by Lucy Farago
“Did you think I lied?”
“No, but honestly, I was hoping to get some clues out of her.”
“Clues?”
Christian had discovered that, along with Ms. Anderson and two other women, Wendy Harper and Alice McAllister, Shannon Joyce owned several restaurants and bars throughout California and one in New York. But they didn’t just own restaurants and bars. They owned successful restaurants and celebrity-frequented bars. Clubs where people went to be seen. Clubs where, if you weren’t on the A-list, you never got beyond the front door. Clubs that perhaps had ticked off the wrong person? It was a long shot, but he’d rule nothing out.
“You and Ms. Joyce share mutual investments,” he said, more of a statement than question.
If he had blinked, he’d have missed the flash of anger in those blue eyes.
“Are you investigating me?” she asked, sliding her sunglasses back and forth on the table.
“Do you have something to hide?” he answered, simply to enjoy the way her eyes pinned him to his seat.
“You assume that because I run a gentleman’s club I must be a seedy villain, curling my moustache with a boo-ha-ha,” she said without an ounce of humor.
He couldn’t help but smile at her sarcasm. She was beyond defensive. What did she expect in her line of work? She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. Was she deliberately trying to distract him? It worked, because even though his mind tried like hell to stay on the case, his body trotted off in a whole “fatal attraction” kind of direction. Granted, her skirt wasn’t that short, but those legs … What the hell was wrong with him that he couldn’t control his dick? Did he have some unknown masochistic urge she’d managed to tap into?
He forced himself to look at her face. “I’ll admit that was my first impression. I may not agree with your choice of occupation, but it’s none of my business.” Really, it was neither here nor there as far as the case was concerned. “But I have to ask. Why would you choose to stay in Vegas and run the club instead of, say, Club Trix in New York? I’ve been there once or twice. It’s one of the hottest spots in Manhattan.”
She didn’t hesitate with her reply. “I’m needed here.”
And he’d bet his last paycheck she didn’t mean in the business sense. She liked working with these women. He considered questioning her about her father, but if he pushed the wrong buttons, he’d be screwed and Cooper might just make good on his threat. By now, the feds would have the inside scoop on Ms. Hopewell, and if they thought Reverend Hopewell was a topic needing discussing, let them handle it. But did they know the relationship she had with the Vegas police, and could someone she might have helped put in jail be targeting the club? He kicked himself for not thinking about it sooner and made a mental note to call Cooper and ask.
A waiter came out with a tray of drinks. Bending down, he offered Maggie one. “I was told to tell you the one on the left is Canadian iced tea.”
Christian raised an eyebrow, but the waiter just shrugged.
She laughed, some of the tension in her shoulders relaxing. “It means sweetened and with lemon. It’s an inside joke.”
“Oh,” they said in unison.
He liked the sound of her laughter. Infectious, it made him want to smile. Had he been granted a glimpse at the real Maggie Anderson? She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A square-cut emerald stud glittered on a delicate earlobe, drawing his attention to the graceful column of her neck.
“Are you thirsty, Mr. Beck? There’s water on the tray.”
“I’m good, thanks,” he replied, forcing himself again to stay on task.
“I asked if you were thirsty. I didn’t ask you if you were good.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” the waiter said, “that’s my cue to leave.”
Christian grinned. The lady had a sense of humor. “You know, you opened the door to a comeback.”
Setting both feet on the patio, Ms. Anderson slid her chair back, shading her face from the sun slicing through the spaces between the cedar planks of the pagoda. “And you’ll keep it to yourself, right?”
“You started it.”
She crossed her legs again, slivers of sun now catching her knee.
“True,” she replied, oblivious to the fact that her black skirt had ridden up her legs, baring more tempting flesh, exposing them to his gaze.
Damn, she wasn’t wearing stockings.
Needing a distraction from those long limbs and black pumps, fast, Christian glanced over at the pool. When he returned his attention to her, she’d taken off her blazer. Beneath it she wore a black silk camisole, suspended on soft pale shoulders by thin straps, the kind one finger could slip off as you kissed your way down smooth skin.
This was his cue to leave.
“Would you mind if I talked to your staff again? Maybe tomorrow? With the funeral behind them they might remember something more.”
“As I told you before, if there is anything I can do to help—but the FBI have already talked to them. They asked for everything in Heather’s locker, including her old phone. I’d just bought the one she had.”
He made another mental note to ask his contact if they’d found anything. “That was generous of you.”
“It was an early graduation present. The police have it now,” she said, swallowing so hard, he saw her throat work.
“I’m sure they’ll return it when they’re done with it.”
She nodded, tension visible around the eyes that minutes earlier had sparkled. “I’ll walk you out. This way’s faster.”
She showed him to a side gate hidden behind lush greenery and then down a granite staircase that led to the driveway. Halfway down, she stopped, placed a warm hand on his arm and surprised him by pulling off her high heels.
“Much better,” she moaned. Seeing where her hand had gone, she yanked it away. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lean on you.”
He checked out her red toenails. “Wow, and to think you looked right at home in those things.” He nodded toward her shoes.
She shrugged. “Deceiving, I know. The stupid stuff women do to look good.”
“You could have worn flats,” he observed.
“Are you telling me I’m too tall to wear heels?” she asked as she continued down the stairs, her back to him.
Without the shoes he guessed her at five eight. “No, ma’am. Simply that your legs don’t need heels to look good.” As soon as the words left his runaway mouth, she stopped. He braced himself so as not to run into her. Had he offended her?
“Look,” she said and turned, her hands perched on a pair of slender hips. “Stop calling me ma’am. I’m no teenager, but I’m not a ma’am either.”
Christian laughed then stopped when she frowned at him. She was serious. “I’ll make you a deal. I won’t call you ma’am …” Without thinking, he pushed away a stray hair caught in her lipstick. Her skin pure silk beneath his fingertips, he’d have been tempted to tuck that strand behind her ear had she not gone suddenly still. “I won’t call you ma’am,” he repeated, “if you call me Christian.” Normally he liked formalities. It kept his clients at arms’ length. But she wasn’t a client and he’d better dump those formalities. They’d only serve to remind her that she should be on her guard.
He didn’t understand what the big deal was, but she took her time considering his offer before answering. “I’ll meet you half way, Beck.” Heels in hand, she made her way down the rest of the stairs.
Beck, it was.
He had to remind his professional side to remember what she did for a living, what paid for the fancy digs. Why the hell did she have to walk him to his car? Or look so hot in that tight black skirt? It hugged her ass and made him forget she wasn’t his type. Money bought her one great house; it couldn’t buy her scruples. Great boss, great friend, great whatever, she still made cash off these women. So she talked some of them into going back to school. Great. What about the ones she put at risk?
Maggie could hear him close on her
heels, or bare feet. She’d chosen to walk him out in an attempt to keep things casual between them. When his fingers had touched her face, she’d regretted the decision. A woman could melt under those chocolate eyes, and around Mr. Beck, she needed to be on her guard.
She had to maintain her cool. He already knew too much about her. How far into her past had he gone snooping? Did he know who her father was? And would he use that against her? As callous as it was, Heather’s murder was headline news and the press, along with Beck, continued to sniff around the club. She had to keep her name out of the paper, not give them any reason to print it or pry further. Her father would have a cardiac arrest.
If the truth ever got out—well, it just couldn’t. She’d help Beck, but her personal life was off limits.
At the bottom of the stairs, she picked up the pace. Maggie spotted his car parked beyond her gates, the silver hood in clear view. He walked beside her now, his arm brushing hers, his suit jacket soft against her bare arm. The man had taste, expensive taste, right down to the tailor-made Armani suit. It must pay to work for ICU.
“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?
Chapter Six
Christian 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 A
ugusti 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.