Sin on the Strip (24 page)

“No.” He laughed softly. “I don't believe you would.”

To help a girl or two, she'd been known to bend the law herself. She often looked the other way and had even carried an illegal firearm, until Horace tried to take it away. She registered the weapon and still had it. A lot of good it would do her if the only things she could shoot were made from paper.

“So let me help you. You find this guy and, depending on the circumstances, you either hand him to the cops or . . . not. Did I get it right? Just nod, Beck. This way you're not telling me things I shouldn't know.” When he didn't respond, she used the voice she used on drunks, the one that told them to behave, or the next thing they touched was pavement. “Nod.”

Stiffly, he complied.

“Now we're getting somewhere.” On a roll, she decided to shelve the Rhonda question until later. Whatever he wasn't telling her wasn't going to hurt her, of that she was certain.

She was going to ask if his case was personal, the similarities between Samantha and his sister too coincidental. But that wasn't what came out of her mouth.

“What happens after this? You get another case? Go looking for another missing person?”

She hadn't said it, hadn't said
What happens to us?
, but his wide-eyed expression said he knew exactly what she hadn't asked. The real question was, did she really want the answer? This was ridiculous. He'd made only one promise, to catch the killer. She either enjoyed the time they had left or . . . nothing. It was time to retreat. “Of course you get another case. That was a dumb question.”

Unfortunately, the pitying look he gave her said more than any answer could. “Maggie.”

Embarrassed and mad at him for thinking he needed to feel sorry for her, the masochist that her friends continually accused her of being took over her mouth. “This is a job for you. I get that. But I'm what? A perk?” She needed to shut up. This was supposed to be about him, not their short-lived affair. But the cat was out of the proverbial bag, with Maggie yanking on poor kitty's tail.

“Is that what you think? That I'm using you?”

“No, I don't think that. More like a convenient diversion.” She cringed at her own words, having not intended to sound peevish. She just knew she didn't want to have this conversation. Regretting having ever opened her big mouth, she headed for the kitchen, not sure what she was going to do when she got there.

He followed. With him at her back, she stared at the refrigerator door, afraid the expression on his face would deter her from saying what needed to be said. “I don't regret anything that happened between us. You understood something my friends never have.” She had to look at this as a rational, mature woman. “But you have a job to do, whatever that entails, and I have to protect my girls. There's a sicko out to get them, and quite possibly me. I can't do this alone, but from now on we should try and keep this professional.”

Was she really pushing him away? Was that what she wanted?

Christian wanted desperately to touch her, but he kept his hands to himself. “You are anything but a diversion,” he assured her. “And I think we've gone beyond keeping this professional.” It was too late for “We shouldn't have.”

Time couldn't be forced back and he seriously doubted she'd sleep with a man, with him, and want to forget it, at least he hoped not. Personal feelings aside, Rhonda
had
been on her way to the loft when the killer snatched her. So leaving Maggie to her own devices wasn't an option, even if he wanted it to be, which, of course, he didn't.

Against his better judgment, he liked the feisty preacher's daughter. And from what he'd seen and learned, if someone didn't look after her sweet ass, trouble would find her. Only the good die young was a lesson Christian had learned early in life. Or at least the good on a precarious path. Her heart was in the right place. But thugs and convicted felons didn't give a shit.

She snatched a girl from a pimp and was nearly killed taking on a human trafficker. Who knew how far she'd go to help someone. He wouldn't put it past her to have some kind of Joan of Arc syndrome, fighting the oppressor to save the victims. How was he going to do this—find the killer and protect her at the same time? Damn, she was everything he'd told himself he didn't want—a woman who took risks. No matter how much he admired her for it.

“Maggie, we have to stop this killer. Let's worry about all this other stuff later.”

She turned around. “Stuff?”

He cringed. Shit, he was stupid. “I didn't mean that the way it came out.”

If the hurt on her face was any indication, he'd just screwed himself.

“Honestly, I'm not certain what's going on between us,” he said, backtracking. “But if I am going to stop this son of a bitch I . . . we have to stay on task.” Hell, that didn't sound any better.

“Fair enough. So we agree, no more sleeping together.”

Before he could sputter a reply, she was half way up the stairs, her hand on the doorknob.

“Maggie, please, I thought we were going to talk?”

The bedroom door slammed shut. What the hell had just happened?

She'd just given him a way out, again. A smart man would accept the gift and return to his objective. He'd been accused of worse things than insanity, and damned if he was ready to put this behind them. Christian took the iron staircase two steps at a time.

M
aggie allowed herself a long, exhausted sigh. The whole point of that conversation had been to find out more about Beck, not turn it into some sucky relationship thing. Instead, she hid in the bathroom, too afraid of—what? Listening to Beck say it was only sex?

Really, wasn't that all it had been? In the wake of her run-in with Devan, she'd landed in bed with Beck, jumping from one fire into another. This wasn't his fault. He hadn't set out to hurt her. No, she'd done that all on her own. So before her foolish heart broke, she'd better learn to deal with the fact that, for now, he wasn't going anywhere.

She turned on the tap to brush her teeth and suddenly her bones turned heavy. This was all too much. Her personal issues with Beck had to take a back seat to her girls. As long as she kept him out of her bed, things would be good, manageable.

Looking at her watch, she realized she'd be up in a few hours to return to the hospital. She stripped off most of her clothes and remembered her T-shirt was in the bedroom. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she wondered what had possessed her to wear such sexy lingerie under her dress. The low-cut demi-bra barely covered her breasts and the thong, well, the tiny scrap of silk only served to say she hadn't gone commando.

This woman in the mirror
so
needed a reality check, a hormonal one. She vowed to trash the naughty underwear. She and Beck were not in a relationship. And she wasn't the type of woman who just slept around.

Maggie made it half-way to the bed before she yelped. Heart pounding, she turned on Beck. “Are you crazy?”

He sat in oversized reading chair in the corner of the bedroom. Silent.

“You scared me half to death.”

“I-I'm sorry, I didn't . . .” Beck made a strangled sound. “Maggie, you're killing me.”

Her heartbeat had begun to slow, but to her embarrassment, she realized he was staring at her all but naked body. Frantic, her gaze darted around the room, unable to find her T-shirt. Beck stood and grabbed the tee from the chair he'd been sitting in. Clenched in his fist, he stalked toward her. If she'd been foolish enough to think nothing more would happen between them, the carnal look in his eyes told her otherwise. Her treacherous heart leapt.

Snatching the shirt from his hand, she covered her body, afraid to risk slipping it over her head and exposing herself even more. “Don't you knock?” she demanded, trying to muster indignation to stop her pulse from throbbing.

“Sorry, I wasn't thinking, and how was I to know you'd come strutting out here in your . . .” A wild gleam in his eyes, he slid a heated gaze over her body. “Damn, Maggie.” Yanking the T-shirt out of her hands, he tossed it on the floor and pulled her into his arms. “I'm gonna kiss you. No counting, no nothing. When I'm done you can object, but not till then.” True to his word, he kissed her, a kiss that sent chills skittering down her back.

Every thought of pushing him away, all sound reasoning became an intangible vapor slipping through her fingers. It was just a kiss, one kiss, she told herself. Sanity would return and they could get back to whatever it was . . . they . . . Oh God, whoever said chocolate was better than sex hadn't kissed Beck. He'd scarred her for life. She'd never be able to look at or taste chocolate again without thinking of him.

Hot erotic hands molded her to him then they were in her hair, on her butt, her breasts. In a frenzy of touching and tasting they'd somehow ended up on the bed, his body creating exquisite friction against her hard nipples and the aching juncture between her thighs. Needing to feel his skin, she yanked at his shirt until she freed it from his pants. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she slid her hands over his back and drowned in Beck's kisses. She drank in his passion even as sanity pried its way through the haze of her desire. Like flicks of cold water against her heated skin, rational thought demanded her attention. She greedily savored his kiss, his skin, his scent one last moment, then reluctantly pushed him off her.

Disoriented, he blinked hard as if to clear his head and reached for her. She scooted off the bed, scooped up her discarded T-shirt and slipped it on quicker than humanly possible.

When he attempted to rise, she said, “No,” hating the lack of conviction in her voice. “No,” she repeated, more for herself than him. He sat back on the bed.

“Maggie—”

“I like you, Beck.” More than like, she thought. “But we shouldn't be doing this. My life was already complicated and now, with these horrible murders, I can't. I need some stability or I won't be able to function.” The little she had left keeping her together was being zapped by a menacing murderer. A screwed-up love life wasn't going to help.

“I barely know you,” she continued “and the part I do, is a little, well, it's a little disconcerting. You're a gun for hire.”

“I am not,” he argued.

“You're hired to find people?”

“Sometimes,” he agreed warily.

“Why don't they go to the police?” she asked, hoping to catch him off guard.

“Because . . .” he hesitated, regarding her intently.

Was he trying to figure out how much to tell her, how much she could handle, or how much to trust her with? She didn't know which was more insulting, being thought of as too weak-minded to handle truth, or being considered untrustworthy.

“Okay,” he began, “let's deal with the simplest one first.”

“Simplest?”

“Less complicated,” he said. “I know what Rhonda wanted to tell you.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. And if she didn't know better, she'd say he was . . . nervous.

“It wasn't till we got here that I remembered her,” he assured her, finally reengaging eye contact.

Had he slept with Rhonda? No, she couldn't imagine any woman forgetting they'd had sex with Beck. Then what? And why did the idea of him and another woman make her nauseous?

“This case had drawn my boss's attention. I was undercover in the same bar Rhonda worked. Where I was placed as a . . . as a male stripper.”

She couldn't have been more stunned if he'd told her he was a drag queen.

Maggie stared at him. Was he serious? He seemed uneasy by his admission, fiddling with the bedcover and refusing to make eye contact. Stripper? Really? Well, if any man could make a living baring his butt for money, it was Beck. She imagined him unbuttoning his shirt, his hips softly swaying to sultry jazz, the button on his pants, the zipper . . .

She cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said, at a sudden loss for words.

“Yeah. The guy was peddling minors, sometimes selling them to the highest bidder, shipping them off overseas with promises of money and glamour. He was a greasy bastard. It was a few weeks before we could nail his ass. I hated the whole scene. His partner was a woman. She'd entice them into the club, act like she cared about them. It made my skin crawl, thinking how they used young kids.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.

“So when you met me . . .”

“I allowed it to taint my opinion of your club, and you. Again, I'm sorry.”

She'd seen her share of abused kids and knew what she thought of those responsible. “Hey, I've been in some slimy clubs. How were you to know mine wasn't one of them?”

“A little homework on my part might have helped.”

“It's in the past and all is forgiven,” she smiled.

“Now, about my sister,” he said, a sudden tightness around his eyes. “You asked if this case is personal. It is. And not just because Claire and Samantha Wiseman were both runaways. Maggie, she was found in a bathtub, with two slashes on the back of her neck. I think the man who killed her is stalking your dancers.”

Maggie fell into the chair Beck had vacated. She pulled her knees into her chest and allowed the plush fabric of the upholstery to swallow her up. Saying nothing, she gave herself time to absorb what he'd just told her, a heavy weight in her chest making it hard to breathe as she struggled to reconcile that one man was responsible.

Beck stalked a man he believed killed his sister. A slow tingle started on Maggie's face, spreading to the back of her head then down her spine. The expression “someone walking on your grave” came to mind. “What makes you think it's the same bastard?” Maggie shivered. “Twenty-five years is a long time.”

“It is,” he agreed. Beck sat back onto the bed, resting his broad shoulders against the black leather headboard.

Even in a rumpled dress shirt, or maybe because of it, he was beautiful.

He patted the empty bed beside him. “Please,” he said, “sit by me. This truth isn't easy. I'm going to need you.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I haven't talked to anyone about my family in a long time. I just want to hold you, nothing more.”

Maggie weighed her options. But his sincerity seemed true, making her decision obvious. She sat beside him and allowed him to drape an arm around her shoulder. Maggie said nothing when he drew her into his embrace. Instead, she laid her head on his chest and listened to his steady heartbeat. Regardless of what would happen later, this was where she wanted to be. And it had nothing to do with feeling safe.

Christian didn't know why he had to hold Maggie, but he did. He'd tried to do his part by joining the agency, but Maggie got down and dirty on the streets, never turning her back on the women that came to her and even those that hadn't. His mother could have learned a lot from Maggie. Maybe the urgency to hold her was to protect her. Was it his old promise that no one else should suffer his sister's fate, his guilt, or was it the damn feeling that Maggie belonged to him and if anyone hurt her, he'd do serious collateral damage in return? Whatever the reason, he had to have her in his arms.

“My family,” he began “was very close. My paternal grandparents lived with us. It was my grandfather who built the house in New Orleans. My parents had—have—money. My father's family owned a shipping line and my mother's, land. Our family lineage is long and prestigious, tracing back to General Lee. She was very proud of her heritage and her position in society. My mother was extremely devoted to her faith, obsessively so. Sunday dinner with the minister was a common occurrence in our house.”

Christian rested his chin on top of Maggie's head and closed his eyes. He inhaled her scent, hoping to mask the bad memories. “My sister, Claire, was older by six years.”

“Beck,” Maggie said.

“Hmm?” He ran his fingers through thick strands of her hair.

“You're squeezing me.”

“Sorry.” He eased his hold.

“That's all right. Go on.”

“She and my mother argued all the time and when Dad tried to run interference, they'd argue. He figured Claire was behaving like a normal teenager and my mother was pushing too hard. Leather jackets aside, I couldn't see what the big deal was, but I was ten and fashion wasn't my strong suit.”

“You heard them fight?” she asked, sweeping her hand over his chest. He put his hand over hers. She'd only been trying to comfort him, snuggled in his arms, but even now with the bad memories spilling out of him, he wanted her. Or perhaps it wasn't want as much as need.

Christian drew Maggie closer, careful this time not to crush her. Kissing the top of her head, he continued. “They were careful not to argue in front of me, but it was an old house and I was a curious kid. My sister and mother disagreed about everything. She'd planned a coming-out party for Claire, even invited the minister. Claire refused to be a debutante and the closest she got to church were her Madonna CDs.

“As much as she would argue with my mom, Claire never raised her voice to me. She was great, a little wild but real smart. If not for her grades, they'd have tossed her ass out of school for her sassy mouth. She even took the blame for things I did. Used to it I guess, and was consistently grounded for one stupid thing or another.” He smiled to himself, remembering Claire shrugging off her punishments.

“While my father was more apt to let things slide, my mother wasn't. The woman never gave in. Bullheaded Claire threatened to leave the entire time the caterer and florist made their deliveries. She went so far as to destroy the white designer gown, covered it in black marker. I swear, the whole house shook when my mother found out. She locked Claire in her room and went out to buy another gown.”

“Who locks kids in their room?” Maggie asked, obviously not understanding his mother's determination to get her way.

“A very single-minded woman set on a debutante party for her daughter.”

“What would that have accomplished?”

“Nada,” Beck said, “only pissed off my sister. Our rooms shared a roof. Claire snuck out her window and into mine. When she asked me to stand watch, I did.” He was silent for a moment, reliving that horrible, misguided decision. “It was the last time I saw her.”

“She ran?”

“Yeah,” he answered, choking back the emotion. If only he could do the same with his guilt. “The phone call came six months later. After the police had done what they could, or couldn't, my father had hired a private investigator. He tracked Claire to L.A. But they were too late. Before my dad's plane hit the ground, she was dead.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, returning his embrace.

Christian remembered sitting at the top of the stairs, his face squeezed between two posts, listening to his father break the news to his grandparents. The first to hear, his mother had been inconsolable. “The police had arrested a man called Burgess, a known pimp. Claire had been seen with him and he had a reputation for handling teenage girls. The charge didn't stick. He had a rap sheet long enough to include assaulting women, but also had an alibi. They released him and labeled my sister a prostitute after he confessed she'd turned tricks for him.”