by Lucy Farago
“And pretty?” he asked, sounding offended. “Bloody hell, Rhonda, you do nothing for a man’s ego.”
And then he kissed her. Right there on the dance floor. For everyone to see. Which she promptly forgot the moment his tongue swept across her lips, and she opened her mouth. The man could kiss. When was the last time a man this good-looking kissed her so completely? Oh yes, that would be never. Her eyes drifted shut, every part of her vibrating in a wild hum as his tongue took command of her mouth. He tasted like scotch and blessed, selfish desire.
“Nothing against Mrs. Haddle”—he broke their kiss—“but I prefer my partners closer to my own age.” He shifted the hand at the small of her back, perilously close to doing something far more inappropriate than kissing her on the dance floor. “And”—he finished kissing her nose—“less apt to remind me of my mum.”
He moved them off the dance floor, Rhonda surprised her legs still worked. She ignored Alice’s stunned expression and hoped to God Blake didn’t see Wendy high-fiving Shannon. “Where are we going?” she asked when he didn’t stop, clearly heading toward the door.
“Somewhere less crowded.”
“It’s just breakfast,” he said, “not a marriage proposal.”
How had she allowed herself to fall asleep? Now she’d have to remove a walk of shame from the list of things she’d never done. Her face heated at the memory of all the other firsts she done last night. She dropped to the floor to look for her shoes. They’d gone at it two more times. Not only did she not sleep with men she’d just met, she’d never had a lover with that kind of stamina. He truly was God’s gift to women.
“I already ordered it. Stay. I only need to refuel.” He spoke over her head.
Stunned, she made the mistake of looking up.
“You did me in,” he said, a heated glint in his eyes.
Feeling heat rush to her face again, she returned to the task of finding her shoes. To top it off, he still looked too pretty and far too sexy to be real. Add that with the whole tuxedo pants and no shirt thing and he was sex incarnate. She, on the other hand, was doing a great impression of a walking corpse. Finding no shoes under the fallen bedcovers, would she look stupid crawling to the bathroom? She could at least wash her face. Maggie had gotten them all rooms, but Rhonda’s was two floors below. She didn’t like the idea of going faceless, but it beat scaring the other hotel guests. Okay, this was ridiculous. She didn’t crawl on the floor for anyone. She drew a deep breath and stood to face Mr. Perfect.
“Look, not everyone wakes up with pixie dust sprinkled over us. I can’t sit here and eat breakfast with you looking like that.” She pointed to his face.
It wasn’t like she’d be seeing him again anytime soon, so what did she care what she looked like? But a girl had her pride.
“Pixie dust? That’s a new one, but really?” he said, acting insulted.
“Come on, you’re so beautiful, you hurt my eyes. In fact, I swear I saw you on the cover of GQ.”
“Thanks, that’s so much better.”
Why was he getting upset? Surely he knew that even dead women would crawl out of their graves for a piece of him. “I only meant that compared to your angelic hotness, I look like a demon.”
He yanked her into his arms. “I think you look—”
“Don’t.” She tried to push away. He might be prettier than sin but he was solid muscle. He didn’t budge. “Don’t tell me I look fine. I can see the knots in my hair and my makeup must be all over my face.
She’d never let anything or anyone get to her. Maybe her attack had changed her or maybe sleeping with a guy she’d known for ten minutes had something to do with it, but now she was embarrassed and wanted to return to her own room.
“You are beautiful. You look sexier. And,” he added, sliding one hand to grab her bottom, “I thought you enjoyed last night?”
“I did.” She also did her best, and failed, at not squirming. She couldn’t help it. She could recall in vivid detail what else that hand had done to her. “What’s that got to do with looking like crap in the morning?”
“First, stop it. Second, I think you look like a woman who had the best sex of her life.” He drew in close and kissed her. It was so chaste and he pulled away so slowly that it took her took long to get over the absurd way he made her feel feminine, to react to his assumption, correct though it was. “I know I did.”
“You did not,” she said, recovering, more indignant that he’d try such dribble than flattered.
“There are many things I don’t know,” he said, running his knuckles down her face. “But I think I know if I enjoyed what we did last night. Are you saying you didn’t?”
She wouldn’t lie. She’d made it very obvious that he’d rocked her world. And it was the best sex of her life, but his? “Not the point. I don’t have women throwing their panties at me.”
“Lass, you assume too much.” He pulled her in tighter, removing any space between them. It was evident he had something other than breakfast on his mind.
She couldn’t help smiling. The tingles that raked her body were too good not to react. “Is it bras they toss at you then?” she asked feeling more like her sarcastic self. “Money, maybe?”
“First you infer I’m a slut, then that I prostitute myself. I am neither. You, madame, do me a grave injustice, and I demand recompense.”
She had to say, the haughty Scot was a turn-on. Or it could just be the Scot? “What do you propose, your lordship?”
“Get naked and I’ll show you.”
A knock on the door stopped from her deciding to accept or reject the idea. Last night had been something she wanted to do for herself. Did she dare continue this or was she pushing her luck? She hurried to the bathroom, not wanting to be seen.
“Set it over there,” she heard Blake say, “by the windows.”
Maggie had been extravagant in reserving their rooms, one of her gifts to the wedding party, and like hers, his Salone suite had the same view of the Bellagio fountains. Even in the morning light, the setting was beautiful.
Someone grunted. “Sorry, I not mean to step,” the waiter said in a heavy accent.
“No worries,” Blake replied. “We were looking for those earlier.”
The waiter must have found her shoes.
She heard drawers being opened and wondered what he was doing. Then she noticed his wallet on the marble counter and realized he probably wanted to tip the guy and was looking for money. Well, wasn’t that her dumb luck. She contemplated cracking open the door and tossing it toward the bed. However, if she missed, she’d be even more embarrassed. It was stupid, but that girl pride kicked in again.
She shook her head at herself and reached for the knob when she heard a pop, and then someone falling to the floor. Her hand covered her mouth. She didn’t want to believe what she thought had just happened. It couldn’t be. What the fuck! Her other hand trembled as she set the wallet back on the counter. What was she supposed to do? Could it have been something else? No, someone had fallen. Blake. Dear God, someone had shot Blake.
Sin on the Strip
Maggie Anderson had dealt with her share of harrowing experiences since moving to Vegas. Sin City’s seedier reputation had challenged her more times than she cared to remember—and wished for all that was holy she could forget. But this was the worst. For once in his sanctimonious life, had her father been right? Was she ill-equipped to help these women?
After five minutes of stalling in her car, staring at the bland stucco façade, she gave up searching for composure and made her way up the concrete path to the Clark County Coroner’s office. Twice she attempted to open the heavy tinted-glass door, but it won out over her nerves. Clenching her teeth, she smacked the handicap pad. A knot lodged in her throat at the thought of identifying Heather’s body, of coming face-to-face with her failure to protect one of her girls. Of a broken promise.
As she walked through the doors, she clutched her purse with trembling hands, refusing to let ev
en the front security guard see them shake. She gave her name and the purpose of the visit.
“Please wait,” he politely instructed and made a phone call.
The lobby looked like any other county office, clean and sparse, but knowing what lay inside gave the building an air of malice. Some might think the sensation ridiculous, but this wasn’t like paying your respects at a funeral home or cemetery. Here, family didn’t come for a loving farewell or an end-of-life rite of passage. This building demanded answers from death, even if you weren’t ready to hear them, never mind wishing you never had to ask the questions.
Maggie flinched as the elevator doors sprang apart. She blinked, surprised and relieved to see her friend. “Horace? You shaved your head.”
Lieutenant Cooper ran a hand over his clean scalp. “You were right,” he said, a sheepish grin taking ten years off his fifty. “A cop should be scary.”
She didn’t mean to twist the truth, but she wasn’t able to think of a delicate way to get the man, who had come to mean so much to her, to lose the comb-over. “You look good,” she offered, managing a smile.
“My wife sends her thanks… She also sends her condolences.”
Maggie nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry too,” he said. “And I’m real sorry I couldn’t give you the news in person.”
Midnight phone calls were never good, and from the tone in Horace’s voice last night, she’d braced herself for the worst. In the drawn-out seconds between “Maggie, I’m sorry” and “There’s been a murder,” she must have swallowed her heart ten times over. Prepared as she was, she was still horrified when the lieutenant’s sentence ended.
“Just tell me you’re going to catch who did this.”
“We’re working on it,” he assured her. “We’ll get the asshole.”
She prayed he was right. Keeping the women who worked for her at the club away from trouble, and trouble away from them, wasn’t easy. The street was an eager villain, only too happy to end the lives of anyone simply trying to survive. Last night, Maggie discovered that diligence wasn’t enough. She wanted to scream. Heather didn’t deserve this.
“I don’t know if it will help, but I have some good news for you. They have Hannah. She’s back at the group home with the rest of the kids.”
“Where was the little miscreant?” she asked, thankful the wrong person hadn’t found her. Volunteering at the group home was as rewarding as it was challenging, but this newest addition had a way of pushing her luck, and Maggie’s patience.
“Bus station. She made the mistake of offering a slew of services to the bus driver. She’s lucky the guy had scruples. This is her second parole offense, Maggie. She’s on an order to reside. One more and she is back in lockup.” He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “Damn, I like that kid, but it’s taking that one a long time to learn.”
“It’s what she knows,” she said, with a need to defend the runaway.
“Yeah, well, she’s lucky we found her before she had time to call Devan. At least secure custody would keep her out of his stable.”
“But it would introduce her to kids far worse than she is. She’s a survivor. She’s adept, and not in a good way. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
Maggie might not be front line anymore, but she could at least help another kid from ending up dead, leaving this world believing no one cared. Heather had been like Hannah once, unconvinced a group home was a better alternative to secure custody. She too had taken the hard road. But this was Vegas. As cliché as it was, if you didn’t know when to fold ’em…
A kid like Hannah and that old cliché had taught Maggie a valuable lesson. The war was fought in the trenches—the streets. Five years ago it had been Maggie on those streets. She clutched her purse closer, both ashamed and grateful. Ashamed the streets had become the snapping jaws of her nightmares; grateful the club allowed her access to women who, like Heather, had once been like Hannah, beaten down by others until they believed they were worthless.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said.
“I’d never let you do this by yourself. Ready?”
“No.” How exactly did one prepare for what was ahead of her?
He wrapped his burly arms around her. Beer belly and all, she was grateful for the affection. The man was like a father to her, but unlike her father, Lieutenant Horace Cooper stuck by her, even when she screwed up.
They stepped into the elevator. An anxious twenty seconds later, a ding opened them onto a brightly lit basement. The hollow sound of her heels against the speckled terrazzo broke the eerie silence and added to her trepidation. As they reached their destination, a sick antiseptic smell made her already queasy stomach lurch. Then he asked her to wait outside the steel doors.
Half content to delay the inevitable, half terrified that if he left her alone she’d break down and cry, she snagged his jacket sleeve just as he pushed against the door. “Are you leaving me?”
“I need to see if they’re ready for you,” he replied, easing out of her grasp and giving her shoulder a comforting squeeze.
She’d reached out without thinking, but the relief from those reassuring hands had been worth even this tiniest of meltdowns. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry, Maggie. I’ll be right back.”
She paced the narrow hallway, her silk blouse doing little to chase the chill away. She shivered from the cold, and from the realization that only the living would care about the frigid temperature on this floor.
True to his word, Horace returned quickly with an apologetic smile. “Mags…” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but the viewing screen…well, it’s under repair.”
A wall clock filled the silence as she waited for him to elaborate, each tick making her stomach roll. Finally, she understood his meaning. “Seriously?” She’d done this once before, but from pictures, to ID a dealer she’d seen selling to one of her runaways. He’d tried to rip off the wrong people.
“You…We have to go into the room,” he said in a tone meant to rally courage.
She had ten…nine women who counted on her. She could do this. “Let’s go, then.” Squaring her shoulders, she followed him through the door. Although she was even colder in this room, she forced her arms to her side, determined to face this head-on.
Seated behind a chrome modular desk, the medical examiner looked up. “Ms. Anderson, give me a minute, please.” He signed whatever document he’d been reading, then stood. A short man in his fifties, he removed wire-framed reading glasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his gray lab coat. A plastic card clipped to it identified him as Dr. Ronald Wilson.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
He gave her the kind of comforting smile someone gives at funerals, then moved to a sterile wall of steel cubicles. “I’ll warn you,” he said, his back to her, “this is never what people expect.”
What exactly did people expect? The person to be as they were when last seen? She wasn’t that hopeful, and certainly not that naïve. Not anymore.
He unlatched one of the small doors to slide out the heavy gurney. On it lay a body covered in a white sheet. Her throat refused to cooperate when she attempted to swallow. Her brain warned that what she was about to see would bring back the nightmares. But instincts be damned, she owed this to Heather.
Few understood why Maggie worked at a shelter for women, her father included. But too often women, and Heather had been one of them, believed that they deserved the crap that life tossed their way, believed no one cared.
Maggie cared. She’d helped Heather take a new road, promised her a better life. Help was foreign to some. For others, asking for it was a show of weakness. Unfortunately, wads of five-dollar tips were a poor substitute for self-worth. Many, like Heather, turned to drugs or alcohol, or worse, ended up dead. Maggie wanted to get to them before their fates were sealed, because no one had reached out when it counted. Although a bright future had
been cruelly snatched from Heather, even in death, she had to know Maggie still cared.
She nodded to the coroner.
“I’ll draw the sheet enough for you to identify her face. No need for you to see the rest.”
Before Maggie could think about what he meant by that, he did as he said.
She looked down at the metal bed holding the body of a once-beautiful young woman. Her skin now a light gray, her lips tinted blue, so quiet…so still…devoid of life. The girl she knew was gone. If Juan DeSilva had made good on his threat five years ago, Maggie would have been on such a gurney. Unable to prevent the selfish thought from popping into her head, she shuddered. Would her parents have stood on this very spot, identifying her body? If Horace hadn’t shown up when he did, they would have.
“Maggie, is this Heather?” Horace’s voice snapped her out of the morbid thoughts.
She gave herself a mental shake and nodded. Now wasn’t the time to wallow in useless what-ifs.
An empty shell was all that remained of Heather. Hard work had put the slums of her past behind her. Graduating college wasn’t meant to be. Maggie forced herself to believe Heather had gone to a better place.
And God or no God, whoever did this would pay.
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Lucy Farago
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, and educational or institutional use.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street