a torrent of tears she was unwilling to shed. She didn't deserve the relief from the release. Another of her girls was dead.

“Yeah,” she vaguely heard Horace say. “That's who I thought it was.”

Was
. The word cut into her chest. Strong hands gripped her shoulder as they tried to turn her away. Her eyes flew open. “Let me go, Beck,” she demanded. “What kind of heartless jerk are you?” She couldn't leave Sonya alone.

“The kind that doesn't want to see you hurt,” he said, spinning her around when she continued to struggle. “Maggie . . . stop.” With his hard body, he pushed her down the hall.

“She needs me.” Her heels dug into the carpet.

“There's nothing you can do for her now.”

Desilva had said that. Right before he'd shot another girl, after he'd raped her. Had she been destined to a life of prostitution or had Maggie's sudden appearance twisted fate and gotten her killed? Maggie tried to block the images: the dead girl, Desilva's smug sneer.

“Let . . . me . . . go,” she sputtered.

“Not yet.”

When they reached the elevator she heard Horace bark at the two officers who'd guarded the floor. “This time, don't let anyone else through.”

Beck wrapped an arm around her chest and pressed the down button. She ached to scream, but the sound lodged in her throat. Her breath kept coming in weighted spurts, growing shorter and shorter. Her lips tingled. The sensation raced down her arms to her fingers. She needed to calm down before she embarrassed herself. She hadn't had a panic attack in years, the one thing the therapist had been able to help her deal with. And still, a twinkle of lights spread across the golden doors as they opened. Once inside, Maggie's neck snapped back, hitting his solid chest as her knees buckled.