Sin on the Strip by Lucy Farago Page A

you have something to hide?” he answered, simply to enjoy the way her eyes pinned him to his seat.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œOh,” 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.
    â€œAre you thirsty, Mr. Beck? There’s water on the tray.”
    â€œI’m good, thanks,” he replied, forcing himself again to stay on task.
    â€œI asked if you were thirsty. I didn’t ask you if you were good.”
    â€œIf 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?”
    â€œYou started it.”
    She crossed her legs again, slivers of sun now catching her knee.
    â€œTrue,” 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