Sin on the Strip (3 page)

“Now you're making her out to be some kind of businesswoman of the year.” Christian had expected more from his friend. In their days with the agency they'd shut down a ton of cesspits.

Vinyl ball in hand, Blake leaned over a desk clean of clutter. “I guess she is. Look, Vegas is full of strip clubs. Girls can make a lot of cash and can attract a hell of a lot more shit. From my understanding, Maggie sets rules, boundaries. She's hard not to like. Plus, have you seen her? Pretty as heather on a highland moor,” he said, overemphasizing his Scottish accent. With an easy toss, Blake lobbed the ball into the air.

“Not my type,” he said, and meant it.

“You've no type.” He beamed the ball at Christian.

He caught it and beamed it right back. “Sure I do.”

“Low maintenance,” Blake replied, folding his arms, “is not a type.”

Christian shrugged. “Sure it is. Low maintenance, no stress, no worries.” He might not be able to control all the other shit, but his dating life was his own.

“Relationships, by their sheer nature, beget worry. It's inevitable.”

“Then it's best to avoid them altogether.” It wasn't that he was averse to the idea, but long hours and the secrecy limited the playing field. Even most of the women who worked for Sheppard were single. He'd tried dating a coworker, but having a woman he slept with that close to danger had been admittedly too hard. He couldn't stand the worry, wondering if she was all right or how much danger she'd put herself in. She'd busted his balls when he'd complained, justifiably so. Who was he to criticize her for doing her job? Still, they'd parted ways. She'd died a year later rock climbing, doing what she loved best.

Christian patted Blake's desk. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime. You working with the cops on this one? And the feds?”

“Yup, but they'll only question Ms. Anderson and her staff. They won't show their hand any more than I would. Almost all the murders happened in different cities. Sooner or later they'll go live, but not until they get more to hang on to. And yes, I promised Sheppard I'd share with the locals. You know how he is about not drawing attention to us. Besides, Sheppard's father and Captain Jorgens go way back. And I still have friends in the agency. Lieutenant Cooper's friendship with Ms. Anderson can't hurt me either. If he can help, all the better. That club's the key. Now all I have to do is find the lock.”

I
n her office, the adrenaline gluing Maggie together evaporated, leaving her a mass of unhinged bones. What she'd seen at the morgue would be carved in her mind forever. And the smell. The aroma of death and antiseptic blended with the nauseating reality of yet another young life cut short. Seven years ago she'd promised herself, never again. Yesterday that promise had been broken. It was unrealistic to think she could save them all, the women or the runaways she met on the streets. Some refused to see past their next hit, or life had made them too wary of others. But she wanted to do more, needed to do more. Heather's murder had slapped Maggie in the face, told her she wasn't doing enough.

A dead runaway in her Dumpster had taught Maggie what could happen if someone didn't reach out, but Juan Desilva, a depraved human traff icker, had robbed her of the ability to work front line. She couldn't earn their trust if she wasn't there every day. She too had lost the ability to trust, to trust that she could defend herself should the situation call for it. That sick bastard had made her doubt herself.

It had been her decision to sniff out why women had been disappearing off the streets, but still Horace blamed himself. She'd been bringing him useful tips for weeks but he'd failed to make the connection with Desilva. Stupid. She'd made the bad call to go in and not wait for the police. But he'd already killed one woman. She couldn't let him kill another. Horace had arrived in time to save her and the other twenty women, but by then Maggie's courage had been tested and failed. A gun in her hand, she hadn't been able to pull the trigger.

Maggie collapsed into her chair. In one hand she held the snifter of Drambuie that Jack her bartender had insisted she drink. In the other was a matte black business card embossed with silver. She crumpled it and file-thirteened it into the trash. Mr. Beck could go to. . . well, he could come find her if he wanted to talk.

Something about him didn't mesh. She'd worked on the streets long enough to be able to read people. Knowing all the times she'd helped out the department, Horace wouldn't keep something from her. Not if it helped his case. Certainly not if it helped find Heather's murderer. So it had to be Mr. Beck trying to keep her in the dark. And she suspected she knew why.

She'd seen his eyes as they raked her over the coals of his almighty moral doctrine. He didn't trust her.
Her
. He'd assumed the worst, like most did. They always dumped her in with the rest of the garbage making money from strip clubs. The reality was they didn't know her, so who could fault them? Mr. Beck was different. He was a private investigator. Shouldn't private dicks keep an open mind?

Hearing a knock, she shot a glance toward the open door.

Rhonda waved a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch. Behind her stood Sonya, Annie, and Bella. “Why waste a hangover on the Dram? Let's give Heather Mackenzie the proper salute.” The others nodded, always eager to let Rhonda be ringleader.

Maggie half-smiled at the gothic sex princess and her band of merry women. Her oldest and most pigheaded dancer, Rhonda refused any help other than friendship from Maggie and the women she'd reluctantly accepted as family. The more Maggie tried to get her back in school, the more Rhonda dug in, singing her usual response: “Too late.” While she denied herself a new life, she'd been instrumental in helping Maggie rein in Sonya. The party girl hadn't seen the benefits of an education when the bills tucked into her G-string paid for luxuries no mediocre job could afford. Rhonda, however, claimed to be averse to change.

Admittedly, Maggie was relieved to see the women. They were, after all, family. “I have arrangements to make, so no drinking. I didn't even want this,” she said, sliding the snifter from side to side. “Do any of you want to come with me? Heather thought of you as sisters.”

“We'd be honored,” Rhonda said, speaking for the entire group, the others chiming in with “sure” and “absolutely.” “But you were her family.”

Maggie's throat tightened, a dull ache making it hard to swallow. Crying wouldn't bring Heather back. “Yeah, and just like her family, I failed her.”

Rhonda stormed into the office. Maggie flinched as the glass was ripped out of her hand and slammed onto the desk, amber liquid speckling droplets over the polished mahogany.

Tall, dark, and scary loomed over Maggie. “You saved that girl's life,” she said, one hand waving the scotch, the other pointing a black fingernail at her. “I'm still amazed you managed to get her into rehab. This is
not
your fault.”

Wasn't it? “The whole point of this club is to keep you girls safe.” Maggie said, struggling to keep the emotion out of her voice. She had failed Heather.

“You're not our guardian angel,” Rhonda scoffed.

“It's not your job to protect us twenty-four-seven,” Sonya added.

“How could you?” Annie agreed.

“Your little girls are grown women.” Rhonda nodded toward the gang behind her. “You do more for them than most anyone else in their pitiful lives ever has.”

“Hey,” Bella protested.

Annie put a hand on Bella's shoulder. “It's the truth.”

“Damn straight,” Rhonda continued with her lecture. “You keep them off the streets, Maggie, not to mention everything else you do for us.”

“Us?” A sliver of hope poked at her disheartened mood, reminding her why she did what she did. It wasn't fair to use this conversation against Rhonda, but Maggie couldn't let the opportunity slip away. “What do I do for
you
? A job, a paycheck?”

Rhonda snorted and shook her head. “Give it a rest. But that's the attitude I know and,” she coughed, “love. Now, find your balls. They're all counting on you. If you start doubting yourself, these wimps will lock themselves up and never come out.”

Bella didn't argue this time, simply crossed her arms and glowered at Rhonda, likely torn between wanting to help Maggie and wanting to punch her co-worker.

Maggie sat back and rubbed her temples. It would be so easy to give in to tears. But she'd done that once and wouldn't again. This was her life now.

“Come on, you don't do all of this,” Rhonda gestured with her hands, “to let them live in a closet. You offer hope, a chance at a better life and, more importantly, control. Now, stop drinking that sugared panty remover, and let's find the others.”

Maggie had gone from player to coach. And Rhonda just reminded her that was okay. The woman gave one persuasive pep talk. “Yes, ma'am.” She nodded, forcing herself to smile.

Rhonda wagged a firm finger at her. “Hey, I don't like
ma'am
any more than you do. It makes me sound like I drive a minivan.” She shivered with a not-so-pretty grimace.

“Thanks, ladies.” Maggie stood. “Rhonda, I can always count on you for a hardy dose of slap-you-in-the-face honesty. Do I still have all my teeth?” She opened her mouth.

Rhonda slung a lean arm around her shoulder. “At least I made you smile. Now move that scrawny ass.” She shoved Maggie, none too gently, through the other women and out the office door. “We're family, and we stick together.”

“We?” Maggie said over her shoulder.

“Shut up.”

 

Maggie stood on the concrete loading dock behind the club, the warning beep of the beer truck blasting off the brick walls as it backed in. The diesel engine shook the ground beneath the black flats she'd traded for her heels. Jack had offered to take care of the weekly delivery, but she needed to keep busy, needed to keep her mind off the funeral. Now, alone on the dock, she was painfully reminded why she didn't handle deliveries. Loading docks were not her favorite places in the world. Inwardly groaning, she told herself to grow up. Desilva hadn't won. She'd made it out alive and, despite his disgusting threats, twenty women had found freedom.

Once parked, the stout driver stepped out of the cabin and came around, giving her a tobacco-stained grin. “Ms. Anderson.” He nodded. “Where's Jack?” The smell of stale cigarette smoke wafted off his brown uniform.

“Tending bar,” she replied, his lecherous once-over not going unnoticed. She rubbed her bare arms from the sudden cool breeze billowing through the back alleyway.

“I heard about the girl,” he said, rolling up the steel doors of the truck. “Shame,” he went on, drawing out the word, “but given her job, not a shocker. Girls like her, well, they're just askin' for trouble.”

Seething, Maggie marched over to the offensive excuse for a human. Even in flats, she towered over him. All she had to do was push him over the side of the loading dock.
Splat
. It wouldn't kill him. Maybe just break a bone or put a small fracture in his skull. She dug her fingernails into her palms. Controlling her temper, Maggie opted to avoid jail. “Did you just imply Heather was asking for it?”

His red-blotched face paled. “I, uh, I only meant they—”

“Who walks around with a ‘kill me' sign over their head?” He disgusted her. “Do you have my bill?” she asked, her hands still twitching for that one little shove.

The driver regarded her warily, then looked over his shoulder to the curb below. He rubbed his bulbous nose with the back of a calloused hand. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, I meant no disrespect.” He grabbed the manifest from inside the back of the truck and handed it to her.

She ignored his attempt at an apology and after a quick count, signed the invoice and hurried to the bar, eager to get away.

Wasn't the last laugh on him and men like him? She learned to use their hard-ons to her advantage, as they came into her club with a full wallet and left with an empty one, unaware of their contributions to Maggie's scholarship fund.

When she got back inside, Maggie found the bar hopping. Her bartender was shaking a martini for Debbie, a cute waitress who supplied a lemon twist for the drink and a promising smile for Jack. Maggie considered reprimanding the two, but she wasn't a dancer, so Maggie's no-dating rule didn't apply. “Shipment is unloaded, Jack.” He didn't seem to hear her.

Deb trayed her drinks and scooted off, hips swaying to the rhythmic music in the bar, Jack's gaze zeroed in on her behind. Had Maggie not been standing there, she was sure he'd have licked his lips. Curious, she snuck a peek at the butt that had mesmerized him. Cute, but really? He was practically drooling—not part of his job description and not what he was paid for.

“Thanks, Maggie,” he said when he bothered to blink. “I need vodka. You wanna watch the bar or fetch the bottle?”

She had a sneaking suspicion what he needed was air. “I'll cover, you go.” She motioned with her thumb over her shoulder, making a mental note to speak with him later.

Maggie filled another order. The waitress waited, straightening the black tie Maggie insisted her staff wear. Other clubs dressed the waitresses in outfits that left little to the imagination. Not her. White shirts and black skirts, short enough to entice, but long enough to allow bending and reaching without exposing. She made a point of hiring attractive women. It kept the men's contribution to her education account at a steady incline, but she didn't want to encourage the patrons to grab anything other than their drinks.

Shaking her last martini, Maggie turned at the sound of a customer clearing his throat.

“What can I get—?”

Mr. Beck stood on the other side of the bar. “Ms. Anderson,” rolled off his tongue in a lazy drawl that could make her forget she didn't like him. “Christian Beck, ma'am,” he offered, obliterating the effect of that sexy accent.

Covering her grimace with a tight smile, Maggie resisted the urge to tell him what he could do with his
ma'am
and reminded herself to play nice with the private eye. She didn't need to give him a reason to go snooping into her private life. “Yes, I remember. Can I get you a drink? Coffee?”

“Don't touch the stuff. Water would be fine. No fizz, thanks.” He gave her a southern smile that could melt chocolate in a Connecticut snowstorm.

Maggie grabbed his drink from the bar fridge. “You want the bottle or a glass?”

“It doesn't really matter.”

“Here,” she said handing him the whole thing. “Looks more macho that way. So, what can I do for you?”

He took the bottle, looking first at it, then her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “We didn't get to finish our conversation. I still have some questions, if that's all right?”

Evidently, the idea of her wanting to help seemed foreign to this ass. If his “if that's all right” had been any snider, she'd have thrown the drink at him. Or hung him from the ceiling fan with his expensive tie.

Maggie leaned across the bar. That soothing chocolate aroma touched her nose before the clean fragrance of his light cologne intervened. She grabbed a bar rag and began to wipe, resisting the urge to inhale. She'd spent many a shopping excursion exploring the male cologne section of Saks to indulge in that scent she was sure on a man would make her drool. A shame Mr. Chocolate liked it too. Still, she found herself cleaning the bar closest to him. What the heck. She didn't have to like him to smell him.

“So, you're a PI?” The dumb question spilled out of her mouth. She hated that he made her nervous. Then again, he could wreak havoc on her family's world. She had every right to be nervous.

“I believe we already established that.” He smiled. “Cooper said you'd be happy to help in any way you could.”

“Did he?” She resigned herself to the fact that if she could smell him and not like him then she could do the same with his questions. She didn't have to like them, but if he helped with Heather's case, then so be it. “Ask away.” She rinsed the bar cloth.