by Lucy Farago
“Oh” she said, “that makes sense.”
“What does?”
“Your dark skin, the strong features. You could pass for Hispanic.”
“I’m the only one in my family with brown hair. Odd man out.” He laughed. “Put me beside my sister and you’d have thought I was adopted.” Then, his smile dropped.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. She knew that look and debated asking, the question personal, but she wanted to know, wanted to help if she could, if he’d let her. She waited for a red light. “Why did your sister run away?”
The light turned green. “How about we talk about that later, after dinner.”
“Sure.” Some things were too painful. She’d tried to get Shannon to open up about her rotten childhood, but her friend couldn’t seem to get the words out.
Most of the time she felt like the bartender of life, people spilling their guts to her. She’d listen with a sympathetic ear then sometimes felt guilty about wishing they’d just shut up and go to confession. Regardless of what Shannon thought, Maggie didn’t have a savior complex. But now, she hated the tight lines on Beck’s face, hated how he was staring out at the road in front of him, knowing his mind was elsewhere, alone.
They pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant.
She reached for the door handle but he stopped her. He stroked her arm, his eyes glued to where his hand glided across her skin. An electric charge ran down the column of her spine and she clenched her teeth to stop a tremor.
A lingering moment passed. “Tonight, I’ll tell you everything.” Then he pressed his lips to her cheek. The kiss seemed to go on forever as he brushed the other side of her face with his knuckles. When he withdrew, he ran his fingertips along her chin, his thumb over lips. She wanted to stay in the car forever, melting under the heated gaze of chocolate eyes.
“Let me open the door for you,” he offered, his voice heavy with an emotion she couldn’t place.
Once inside the restaurant, a statuesque redhead ushered them to their table. Breasts propped high in a low-cut black wrap top, the woman had the audacity to toss her long mane over her shoulder and ask Beck if this was his first time in Vegas, fishing to see if he lived in town. Maggie and Beck weren’t a real couple—no more real than those boobs—but the saucy tart didn’t know that. As her temper boiled, he surprised Maggie with his answer. “No.” A simple, to the point, polite, no. What, no southern charm?
“Maggie?” Beck ignored booby girl and was holding Maggie’s chair out. Sitting, she no longer regretted wearing the blood-red wrap dress. Score one for A cups.
The table, small and intimate for four, afforded little room, but it didn’t seem to bother her parents. They sat there, side by side practically in each other’s laps.
After ordering drinks, everyone settled into polite conversation. As expected, Beck was a gentleman and the best accomplice she’d ever had. As he sipped a glass of Gentleman Jack, he rivaled Shannon in his ability to twist the truth without lying. He steered the conversation away from work with a gentle nudge and made her father talk about his congregation and new book.
Beck entertained them with anecdotes about growing up in the South. Maggie enjoyed the play of emotions on his face when he talked about his grandmother, the woman who had helped raise him. His admiration, love, and then sadness at her death touched Maggie. The man loved his family. She found herself envious of the bond he’d shared with his grandparents, having only really known her own grandmother for four years. When asked about his mother, a dark shadow swept across his handsome features. Her parents didn’t notice and accepted his explanation. The woman had had a breakdown when he was teenager and never recovered. Maggie, on the other hand, had seen more, heard more.
There had been a tight sound in his words, the kind easily misinterpreted as regret instead of the anger it truly was. Beck didn’t like the woman. Why? Had she worn that expression the few times she talked about her father? She hoped not, because, despite their differences, she did love him. He was the man she’d once admired, and whether she openly admitted it, the man whose approval she wanted. Like it or not.
Maggie’s mother was charmed by Beck, no surprise. There were no words to describe her father’s behavior. He didn’t prod Beck on his job, how much money he made, what religion he was, how many women he’d dated or when he’d been potty trained. The father she remembered would have been bold enough to pry, thinking it his duty to know everything and anything about the man who dated his only daughter.
Maggie sipped chardonnay and kept her face neutral as she watched the odd, flirtatious exchange between her parents.
“This is a lovely restaurant. Don’t you think, James?”
“It’s a little dark for my taste. I like to see what I’m eating.”
“Yes, but it’s very romantic. Dim lights, candles everywhere, soft music—it seems to attract couples, dear. You’re just getting old and need to put your glasses on.”
“True,” he agreed and patted her hand. “Then everyone would wonder what such a beautiful, young woman was doing with an old geezer.”
Her mother playfully slapped his arm with a girlish giggle.
Maggie blinked. They were teasing each other? Picking at her salad, Maggie wondered who this man was and why he hadn’t made a comment about the open-toed, five-inch pumps she’d worn with her wrap dress. Cut low with an open vee, he hadn’t even lifted an eyebrow.
The waiter arrived with their steaks. Her parents were distracted with their food and each other when Beck touched her thigh, the gesture not meant to comfort as it had before. Stifling a gasp, she jerked her leg away. He took it as a challenge and squeezed before sliding his hand higher. She considered crossing her legs, but was afraid of ending up in a worse situation. So she inched to her right. In such tight quarters it did little to deter his wandering. Wander, he did. While tempted to wipe that smirk off his face, when his fingers crept under the slit of dress and crawled their way up, she all but moaned.
The grip on her steak knife tightened as she debated what to do. She could stab him with it, but then her parents would know something was up. She should put her knife down and peel his hand off … uh … out of her panties. She snuck a peek at him, intending to warn him to stop. He chose that moment to taste his creamy potatoes and when his lips curled around the spoon, when he slowly dragged it out of his mouth, when his pinky touched the dampness between her legs and he moaned, it was all she could do not to jump out of her chair. The bastard.
When finally he had to cut his steak or let it get cold, she clamped her legs shut, more to dampen her looming orgasm than restrict him access. How on earth were they to share the same roof? As she and the pat of butter on her baked potato liquefied, she realized how much she enjoyed being with him. If she weren’t careful, she’d end up sleeping with him again, or worse. He turned, looked at her, and smiled. She just might fall in love with the jerk.
Totally freaked, she shifted her attention to the odd, wordless conversation between her parents and couldn’t help but wonder what else had changed with them. If somehow they’d learned, or rather her father had learned, to be more accepting, less stringent, would his views on morality also be affected or at least come into the twenty-first century?
After the dishes had been cleared, her father rendered her speechless. “Maggie, I’d like you to come to the book launch in San Francisco.”
Stunned, it took her a few second to formulate a reply. “Daddy, I’m not a stranger in this town. If I get photographed with you—”
“I don’t care.”
“You did,” she said, unable to keep years of frustration and anger out of the accusation.
Exactly what was going on? She glanced at her mother, the hopeful expression in her eyes knotting Maggie’s stomach.
“It’s next Monday, my editor is going as is my agent, Jonathan. You remember him.”
“The weasel with the dandruff?” For her mother’s sake, Maggie bit back a more caustic descr
iption. She’d rather have coffee with the jerk that delivered her beer order at the club. At least he let you know what he was thinking. Her father’s agent was one of those guys who plastered on a business smile but whose eyes never seemed to focus. Either he had his own agenda or dollar signs had clouded his vision. She’d seen Jonathan in Vegas on more than one occasion, and had gone out of her way to avoid him.
“Grooming habits aside, given the economy and changes to the publishing industry, he’s managed to negotiate fair contracts. Not as lucrative as with the second book, but I’m not in this for the money. He’s set up some interviews and thought it would be nice if they met the family.”
The family? “This was your agent’s idea?” She pushed aside the hurt, because really, what did she expect from her father?
“His suggestion, but—”
“Really, don’t you see? He’s hoping someone will recognize me. Good or bad, publicity would sell the book and boost whatever contract he negotiates next time.” Was he really willing to risk it all? Did he honestly expect her to support this fantasy life he’d created just to promote his new book?
“Maggie, I know you don’t like him, but even he wouldn’t stoop so low. Look, I want … no need, my daughter back in my life.”
“Daddy—”
“Please, think about it. It’s all I ask.”
“The publicity, if anyone puts two and two together?”
“I don’t care. It’s time. I’ve been wrong, Maggie.”
Had the world stopped spinning? Maybe pigs were suiting up to fly. “You’ve never in your life admitted you were wrong.”
“May God forgive me my sins. Christian, if you ever have children, never take them for granted.” He took her mother’s hand into his. “Do what you need to do to protect them, to keep them safe, but always let them know you love them.”
“Yes, sir,” Beck replied. Uttered with such conviction, Maggie didn’t doubt he would do just that. As if on cue, she followed his gaze to the men seated two tables down from them. While dressed in dark suits, both looked like they belonged in military garb. A warm hand squeeze her knee and she returned her attention to her father before anyone noticed she was staring at the bodyguards. It was the reminder she’d needed.
She’d waited years for him to admit he could be wrong, and if he meant it, it was only half of what she wanted. But what exactly was he admitting to? He’d been wrong to put his career before her? He’d been wrong in not supporting her? Or had he been wrong in telling her she’d bitten off far more than she could chew? Right now, none of it mattered. These murders had changed everything. As much as she wanted to ask her father these questions, she had to keep him and her mother at arm’s length. Out of her life and out of danger.
“This is all fine for you. What about my club?” she asked as indignantly as she could.
“What about it?”
She’d never expected this and was ill prepared. He had no idea what he was asking of her, or the risk he was taking, the secret she and Shannon had worked hard to bury. Maybe if she told him she owned the club, he’d drop this. She considered her options, and chose to keep her mouth shut. It would discourage his need for full disclosure just as easily as it would destroy any chance at a full reconciliation.
“I can’t afford the publicity any more than you can.” No truer statement could be said. “It’s too late. Had you been more accepting in the beginning, the press might have brushed me off. Now, you’re too big and I may not be a mistress in your bed, but they’d paint this as a sex scandal just the same, simply to sell papers. I can’t have the press harassing the women I work with. They have enough on their plates.” Part of that certainly was accurate.
The look in her mother’s eyes came close enough to breaking Maggie. “Maggie, please.”
She forced the image of Heather’s body on that cold slab of steel to the front of her brain, and spat out, “Too little, too late. And this really isn’t the time or,” she glanced at Beck, “place to be discussing this.”
“Fine, agreed. Christian shouldn’t have to listen to us bicker, but promise me you’ll think about it.”
She was going to say no, but one look from her mother stifled the comment. “All right, I’ll think about it,” she said. Nothing was going to change her mind.
For now, her father’s approval, what she’d longed for all her life, would have to take a back seat.
Chapter Nineteen
Christian kept one eye on the road, the other on Maggie. “You all right?”
“Sure,” she said, staring into her lap.
Not exactly the answer he’d been hoping for. But when your estranged father offers you an olive branch and you have to reject his offer to protect him, Christian guessed sure was good enough for Maggie, if not for him.
“You know, I can turn this car around. We can go to your parent’s hotel and tell them everything. I can keep them safe.”
She glared at him. “Are you kidding? My mother wouldn’t want to leave my side and my father … my father would know he was right.”
“About?”
She shook her head and focused on the Vegas strip outside. “Never mind.”
Even though it was ten o’clock, the wattage on the Vegas strip made the streets brighter than fifty Fourth of July fireworks. He’d seen frustration play across her face as clearly as if it were high noon.
While he couldn’t fault her for not wanting to draw the killer’s attention to her parents, there was something else she wasn’t telling him. “Maggie, what happened between you and your father?”
“You mean, besides his not approving of his only daughter running a strip club? Of his only daughter soiling his good name? Is that what you mean?”
“That’s too easy, Maggie. What else? The animosity between the two of you is deeper than that. I’m not trying to tick you off, but anyone could see he was making an effort to put your differences aside. You could have told them what was going on. I could have tripled the men watching them, kept them out of harm’s way. Flown them out of the country even.”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs. “How much do you know about me? How much did Horace tell you and what did you dig up?”
“Besides the club, I know about the kid you found and,” he paused, more to control his temper than gauging Maggie’s reaction. “I know about Desilva.”
She sat forward in her seat. “What do you know?” she asked, sounding more like an accusation than a question.
“It would seem you have a penchant for getting yourself into trouble.” He couldn’t help his voice growing louder. She’d come damn close to getting killed. “Your father might not like you working in the club, but he should be grateful. Does he know about Desilva?”
She reclined back into the seat, turning her attention once again to the strip. “No. Horace made sure my name never made it into the paper, and to protect the women that were taken, the files were sealed.”
He knew there was more to this. She’d seen the scenery a thousand times over, so she was refusing to make eye contact. Why? What nerve had he struck? “So what is it, what’s the problem between you and your father?”
“Our issues started long before I came to Vegas. Remember when I told you I don’t preach to these women? All I can do is give them options. They can choose to accept my help or opt to stay where they are. I want them to know they’re worth everything I offer, that they have choices. The girls who feel trapped, the ones who hate stripping, quit. I find them jobs elsewhere, but the same rules apply. It’s not so I can control their every move, although I have to admit,” she said sheepishly, “I’ve been called a nag. But I never want to be controlling—not like him,” she added more to herself than Christian. “My father and I fought over school. I’d earned a scholarship at UCLA. He’d bought me a pass into Mount Holyoke and Wellesley, and expected I’d attend one of those.”
“All-girl schools?”
She nodded.
So she wouldn’t do to these w
omen what her father had done to her. He got that. “Didn’t he write a book on the purity ring?”
“Uh-huh. Withhold and Behold the Sanctity of Love.” She sneered. “He dedicated the book to me. ‘For my own angel.’”
“Trying to make his little girl feel guilty?”
“Can’t have sex when Daddy dedicates a book about abstinence to you.”
“Did it work?”
“I have to admit, I have my issues.”
So maybe the morning after they’d made love had had nothing to do with him? Or was male ego getting the best of him?
“So that’s it? You fought over schools?” he asked trying to keep his mind from recalling that night and wanting a repeat performance.
She shrugged. “I took the scholarship. After fighting about it for months, I’d had enough. Like two wayward orphans, Shannon and I fled in the middle of the night, me from my controlling father, Shannon from her own demons.”
“You ran away from home?” Just like Claire. His fingers flexed over the steering wheel.
“My father wanted jurisdiction over everything. He saw my conduct as a reflection on himself. Nothing I did was ever good enough.”
Not so unlike his mother’s treatment of Claire. “I guess he thought he had a reputation to protect.”
“Don’t defend him,” she snapped.
“I’m not. I wouldn’t.” His sister had the same frantic emotion, to flee a controlling parent. As a kid, he’d wanted so desperately to understand why she ran. Why she never called home. Even now, knowing the true reason they never heard from Claire, the ten-year-old boy inside him still searched for answers.
“It went beyond protecting the social morality of his station. He was ambitious. Still is, considering his new book,” Maggie added. “I couldn’t go to the bathroom without the town knowing. It was suffocating.”
His sister had said that. “Don’t tell anyone, Christian. I need air. Mom is suffocating me. I love you, squirt.” They were her last words to him.