Chapter 17

Special Agent Fallon Baxter

When Jack asked me out for a wild night on the town, I thought he was being ironic and that we might end up noshing on pastrami sandwiches down by the lake. But we hopped in his truck and rode for nearly an hour until he pulled into the Boulder Beauties Gentlemen's Club.

"Okay," I say, switching off the radio. "Is this why you blasted loud music all the way down? Afraid I was going to ask questions?"

"You seem to know which button to push to make it stop." He flashes a short-lived smile my way. "I take it you were afraid I would be the one asking questions."

A silent laugh bounces through me. It's true. I wasn't looking forward to Jack snooping around as to why I took yesterday off. Hale said it wasn't a problem and he certainly didn't pry. I like people who don't pry. I'm not so sure Jack is one of them.

"Fair enough," I say, glancing up at the neon sight that boasts of a woman nearly flashing her bottom. Her hand is pressed over her lips as if she were surprised we were looking.

Honestly, I'm shocked as hell myself.

"Is this where you take all the girls? Or am I just special?"

"You're definitely special," he says, killing the engine. "As in Special Agent Baxter. Nikki and I poked around after Paradise and it led to this place. She said you could take it with me."

"That was nice." I frown over at the wood-rotted facility. The double doors are solid, no windows to speak of. A smattering of men bob in and out of the building, their heads pointed to the ground as if they were committing a crime. And considering half of them are probably married or wrapped up in some sort of a romantic entanglement, they definitely are committing something. "All right. Fill me in on the details."

"Her name is Heather Smiley. She has some sort of a connection to Paradise," he says before filling in the rest of the gaps regarding the best smoked brisket he's ever had. "I'll have to take you there sometime. Anyway, she dances as Scarlett Blaze. Her set starts at ten."

We hop out and head for the door.

"Wait a minute," I say, checking my watch. "It's only nine. That's a whole hour from now."

He holds the door open for me. "You're good at math. I like that."

"You're not funny," I say as we step inside, and soon we're ensconced in a crimson world with rock music so loud it shakes the floor.

The walls, the carpet, and if I'm not mistaken, even the ceiling holds that same sultry crimson hue. A long stage takes up the center of the room, wide and long enough to land a 747, as a handful of girls spin on the poles peppered over it.

Waitresses abound, wearing nothing but G-strings and pasties. Men sit in groups, cluttered near the stage like moths to a porchlight. It's dimly lit, save for the riot of stage lights that swirl in a carnival of colors.

Jack garners the attention of just about every G-string wearing waitress here, and soon an entire herd of them lands us at a table for two near the stage.

I'm not so shocked by the white glove treatment

With his dark suit, his hair slicked back, and the cold look of a killer on his face, Jackson Stone looks downright lethal.

Women are always drawn to bad boys. And despite the fact Jack leans toward justice, there's an unmistakable air of trouble about him. I'm guessing the time he put in down in Elmwood had something to do with that.

"Nachos okay? I hear they're pretty good at places like this," he says, and I marvel at how he got the words out with a straight face.

"Nachos are fine," I shout over the music.

We each order a drink to go along with it and the waitress disappears.

"So are you a regular?" My voice is still an octave too loud, but it doesn't seem to matter. Jack can hardly hear me. I can hardly hear myself.

"Here? No," he says as his eyes stray to the stage.

"So you frequent other locales," I mutter under my breath.

But seeing that both of our chairs are facing the action, and the fact the woman in front of us just released her boobs from some sort of a neoprene restraint, I can't say I blame him. He is a man, and he happens to be free of any romantic entanglements as far as I know. That and apparently he's got some spare change rolling around in his pockets. He's basically their dream customer.

While he might be thrilled at the sight, I can't help but feel as if a couple of alien eyes are looking at me while bobbing up and down.

"I don't frequent these places," he continues with a note of defensiveness in his voice. That or regret. "Not as much as I did in my youth."

"You can quit talking," I tell him just as a platter of nachos arrives, slathered in orange goo. My favorite kind.

We partake, and true to his word, these are some of the best I've ever had.

He scoots in just as the lights dim further and a new crop of girls in plastic heels trot onto the stage.

"So what happened yesterday?" he asks.

Here we go.

"I wasn't feeling well." The fact my truck was missing from my driveway comes to mind. He may have noticed. "I ended up going out and meeting up with a friend for coffee. Must have been a bug. Or a bad sandwich." I wink his way.

I scoured a few of the sights in Denver where those conferences took place, hoping to find a scout out in the wild. But I did have a lot of luck chatting someone up online once I got back. The day wasn't a total loss. I'm definitely on the right track.

His lips twitch just this side of a smile. "You want to tell me about your sister?"

"You mean you didn't do any digging?" I tease. "I'm a little offended."

"Don't be. I asked around."

"What did you glean?" Something enlivens in me, hoping against hope he knows more than I do. "Did something happen out there yesterday?" My heart thumps wildly thinking they might have found her.

He inches back and examines me as the lights spasm from pink to blue. "Wait, does your sister have some connection to Paradise?"

My lips press tight as I glance at the stage, but I don't say a word.

"She does," he says. "Why didn't you say so?"

"I just—I just found something that may imply she's there." I pull out my phone and show him the picture of Erin at one of the meet-and-greets for Quantum Success.

"So what happened yesterday?" he asks sternly. "What did you do?" His brows swoop in low as he stares me down.

"The night I left your place I went online and I bought a course."

"You bought a course?" He looks more than a little amused, and to be honest, I'm shocked at how well I'm capable of holding his attention, present company considered. "How much, what name did you give them, and how did you pay without offering up your credit card information?"

"My mother gave me a card years ago in the event of an emergency," I tell him. "And I made up a name. No one seemed to care what card I was using. But I like how you think. Have you thought of a career with the FBI?"

He glowers at me twice as hard.

"I didn't pull the trigger for the whole enchilada," I tell him. "I opted for the teaser course. I went into one of their chat rooms—code name, Chastity. A few of the moderators did their best to push me over the finish line. One of them offered to meet up with me for coffee."

"And that's where you went?" His eyes bug out. "You do realize we're actively investigating these people. That's the very reason we're seated in this glory hole."

"Only you would call it a glory hole." I roll my eyes at that one. "And yes, I do realize that. But I didn't go anywhere. I ended up not meeting with her. Instead, I played hard to get. As should these women." My finger twitches toward the stage. "Anyway, the woman I spoke to was a brilliant salesperson. I did end up buying the full course." I bite down on a smile.

"And?" His brows hike a notch. This time he looks genuinely afraid of what I might say next. "Why do I get the feeling there are a few questionable perks involved?"

"She invited me to a private meeting. I paid a premium for one-on-one counseling. Sloan is a nice woman. I have a feeling she's going to be my in."

"You're not going anywhere."

The lights spasm and the music dies down once again as the DJ announces the next group of women, and just our luck Scarlett Blaze is one of them.

A woman with hair the color of fruit punch sashays all the way down to our end of the stage and does the splits right in front of us.

Neither of us talks any more about my playdate with my mother's credit card.

We're back on the clock.