by Lucy Farago
Had he called her exasperating? What an understatement. God help the man who ever got involved with her.
Christian jogged to his car, not wanting to lose her in dinner rush hour. A white Durango pulled up behind her as, thankfully, she hit a red light at the corner. He outmaneuvered the persistent SUV and scooted in between them. Twice Christian had to run a yellow to keep up with her. He knew where she lived and didn’t need to tag so close, but he’d promised Cooper to stay with her until he could place an officer outside her place.
At her home, the wrought iron gates ushered them in then closed behind them. She got out of the car first. Not waiting, she left the front door open. Inside, he followed the sound of keys being dropped on a counter. It led him to the kitchen.
“Water?” she asked from behind a wide stainless fridge door.
“Sure, thanks.”
Kicking the door shut with her foot she handed him an Evian and opened hers.
“It’s starting to become our thing, water,” he said hoping to lighten the mood.
She nodded to the sink. “That spout is turbo. Don’t make me use it on you.”
He laughed at the threat. “Don’t tempt me. Your shirt is thin.”
“Teenager.” She sighed. “Come on.” She led him into the living room.
Though amazed she still had any sense of humor left, he had to wonder why she wasn’t royally pissed at him. “You’re not mad at me?” He didn’t want to admit he’d been wrong, uncertain he had been.
“There are far too many other things in this world to be angry with. Why waste my time on you?”
He didn’t much care for the comment, but at least he hadn’t taken too many steps backward. Deny it all she wants, she liked him or otherwise she wouldn’t have kissed him. This was not the type of woman who randomly kissed men. He was glad. He shouldn’t be, but he was.
Passing a closet, she tossed her shoes off with a loud thump and slammed the doors closed. Hands still on the knobs, she stared at the shuttered doors. “So? What questions are you willing to answer?”
Her cell interrupted his answer. Her purse sat on a mission-style console beside the closet. Reaching inside, she pulled out her phone. “Hello.” She listened then said, “I’m fine, Alice, but I can’t talk now. I promise to call you later.” A pause, then she repeated, “I promise,” and hung up.
Maggie headed into her living room where she threw herself on the couch, bouncing onto the oversized pillows. In the process, her phone fell and landed by his feet, spinning like a top.
“Ask me anything you want,” he said, reaching for the dropped phone. Perhaps her questions would give him his answers.
Maggie didn’t reply. Distracted, she was staring out onto the patio as if something had caught her attention.
“Maggie?” He took off his blazer, slung it over the couch’s armrest and sat beside her at safe distance.
“Those other women, where did they live?” Her gaze remained fixated on the patio doors.
“All over California. Samantha Wiseman was killed in San Francisco. Others haven’t been ruled out.” His sister among them.
Maggie squeezed her eyes shut. “How do you know, really know, it’s the same man?”
Christian hesitated. Maggie had a keen intellect, and for a preacher’s daughter, she had an uncanny street sense. Knowing what he knew of her, she would no doubt pursue this on her own, or seek the aid of Lieutenant Cooper, who now would tell her everything. That would be the best-case scenario; the worst, her snooping might get her killed, and he couldn’t allow that to happen.
“In every case, the victims were found in a bathtub, some with water, one without. All the women were marked with some kind of blade. It resembles two intersecting lines. And …” He hesitated, gauging her reaction to what he’d just told her, but she didn’t move and the expression on her face never wavered.
He continued. “All the victims had been raped.”
She flinched. “All?” Maggie blinked. Her breath shuddered.
“All. It hasn’t been confirmed with the latest … Sonya, but the police are predicting they’ll find evidence to corroborate the assumption.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh, I see. Oh,” she repeated, her voice strained.
In his hand, her phone vibrated with an incoming text. He considered ignoring it, but in case it concerned the club he’d only tick her off. “Maggie, someone is texting you.”
She let her head fall back on the couch. “Would you mind reading it?”
“Sure.” He wasn’t comfortable reading her messages, but this much he could do. He glanced down at the call display. “It’s from Wendy. Maybe you should read it.” Her friend had an odd sense of humor.
She closed her eyes. “No, go ahead,” she said sounding tired.
He scratched his neck. “She just wants to know if you and,” he cleared his throat “the hottie PI had … uh … carnal relations.”
Maggie groaned and fell forward, her forehead on her knees. “She didn’t say it like that, did she?”
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?” Caref
ul 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.”
Chapter Eleven
“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 t
he 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.”