Sin on the Strip (12 page)

He guessed she knew the answer to that question. “Marines wouldn't say it the way she did.”

“I'm sorry,” the words muffled by her lap.

He couldn't help himself. Needing to touch her, he rubbed circles around her back. “Don't worry about it. It's . . . uh . . . flattering.” That elicited another groan.

He was about to set the phone down when he realized she had other unread texts. “You have a ton of unanswered messages.”

“My phone hasn't been working properly. Sometimes it receives messages twice. I haven't bothered to delete them yet. Would you mind scrolling through the old ones to see if there's anything new? I haven't the energy.”

“Sure.”

“Ignore anything from Wendy, Alice, or Shannon. They'd have
called
for important things.”

He smiled to himself. He couldn't help but admire her friends' frankness, especially knowing how much they cared for Maggie. Friends like that were hard to find. His grin faded when he came across Heather Mackenzie's name, his hand stilling on Maggie's back. She'd sent Maggie a picture. A grade?

She turned her head sideways and before he could react, she'd seen the odd expression on his face.

“What is it?” She snatched her phone out of his hand. Her eyes grew wider and a trembling hand covered her lips as she stared at the small screen, eyes transfixed on the message.

“Maggie.” He kept his voice gentle.

She blinked and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“I never got this. They found her car at the college,” she said. “She'd gone to pick up her final grade. This must be it. It's an A. She sent it to me.” Maggie bit her lower lip, her arm falling to the space between their thighs, cell in hand. “They're dead,” she said, her voice detached.

“Yes,” he replied, knowing who “they” were.

She blinked again and the tears pooled in those sad blue eyes, overflowed, and ran down her pale cheeks. She made no attempt to wipe them away. Unsure what to do, Christian's heart ached as more trickled down her face, off her chin, onto her T-shirt.

She never moved, simply stared off into the window deflecting the afternoon sun. She didn't make a sound.

When he'd first met her, he'd thought her an oddity, the girl next door who ran a strip club. Then he discovered she was hard-nosed when she needed to be, and vulnerable when she didn't want to be. She was bright, cunning, and more surprisingly, still spiritual. But this Maggie, the one sitting on the couch next to him, this Maggie was emotionally tapped out.

“Maggie?” He moved closer, draping his arm over the couch behind her. Wet from her tears, her eyelashes glittered as if sprinkled with jeweled dust and with each slow blink of her eye, diamonds ran down her face. He'd never known a woman could look so beautiful crying.

The professional in him told him to leave her to her grief; the man in him demanded he make it better.

“Maggie?” Careful not to jar her, he wiped away her tears.

“Hmm,” she answered, sounding so beaten up he had to help.

“You want a shoulder to cry on?” He tugged gently on her chin.

She hesitated, restraint drawing her lips tight, when finally she swiped angrily at her tears. Was she trying to be brave? His grandmother often said it was a shame men didn't cry. A good cry often made you feel better. He never understood that. He was curious about Maggie's self-discipline, though. If anyone needed a good cry, it was her.

Christian pulled her into his arms, Maggie's face resting on his chest. He stroked her silky hair, the softness stirring emotions he knew he should ignore. He pressed his lips against her head, inhaled the natural scent of a woman he had no business trying to comfort. “It's all right, Maggie, let it out. There's no one here but you and me.”

“No, that's okay,” she said, the warmth of her breath breaching his shirt.

They said time healed all wounds. Had time healed his, eased his sorrow, or had it fed his resolve? So he didn't brother with the trite saying. Instead he gave her another assurance. “I promise, Maggie, I'll catch the son of a bitch who's doing this.” He meant it.

As if it was what she needed to hear, her body began to quiver with every soft sob she had contained, and at last she let go. He held her.

He wasn't sure when her tears dried up, and it didn't matter. He never much cared for weeping women, having had his fill with his mother, but holding Maggie felt . . . right. When she pulled away, and reluctantly he allowed her to, his shirt was damp. She pressed a hand to his chest, the wet fabric magnifying her sweet touch. Maggie's eyes, red and swollen, never looked more beautiful, more innocent. She smiled softly. A thank-you.

He couldn't take his eyes off her, off the fragility he saw but wouldn't have thought she possessed. It touched him in places long forgotten, buried with his sister and trampled by his mother. His grandmother was right. Life was meant to be lived, and he lived his with purpose. Although alive and breathing, Maggie had been hurt by this killer. Now, Christian had another reason to find him.

He cupped the back of Maggie's neck. This time, there would be no warning. He kissed her, a gentle touching of lips, tentative but eager for more. For a moment he was certain she would resist, her eyes searching his. God, what she did to him. Twice now, she'd made him feel younger. There was an innocence to her, not in the way she kissed, no, that was all woman, but in her hesitation. His heart beat faster with anticipation, knowing in his gut she would return his kiss. He didn't have to wait long.

She tasted both salty and sweet at the same time. He licked her lips, coaxing her to open and give him more. She needed little encouragement. Christian held her face, his thumbs brushing away the last of her tears. Lips quivering, Maggie returned his kisses with an eagerness of her own. He took it as encouragement, picked her up and set her across his thighs.

He wished she were in that yellow bikini now. It would be so easy to tug on the strings and strip her naked. It was cruel to think about sleeping with her in her state of mind, but the soft kitten-like noises she made would test any man's control. Putting her on his lap hadn't been the smartest idea. That sweet ass he'd admired this morning provided a firm wall for his erection to press against and the friction just about killed him. He gently laid her down onto the couch and lifted his legs to lie there with her, by her side. It wasn't much better. His hard cock now had her blessed hip to contend with.

He wanted Maggie to forget about this afternoon, if only for a little while. His intentions had been honorable, as honorable as they could be, until his hand slipped beneath Maggie's shirt and her silky skin sent him reeling. He was acting like an ass. She was hurting. He heard his grandmother's voice scolding him:
Southern gentlemen respect women, or they go straight to hell
. Boy Scout pushed aside, he figured hell wasn't such a bad place after all. Not if getting there held the perks of touching Maggie. He resisted the urge to unzip her jeans and squeeze her thigh, right where it met her cheek.

When she wrapped an arm around his neck and drew him closer, he slid his fingers up and down the side of her ribcage. He moved slowly, giving her time to push him away. When she didn't, he palmed her breast, brushing his fingertips over one tight nipple. Her moans deepened as the bud grew harder, as he grew harder.

Christian kissed and nipped his way down her neck. She tasted sweet, innocent, opposite of what he'd thought her to be. She lifted her chin, accepting him, encouraging him. Heat claimed his body and he needed more. He unbuttoned her shirt and unclasped the front of her bra, spilling its contents. She gasped when his mouth covered her nipple.

“Maggie, you taste as good as you smell.”

He heard a shy, girl-like laugh. The simple reaction touched him in a way he'd never experienced. He wanted to laugh with her. He lifted his head and met her heavy-lidded smile.

“Who are you, Maggie Anderson?”

He didn't expect an answer, didn't wait for one. Her lips, wet from his kisses, enticed him back, exactly where he wanted to be. Needing to explore, he untied the ropes of his restraint, allowed his hand to roam all over her. The polite southern gentleman wasn't coming back.

Who knew how long the telephone had been ringing before either of them heard it. He wanted to ignore it, but Maggie's kisses grew hesitant, and he didn't want her distracted when he yanked off her jeans. Panting, he brushed the back of his hand against her cheek and allowed her to get up. She got half way before he pulled her back, gave her something to hurry her call and return to him, then he let her go.

Maggie buttoned her shirt and ran her fingers through her mussed hair as if the caller would see. He couldn't help but be amused.

She smiled at him and picked up the phone. “Hello.” Her grin faded.

Silence followed for several moments after that.

She looked around nervously. “Yes, I'm still here. I don't think this is a good idea and not the best of times.” Another pause followed. “I don't care what he needs.”

Maggie fiddled with the phone, twisting the cord around her finger. She did her best to hide her agitation from the caller. “Why do I want to make
him
happy?”

More silence.

“Please, don't cry. All right, fine, when?” Maggie cringed, her eyes clamping shut. “Okay, I'll email you the directions. Bye.”

She hung up the receiver and paced from the bar to the patio door and back to the bar. “Shit,” she mumbled. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.”

Christian stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Something wrong?” Stupid question.

“Wrong, no. What would make you say that?” She was panicked and speaking quickly. “My life is falling apart, but nothing is wrong. What am I going to do?”

He figured that was a rhetorical question and didn't answer. “Can I help?”

“No. Maybe. I don't know.” She groaned into her hands. “My parents are coming.”

“I
should have installed caller ID here as well.” Now what was she going to do? She hadn't seen her father in almost two years. That last time had only made things worse. “Make amends my . . .” Stepping behind the bar, she grabbed a bottle of vodka.

She'd managed to avoid this inevitable confrontation, but something in her mother's voice had touched that all too familiar spot in her stomach, the wussy place her guilty conscience called home. The same spot had kicked her when her mother had caught her staring at Davy Wilkins in church, and had made her want to vomit when she told her parents she got a lousy mark in gym. Of course, baseball had been to blame for that particular failure. Hand-eye coordination had never been her strong suit, although she'd managed to get through shooting lessons. Maybe schools should focus on teaching girls how to fend off attackers. They'd still be smacking balls—but the right kind of balls.

She scooped ice cubes into a rocks glass, spilling some onto the counter. She flung those into the sink,

As a teenager, Maggie had tried not to care about her father's opinion, though he gave it often and regularly. If the press uncovered the truth about her ownership of the club, she'd ruin her father's career. At times Maggie cared little for his career. And she couldn't deny his following or the good his church did. To damage his reputation would be irresponsible. If he'd chosen to he could have easily defended her work. Not only did he not defend her, he didn't believe she was capable of offering any help to these women.

Of course, Maggie had her own reasons for keeping the press at bay. The success of the club made the women self-sufficient. Would men be drawn to a place run by a preacher's daughter? Or would the club turn into a freak show? Then there was the issue of the kind of women she'd attract, the kind who simply wanted their names in the paper. No, the press could never discover her connection to Reverend James Hopewell.

She poured a good sized shot of vodka into her glass and topped it off with tonic. She'd almost forgotten about Beck until he cleared his throat.

“How long has it been?” he asked.

After taking a sip, she gestured with her glass: Would he care for a drink? He shook his head.

“Since?”

“Since you've talked to them?”

“What makes you think I don't talk to my parents?”

“Well, darlin', first, you've got a drink in your hand.”

Right on that account, she tossed the remains of the tumbler in the sink.

“Second, I'm guessing your dad doesn't much care for what you do.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. Deciding there was no point in lying, she said, “Two years.”

“That's a long time. Must've been one heck of an argument.”

Maggie shrugged. “Not really an argument, per se, more like a sermon, one-sided and given high on a pulpit.” With no allowance for debate.

“Maggie, I know it must be hard to think about, but with two murders, what are the odds your parents won't be drawn into this?”

“No one knows I run the clubs,” she assured herself. “I mean, no one knows Maggie Hopewell runs the clubs.” A slow sense of dread crept down her spine. What if he was right? She bristled. “Look, thank you for everything.”

Gone was his southern smile. In its place was a slow, wicked grin, reminding her of what they'd done on the couch.

“I think you should go.” She headed toward the front hall. “I have a lot to sort out.” She wiped a hand over her cheek, now dry of tears. “I need to make plans for Sonya's funeral.”
And figure out what to do with my parents.

In her fantasies, the headlines had always been in bold print. “Evangelist's Daughter, Peddler of Sex.” That would pull the rug out from beneath him and his sanctimonious sermons. She cringed at her own childish, self-destructive daydream.

“It's very generous of you, paying for the funeral.”

She made it to her front door and reached for the handle. “Sonya was the only dancer I had whose family lived in Vegas. They knew she danced and supported her decision—as long as she danced for me. They don't have much and couldn't give her everything she wanted.”

He took her arm as she opened the door. “You paid for her school, so they liked the free ride?”

“No, it wasn't like that. She didn't care whom she danced for. She enjoyed it. But she was getting into situations she couldn't get out of. She got arrested. Her parents heard about me through the police and came to me for help. Horace got the DA to back off if she worked with me. And one of my conditions was she go back to school. It was a no-brainer, jail time or a better life still doing what she loved.”

“I'm starting to understand.”

She opened the door. The bright sun reflected off the mirror behind him and she had to shield her eyes. “Understand?”

He put himself between her and the sun. Pulling her hand away, he drew her closer and brushed his lips over her forehead. “You're reaching women who wouldn't otherwise look for help.”

She smiled. He'd gotten it half right. But if she wasn't careful he'd discover the truth, that she was a fake. “Something like that.”

“You know, you
can
trust me. And to prove it, I'll help you with your parents. I'll deflect the press, steer them away from the club and from you. I'll call in some favors.”

“That's generous of you.” She'd take all the help offered, even from him.

He nodded. “I mean it, Maggie. Anything I can do, call me.” He leaned in and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Especially if you need a shoulder to cry on.” He gave her a heartwarming smile that made her insides hum, then left.

She waited at the door until he drove off, then shut the gate. She was getting too cozy with him. How many more barriers would the man have broken through had her mother not called? Warning bells should have gone off in her head. Instead, she'd cried in front of him—in his arms.

After locking the front door, she returned to her living room and picked up her cellphone, once again looking at Heather's photo text. This was what she needed to focus on, not Mr. Chocolate. She swiped at a stubborn tear. Beck turned her brain to mush, not to mention what he did to the rest of her. Mush wouldn't help the rest of her girls.

Right now, she couldn't deal with him, or her conflicted emotions. Her life in Tweedsmuir was long behind her. She was a grown woman and she could handle her parents. They were descending on her world, and for their sake it couldn't be the one she truly lived in. As much as she hated to, she'd have to stay away from the club. The press couldn't be allowed to connect Maggie to her father.

The kisses and the man would have to go on the back burner.

 

It had taken all of Christian's willpower not to call Maggie, opting instead to give himself time; time away from her and time to focus on this case. In the three days since he'd last seen her, he'd retraced the last two victims' footsteps, coming up with a few clues. He was almost certain the killer had been following his victims, methodically choosing one dancer then staying a few steps behind her. Had he known Miss Mackenzie had been in school writing an exam and checking out her grades?

Had he lured Sonya Baxter to the casino, perhaps knowing it would be easy for the police keeping her under surveillance, to lose her in the hordes of gamblers? The videotapes placed her there at a particularly busy time of night—alone. Had she known him?

Narcissistic behavior is common among serial killers, but things were changing. The guy had always chosen more secluded areas to kill. Now he'd taken a risk, and shortened the time span between victims. Maggie flashed into his mind. The killer didn't seem to care if the police knew he was targeting her dancers. Was he telling them he was smarter, or sending a message? Christian's temples throbbed. Was Maggie the next victim?

He'd spent every night thinking about her. Murder had brought them together, but what the hell kept drawing him to her? Sure, she was beautiful, but he should be capable of controlling his dick. At least long enough to find this sick bastard.

He could tell himself he needed more answers solely for the benefit of the case, but what would be the point in lying? It was personal. This morning he'd put a call into Sheppard. For now, he had to see Cooper.

On his way into the police station, Christian nodded to an officer who was on his way out as Christian was going in. He knocked once on the office door and waited for Cooper to look up from his usual stack of files. Did the man ever put anything away?

“Come in,” Cooper said, motioning with his hand.

Christian grabbed a chair and pulled it close, leaning a forearm on the desk. “Okay, I want the truth.”

Cooper sat back, tipping his head to let Christian know he had no idea what he was talking about.

“What's the whole story behind Maggie? With this last victim, I'm starting to think she's somehow connected. But how, and why? I keep bouncing back and forth.” He made a balance scale with his hands. “On one hand the club, the other . . . something far more personal.”

The lieutenant scrubbed his hand over his face with a soft groan, his five o'clock stubble a soft rasp. He'd drawn the same conclusion and didn't like it any more than Christian.

“So I have to ask,” said Christian. “The feds think there's a link to her daddy. That somehow this killer knows who she is. And the initial he's carving into his victims may not be a letter, but a cross.” The agent in him wouldn't let him rule it out, but the kid who'd seen his sister walk out and never return told him the feds were wrong.

“If so,” he continued, “then maybe he was digging into the reverend's past and discovered his wayward daughter. Maybe he doesn't like her father's connection to the club. And this is his way of severing it. But I need to know, is there anything in her past, anything I haven't dug up, that could have drawn the attention of this psycho?”

Christian's cell rang before Cooper could reply. Sheppard, returning his call. For once, he was glad for the interruption. Maybe he'd get real answers.

“Hang on, Cooper, my boss.” He stepped out of the office and walked toward a far corner, keeping his eyes on the other three officers at their desks.

Pressing his phone to his ear, he pushed talk. “What did you find?”

“Hello to you too.”

“I've been trying to reach you for days. I'm in no mood for niceties.”

“Sorry, I was dealing with something.”

“Something or someone?”

Sheppard laughed. “Same thing. Look, you want to know what the team found or you want to be lippy to the guy who signs your paycheck?”

“Talk.”

“All right. Both victims lived in the same condo.”

“I know. The feds believe he was tracking them from there.” That could be right.

“It's possible. I'll give you one guess as to who owns the building.” Somehow he didn't need a guess. “The feds know she's the owner?”

“Of course. They're not totally useless.”

Having been an agent, he didn't consider them useless. His boss on the other hand . . .

“Is it public knowledge?” Would the killer have known?

“She wasn't trying to hide it.”

He didn't like where this was headed. “It doesn't link the previous victims.”

“No, but something changed; altered his path to kill two women in Vegas.”

“True enough. What else?”

“Are you sitting down?”

Shit, what now? “Out with it.”

“She's the reason Juan Desilva is behind bars, the anonymous informant the papers talked about. But she wasn't an informant. She was a victim.”

Christian felt the blood drain from his face. His mouth wouldn't work as fast as the questions he wanted to ask. Mix that with wanting to throw something, or kill someone and he was dumbstruck.

Lucky for him, his boss saved him the trouble and continued, “Diamonds weren't the only commodity he dealt in. And Ms. Anderson had the misfortune of stumbling into his storage facility.”

“What are you talking about?” Christian asked, increasingly frustrated.

“Women and girls. His favorites were the non-English-speaking kind.”

“Are you telling me that Desilva had Maggie and was planning to trade her?” He felt sick, the mere idea making his blood boil.

“I don't know all the details. But she managed to get the cops to look for her—and find her. Christian, he had a gun pointed to her head when the cops swooped in, and she'd been badly beaten. She'd gotten in the way of Desilva sampling his cargo, so he turned on her instead.”

Christian pulled out a chair beside one of the desks and plopped his ass down.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Had Desilva raped her? He was afraid to ask. Couldn't ask.

“She's lucky. Because if the cops hadn't found her when they did, what they found wouldn't have been pretty. He'd already killed two of the women.”

Christian was beginning to breathe a little easier. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cooper standing in the doorway of his office, having come to see what was taking Christian so long. As Cooper and Maggie went way back, if anyone could tell him what had possessed her to do something so stupid, it might be Cooper.

“Anything else?” Christian asked Sheppard.

“You said she'd never heard of ICU?”

“That's what she led me to believe.” She'd had no reason to lie.