Книга - Against The Odds

Against The Odds
Donna Kauffman


Misty Fortune is a famous erotica author - a convincing one, too, despite her considerably more tepid real-life sexual experience.Worried that her extended dry spell is affecting her writing, Misty heads to a unique Las Vegas resort, one that promises to fulfill every sexual fantasy a guest could want. But an unexpected encounter with a gorgeous fire marshal has her thinking that a session with him would be hotter than anything the resort has to offer…. Tucker Greywolf knew it was his lucky day when the Las Vegas police asked him to assist on a case involving an unusual hedonistic resort.But he never imagined he'd meet this lusty English writer - so teasingly prim and proper, yet so sexually adventurous - and offer his services! He figures four days helping Misty tap in to her erotic side during his stay in town would be the break he needs, but four days may not be nearly enough!









“Exactly what is this ‘stairwell fantasy’?”


Misty slipped around Tucker and danced up the first couple of steps of the hotel stairwell. “I just want to experience that dangerous thrill of possibly being caught,” she replied invitingly.

Her eyes sparkled as he advanced on her. He stood one step below her and pulled her close, finding himself incredibly aroused as she trembled. Her nipples jutted against the soft weave of her top as he undid the row of tiny buttons.

Now he was the one trembling. “You’re playing with fire here,” he warned her, “and I know all about fire. How easily it can rage out of control.” He drew his hands slowly over her shoulders to her breasts, then spun her around and gripped her hips from behind.

“I could push up that skirt of yours, slide right into you,” he murmured in her ear, playing into her fantasy. “Anyone floors above, or below, would hear you scream as you climaxed.” She moaned and her breaths began to shorten as his hands worked themselves around her buttocks and then slowly upward to cup her exposed breasts.

Just then the squeal of a metal door opening just above them ripped through the air. They froze. Two men talking, and they were coming down. Oh, God, Tucker thought frantically, looks like this fantasy is about to come true….







Dear Reader,

I’ve always been seduced by the idea of a place where people could go and safely indulge in their most private, forbidden fantasies. Fortunately I write for Blaze, where I can create just such a place! Of course, a resort like Blackstone’s probably couldn’t exist in the real world. (All those pesky laws and things!) But it sure was fun imagining what it might be like if it did.

I hope you enjoy your foray into Sin City as Misty and Tucker discover that, sometimes, the real world is far more interesting than make-believe could ever be.

Happy reading (and fantasizing!),

Donna Kauffman




Against the Odds

Donna Kauffman








This book is dedicated to Vanessa,

who knows all about being up against the odds.

And beating them.

(No woo woo elements, sis!)

Happy Birthday




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14




1


SIN CITY.

Tucker Greywolf stepped out of the taxi and paused, intent on absorbing all of it. The bright lights, the steady stream of cars up and down the strip, the excited buzz of the crowd bustling in and out of the endless number of casinos, resorts and clubs.

“First time in Vegas?” the valet asked him, noting his fascination.

Tucker grinned. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, I’m just a small-town boy from New Mexico who lucked out on the location of some seminars I signed up for.”

The stooped older man looked up at Tucker’s six-plus height, peered into his eyes, then smirked. “Not too small a town, I’m betting.” He had a bit of an accent. Russian or Scandinavian. “What convention you here for?”

“No convention,” Tucker replied, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans to pay the cabbie. “Just some training in forensics the LVMPD has put together.”

The valet’s bushy white brows lifted. “Forensics? I was right about you then. Small town.” He shook his head on a snort, then whistled for a bellman.

“Okay, so Canyon Springs has more than one stop light, but it’s hardly a hotbed of crime. I probably won’t ever use this stuff.”

“You a cop in this town of yours?”

“Fire marshal. Just indulging my own professional interest.”

The valet winked at him. “Hopefully you’ll indulge in other more personal interests while you’re here, no? She’s not always a lady, this town.” He took the bills Tucker offered him and motioned the bellman to take his bags inside. “But she never fails to show her guests a good time.”

“I bet she does. But I’m really just here for the classes. Might play a hand or two of blackjack or spin the roulette wheel, but—”

The old man chuckled. “She’ll seduce you. The reluctant ones are always the first to fall.”

Tucker just laughed. “Maybe next time.”

“Ah, Mr. Small Town, you like your privacy.” He nodded at the newspaper Tucker had stuck under his arm. “You should try out the new place, then. Specializes in keeping things all hush-hush, you know? So no one back home will be the wiser, eh?”

Tucker could have told him there was no one back home to hide anything from, but the valet was clearly enjoying his attempts to corrupt his latest Vegas virgin. Far be it from him to deny the old guy his fun. Besides, it seemed like a suitable introduction to the City of Sin.

“Blackstone, he doesn’t listen to the County boys,” he was saying. “Trying to turn Vegas into some kind of family Disneyland with slots.” Despite being almost a foot shorter than Tucker, he leaned in with a nod and a wink. “This Blackstone, he knows the kinds of rides people are really looking for when they come here.” His laughter turned to a long wheeze that had Tucker thumping him on the back. “Thanks, thanks,” he said when he got his wind back.

“No, thank you,” Tucker said, and meant it. He enjoyed people who weren’t afraid to be themselves. Colorful, some would say. Characters. That was one of the things he liked best about being from a small town. Everyone had a name—and a personal history—to go with their face. There were no strangers in Canyon Springs. Here, he was all but swallowed up by them.

He followed the bellman to the lobby, glancing again at the newspaper while he waited his turn to check in. He’d actually already read the article on the way in from the airport. Apparently many of the Vegas resorts had spent a considerable amount of revenue trying to expand the focus of their attractions beyond the gamblers and high rollers to the families looking for a place to have a good time.

Lucas Blackstone, on the other hand, had unabashedly created an opulent adult oasis of decadence. A very private resort catering to very private desires, tucked away at the edge of the desert.

“I’m sure he won’t lack for takers,” Tucker murmured with a slight shake of his head. Mr. Blackstone would probably do very well with his posh playground, but he’d have to do it without Tucker Greywolf.

Tucker preferred to fulfill his fantasies on his own…and he didn’t require any high-priced assistance to do so. He tossed the paper away when it was his turn to step to the desk for registration. For now, his fantasies had more to do with solving the mysteries of cold flesh than delving into the pleasures of the more heated variety.

AMETHYST FORTUNA SMYTHE-DAVIES, aka Misty Fortune, as she was known to her legion of fans, peered through the tinted windows of her limo as it wound its way along the serpentine drive leading to the entrance of Blackstone’s. “What in God’s name have I bloody gone and done?” she murmured beneath her breath.

Of course, she knew exactly what she’d gone and done. She’d sold her soul, and probably a goodly part of her dignity, for the sake of a few screaming orgasms. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.

The long black sedan slid to the curb, the engine purring quietly as the driver got out and came around to open her door. Her blue-blooded ancestral lineage notwithstanding, Misty didn’t usually indulge in what she termed Spoiled Silver Spooners behavior. Normally, she’d have hopped in a cab. However, Blackstone’s prided itself on providing privacy along with pleasure, which included a personal escort from the airport in the manner of a sleek black sedan complete with a quietly efficient chauffeur. Considering that her five-day stay here would cost the lion’s share of her biannual royalty check, she figured she’d let them pamper her however they saw fit.

She waited for the driver to open her door, but not wanting to betray how shaky she was, even to him, she politely refused his offer of a hand. Once out of her plush cocoon, her nerves jangled even more. You’re a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis, she told herself. A lovely, bold monarch seeking pleasure wherever it may be and claiming it for her own.

God’s balls, but her editor would turn as purple as that prose if she ever wrote anything like that in one of her books. Besides, if her prose had a color at all, it would undoubtedly be a throbbing, molten red. Sometimes the words pulsed through her like that, an oozing lava flow, as if she were channeling them from some secret inner source. Very secret, she thought with a private smirk, as her actual knowledge was somewhat limited. Thank heaven for vivid imaginations. She’d banked an entire career on her rather active one.

Misty pushed a hand through the mess of brown curls that hadn’t stood up well to a cross-country flight. Glancing down she noticed her long, slim cotton skirt and sleeveless knit pullover hadn’t fared any better. Oh so glamorous as always, Misty, she thought with a wry smile. Nothing to do about it now, so she turned toward the sleek, black marble of the walls, the carved archway, the etched-glass entrance, and tried to swallow her trepidation.

She had to, because, as she’d recently been forced to admit, vivid imaginations only went so far. Which was why Misty Fortune, author of a string of red-hot erotic bestsellers, had done what any of her forthright and confident heroines would have done when faced with a similar predicament. “Grabbed the problem by the balls and dealt with it,” she muttered with gritted determination.

“I beg your pardon, miss?”

She glanced at the driver, privately amused at her unseemly comment, even as her cheeks pinked a bit. The downside to her fair English complexion. Her skin reflected every emotion. “The marble walls really grab your attention, don’t they?” she parried, thinking fast. Unseemly language was fine when she was alone, but never in public. Her accent, one that living close to a decade in New York City had barely muted, grew more pronounced, as it always did in moments of stress. “The whole thing is quite lovely, really,” she said, offering a smile.

Charmed, the driver smiled and nodded. “To be certain, miss. I’ll get your bags.”

Misty nodded, then quietly let out a breath when he turned away. She might not be one to tout the silver spoon that had been lodged in her throat at birth—gads, it had taken twenty long years to yank the bloody thing out and toss it back—but she wasn’t above occasionally using the years of painful etiquette classes to which she’d been subjected to smooth over a momentary lapse in decorum. Miss Pottingham would be ever so delighted to know her fervor hadn’t been entirely for naught.

Misty smiled to herself. Lapses in decorum indeed. To be expected, she supposed, as she’d become a combination of the button-down British city of her birth…and the raucous American one she’d adopted on her twenty-first birthday. To the outward eye, she was a young woman, ever so evenly mannered, suitably dressed and coiffed and well-schooled in how to handle most any social occasion with quiet dignity and panache. On the inside, however, she was nothing like that.

In her mind’s eye, she was a Misty Fortune heroine. Bold, daring; an aggressive wanton who saw the world as a ripening piece of fruit, begging her to sink her teeth into its juicy flesh and savor every last decadent drop.

Lapses in decorum, oh she’d had many. Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Yet, all but the most minor had been enacted exclusively in the privacy of her imagination…and carefully recorded with pen and paper for the delight and stimulation of her readers.

Until now.

Now she was going to finally experience for real what she’d only ever allowed her heroines to enjoy. Now she was finally going to move beyond her limited personal experiences and indulge in the type of sexual fantasies most women—herself included—only dreamt about. She’d always counted herself lucky that she’d turned those hot, feverish dreams into an annual income that allowed her to live rather well, even by New York City standards.

But, to be honest, it was a little difficult to demand things of your lover that you weren’t quite certain you could do yourself. And exactly how did a person go about requesting such things, really? Her characters always met in wildly interesting, larger than life ways, leading them quickly down a carnal path that would never happen in real life. At least not her real life anyway. Leading her to believe that she needed to project a certain confidence in that area to attract a lover with similar preferences. But for that she needed a little help.

Which was exactly why she’d chosen the Continental Concubine package from the very select and amazingly creative menu provided to her in the sleek Blackstone brochure. Apparently her literary successes had drawn the attention of Mr. Blackstone himself, who’d personally invited her to be one of the resort’s first guests. It was an invitation she’d initially politely refused.

But the glossy brochure had lain there, silently daring her, taunting her, beckoning her. And her latest story seemed twice-told. Thrice-told. Her last lover even more so. She needed to do something…

Several glasses of champagne, sipped alone on New Year’s Eve, had found her perusing the detailed menu once again. She’d told herself it was simply research. She was merely scanning the brochure in hopes something would spark a new light in her gradually dimming imaginary world.

Which didn’t explain why she picked up the phone and actually made a reservation. It had taken another couple of glasses to come up with the rationalization for that. And she still wasn’t entirely sure she bought it. But here she was, and dammit, she was going to learn how to be a seductive, confident courtesan, skilled in pleasuring any man…therefore able to demand the same for herself. Even if it killed her. Or worse, completely mortified her.

“You’re thirty years old. You can do this,” she murmured. “Be the heroine.” Not believing a word of it, she nonetheless managed to straighten her shoulders and push through the discreet glassed entrance of Blackstone’s. Misty Fortune’s Wild Las Vegas Adventure was about to begin.

AS THE REST of the class began to stand and disperse, Tucker made several last notes, then finally slapped his notebook shut and rolled his shoulders. The seminar on the latest in bloodstain pattern analysis techniques had been fascinating. So much so that he’d knotted his neck and shoulder muscles concentrating on the instructor’s lecture while taking notes as fast as possible.

He glanced at his watch. It was almost five. He stood and collected the course materials and his notebook, thinking he’d catch dinner at one of the hotel restaurants he’d scoped out after checking in the night before, maybe indulge in a little blackjack afterward. He’d brought a small stash of play money to have a little fun with. The rule was that once it was gone, his gambling time was up.

He wasn’t much of a risk taker anyway. He had enough of that in his job. His fascination centered on the science of uncovering the truth by tying fact with incontrovertible proof. And the incontrovertible truth about Las Vegas was that the house was always going to come out on top. Sort of took the fun out of playing.

He paused by the lectern, waiting for the detective who’d taught the class to finish speaking to one of the other class members. The young woman finally left and the detective turned to him.

“Good lecture,” Tucker told him. “I’m especially intrigued by what you were saying about the new Polaroid lenses. I wondered if you had any sources for follow-up information on that.”

Detective Miguez held out his hand. “I’m glad you liked the lecture. What department are you with?”

Tucker shook his hand and grinned. “Little town in New Mexico that will probably never need their fire marshal to understand the use of Polaroid lenses in capturing accurate bloodstain pattern pictures. Or their sheriff for that matter. Did you ever work with a detective by the name of Dylan Jackson?”

Miguez’s thick brows rose. “Sure did. So you’re from…what’s the name of—Canyon something-or-other, right?”

“Right. Canyon Springs.”

“I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “How is Jackson doing? Sheriff, huh?”

“He’s great. Just got married in fact.”

Miguez’s eyebrows reached new heights. “Jackson? Married? Well, I’ll be. I guess going home again was the right thing for him to do then. A shame, he was a good detective.”

“He’s pretty content and the fine citizens of Canyon Springs sleep better with him on the job.”

Miguez nodded, though it was clear he didn’t quite understand how anyone could be happier away from the action. “So you’re a fire marshal? What got you interested in this avenue of forensics?” He returned Tucker’s grin. “Splatter patterns don’t generally survive a fire.”

“No, sir, they don’t. Generally I focus on more fire-specific investigative techniques, but I find all of it fascinating. Dylan heard about these seminars and passed the brochure on to me.” Actually, he’d done it as a joke. He’d been goading Tucker to consider moving to the big city for years. They’d always had a friendly rivalry since their high school football days. Jackson had gone to Vegas fresh out of school, but he’d eventually come back home. Didn’t stop him from urging Tucker to leave, however. Tucker usually gave it right back to him, accusing him of being worried that the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them. “I figured I’d combine a little vacation with a chance to feed my fascination a little.”

Miguez nodded, apparently finding it far easier to understand professional obsession, but then a lot of guys in his line of work probably would. “You bring the wife and kids?”

Tucker shook his head. “Don’t have either. I figure I’d find something to do to keep busy, though.”

“You think?” Miguez said with a laugh. “Well, if it won’t cramp your style, how about we catch some dinner and I can fill you in on some contacts you might be interested in following up. I can also get you some info on some other seminars coming up later this spring.”

“That’d be great.” Tucker let go of his blackjack plans without a second thought.

Miguez shook his head. “Man, you’re just as bad as the rest of us. You ever think of relocating up here? We can always use another sharpie.”

“What, and let Jackson have all the hero worship? No way,” he joked. Fact was, he’d thought about it many times, starting from the time he’d decided to shift his focus from climbing the ladder toward fire chief to the investigative side instead. But, for a number of reasons, he’d never done more than think about it.

Miguez gathered his tapes and charts. Tucker stepped in and helped him pile everything into the file boxes he’d wheeled in at the beginning of class this morning.

“I hope you don’t mind, but one of the other instructors, Bill Patterson, might hook up with us as well. He’s with the Medical Examiner’s office, specializes in crime scene post mortems.”

The evening was getting better by the minute. “I’m signed up for his class on Friday. This will give me a chance to pick his brain before the rest of the class gets a hold of him.”

“I’m sure he won’t mind,” Mig said. “Shop talk is our life.” He chuckled. “What am I talking about. What life?”

Tucker smacked the lights off on the way out, thinking he should take vacations like this more often.

SHE WASN’T CUT OUT for vacations like this. Well, a Misty Fortune heroine might be. But her inner Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies was definitely not. This was why she didn’t do book tours. She didn’t like being the center of attention. It gave her hives. So why on earth she thought being the focus of such undivided, extremely personal—intimate even—attention was going to be any different she had no idea.

“Thank you,” she told Marta, her personal attendant, as the older woman handed her the small leather binder. She did her level best to sign the guest card with an unwavering hand before handing it back to her.

“Are you sure you’d rather have your meal here in your room?” Marta asked. “I’ll be happy to set it up out there by the indoor lagoon where you could listen to the waterfall, perhaps take a dip?”

Misty shook her head, but smiled. She realized she wasn’t being the most accommodating guest. “This will be fine.” Besides, she didn’t think she could take any more stimulation. Even something as benign as the gentle sound of water cascading over rocks would likely be too much at the moment.

“I’ll be back to escort you at seven, then.”

Misty tried not to shudder in trepidation, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. It was to Marta’s credit and probably extensive training that she didn’t appear to notice. And sigh heavily at the hopeless case she’d been assigned.

She’d already determined she’d see to it Marta was tipped handsomely when this five-day ordeal was over. Or put it in her will if, in fact, she did die of mortification.

Marta left as quietly as she’d come and Misty fell heavily back on her bed. Her first day at Blackstone’s had been spent in a sort of sensory saturation zone. Who knew a person could actually overdose on sensual stimulation? And she hadn’t even done anything sexual yet. Yet. She quivered again.

This preliminary relaxation method had all been explained to her the night before, but she’d been too fatigued from the travel and the nerves to do more than nod and try to quell the panic that had threatened to rise every other minute. The registration process had been discreet, handled in a small, well-appointed lounge by the woman who was to be her personal director for the duration of her stay. If she had any problems, questions or concerns, she was to buzz Janece right away. At any time of the day or night. All of her other needs and requests were to be directed to Marta. Again, 24-7.

She wondered what a Blackstone employee got for working twenty-four hour shifts. Maybe they lived on site. “That’d be interesting,” she murmured, smiling. She was also impressed with the high level of organization that went into planning each guest’s stay. Other than the various Blackstone personnel she’d dealt with, she’d yet to see one other guest. It was as if this entire, decadent desert oasis was hers alone to enjoy, which she assumed was precisely how Blackstone’s intended she feel.

She rolled her head toward the terrace door that led to her private lagoon and briefly entertained taking Marta’s suggestion to dine al fresco after all. But that would mean moving. And for all that her nerves still buzzed along inside her, the rest of her was limp with pleasure from the expert ministrations of the most excellent Blackstone staff.

She gazed up at the batik ceiling and thought about crawling back between the silk sheets and hiding from the remainder of the day’s agenda. Her room was an amazing cocoon of silks and pillows, inviting her to climb in and sleep for say, the winter. But that was all part of their expert plan. None of the sessions she’d signed on for would take place here. This was her lair, her private retreat, an intrinsic part of their plan to seduce her into feeling completely at ease.

Her Blackstone experience had begun in this very bed last night. Her bags had been stowed, her clothes neatly hung and put away by the time she arrived in her room. Marta had run a bath for her, layering the water with a special blend of scented oils that had her relaxing despite her nerves. She’d left her to bathe alone—something Misty hadn’t thought twice about at the time—with a gentle suggestion that for the best night sleep, the silk sheets on the bed should caress bare skin only.

She’d slept in the buff before, but it had felt a bit strange—if admittedly stimulating—to do so at another’s bidding. And she had slept well. Which was a good thing, because she’d risen to find a ribbon-tied scroll slipped beneath her door, instructing her to shower and dress in the silk wrapper hanging on the back of the bathroom door. This was the last thing she’d do for herself all day.

She’d emerged to find a breakfast of fruit, croissants and tea waiting for her on the low patio table by the lagoon. Listening to the gentle waterfall and the birdsong that seemed to emanate from the thick foliage above, she’d sipped her tea and finally relaxed, thinking that she could get used to this kind of pampering. By the time Marta came to collect her for the first of the day’s appointments, she’d almost forgotten why she’d really come here.

She managed to cling to her I’m-just-at-a-spa illusions for most of the day. She’d had a full-body mask and peel, followed by a steam, a light lunch, then a manicure and pedicure while receiving a facial. She’d been washed and conditioned, exfoliated and creamed. By the time Marta had led her back to her room, she felt like she was floating, her entire body glowing. And likely it was.

Which was exactly the plan. Because after dinner she was to accompany Marta to where the first phase of her education was to begin. On a massage table. Where every inch of her skin—every inch—was to be well oiled and scented in preparation for her first lesson.

“Lapse in decorum, indeed. You’ve really gone and done it this time,” she whispered into the cinnamon-scented air.

She was still staring at the batik ceiling, her dinner forgotten as she discarded one escape plan after another, when Marta’s light tap came on the door.

LAUGHING AT another of Bill Patterson’s amazingly rude, but equally hilarious jokes, Tucker waved the waitress away. “I’m done, but thank you.”

She slid his dishes from the table, favoring him with a personal smile and an ample shot of her bountiful cleavage as she did so.

Miguez and Patterson both shook their heads. “Your first time in Vegas and you’re sitting around with two old coots swapping cop stories. What’s wrong with you, boy?” Miguez joked. “Didn’t Jackson tell you anything about the women in this town?”

“Oh, we’ve heard stories,” Tucker assured him with a wide grin. “But pretty women are everywhere. These kinds of stories aren’t.”

Patterson laughed and tapped out his cigarette. “He’s a goner, Mig.” He looked to Tucker. “You sure you don’t want to think about heading up here for good? Focus like yours? All that training? Seems like such a waste.”

Tucker had already brushed them off several times. Not that he wasn’t flattered. But before he could change the subject again, Mig’s beeper went off.

Mig checked the message, then flipped open his phone and punched in a number. “Fill me in,” he said, then listened. His brows shot up. “No shit. At the new place? Figures. I’ve said all along you can’t mix sex and commerce without somebody getting hurt. I’ll be there.” He clicked the phone shut. “Homicide at Blackstone’s.”

Patterson’s beeper went off a second later. “Looks like I’m heading your way, too,” he said as he checked the readout. He threw some bills on the table and shoved his chair back.

Mig looked at Tucker. “Why don’t you ride along? See what you’re passing up.”

Tucker knew he was just being polite, but the offer was too tantalizing to pass up. “Don’t mind if I do.”




2


MISTY SHIFTED on the sultanlike raised dais and dragged a satin pillow in front of her breasts, wondering if she could be any more humiliated. “Certainly. You could have actually climaxed on the massage table.” She shuddered and would have blushed again, if her skin wasn’t already burnished and gleaming from the expert hands of her masseuse. Celandra. A woman.

Misty was more forward thinking than most, but really…a woman? That wasn’t even a Misty Fortune fictional fantasy, much less a personal one of hers. Not that Celandra had given any indication she’d noticed her client’s highly aroused state, her mission had only been to prepare her for Concubine 101. Misty was pretty certain she wasn’t supposed to come during the prep phase. But Christ, the woman’s hands had been bloody everywhere. Every. Where. It was a miracle really that she hadn’t climaxed half a dozen times.

“Except damn Celandra moving her hands away just at the last possible moment,” she grumbled. Every single time. No tip for her, Misty decided, rubbing her oiled thighs against the renewed twitch between them.

On the other hand, maybe she owed the nimble Celandra a coveted spot in her will after all. Because God only knew she’d succeeded in her mission. Misty felt like she was teetering on some monumental sexual precipice. Every inch of her skin was both relaxed and exquisitely hypersensitive. One particular inch was screaming for release. In fact, it might be a rather short tutorial session. Her partner had only to brush against any part of her and she’d likely dissolve into long moans of ecstasy.

She rubbed her thighs together again and shuddered in almost-there pleasure. “I should be so lucky.” She sighed.

She looked around the chamber Marta had led her to after Celandra had finished with her. It wasn’t the one she should have been in originally. Marta had mentioned something about it not being ready and had led her here instead. Wherever here was. With all the twists and turns, she had no idea where in the resort she was at this point.

But the walk had been worth it. The room was amazing really. An amalgam that was part sultan’s lair, part Far Eastern enclave, with a little old English bordello thrown in for good measure. According to Marta, she would be the first one to…enjoy it, as this part of the resort had only recently been finished.

She wondered what he was going to look like, her tutor. Would he be Asian? Muscles like a martial arts expert, hands that had mastered arts of an entirely different sort? Or perhaps he’d have the smooth skin and bottomless black eyes of an Arab prince, with hands skilled enough to rule desert kingdoms…and her. Maybe he’d have the polished refinement of an aristocrat, with skin as pale as her own, and slender, clever fingers. A man who was an absolute gentleman in the front room, but who knew exactly what kind of wicked goings-on could be indulged in above stairs…and enjoyed them every chance he got.

Regardless, he was going to be hers, at least for the night, and together they would explore the kind of pleasures she’d only written about. She slowly pushed away the pillows she’d strategically moved to block key zones of her body—mostly the erogenous ones, though she’d already learned there were far more of those than she’d ever imagined. Which, considering her occupation, was really saying something.

She slid to what she thought might be a provocative pose, knees bent to the side, breasts thrust forward, back slightly arched. She tried what she thought might be a sultry look, but that ended on a spurt of laughter. Really, she wrote about femme fatales, but just because her inner heroine was teetering on the orgasmic cliffs of delight did not mean her outward appearance had changed any.

She was still awkwardly lanky, with legs that were too long and breasts that were too small. Her hair was a mass of wispy, unmanageable curls in an unexceptional shade of brown, framing pale English skin that tended to flush in splotches rather than a sexy glow. Although she had to admit Celandra had done a good job at enhancing the latter and diminishing the former. About the only thing she had going for her was her eyes, which were the unusual hue of her namesake stone. However, she doubted that would be the first thing he noticed. Or the second.

“Come now,” she scolded herself. “You’re a sultry concubine,” she murmured, trying to get into the spirit. “A woman trained in the arts of pleasure. Men beg for your skilled attentions, fall at your feet in homage to your beauty.” She tried not to snort…or look down at her rather indelicate size tens. She arched her back again, this time draping her arms over her head. She drew up one knee and let it dip across the other outstretched thigh.

Think concubine, think conqueror of men. A wanton seductress who can master any sexual situation, who can have any man exactly the way she wants him. Who can demand that any man take her in exactly the way she begs to be taken.

She thrust her breasts heavenward. “Come and get me,” she growled.

TUCKER WANDERED down another corridor into the newly finished part of the resort, studying the map the Blackstone security team had provided him. The cameras weren’t working in this area yet, but then, there were no guests sequestered here. However, he was sent to make sure no one else was hiding here, either. Considering the rather tricky layout of the resort, Mig had done an admirable job in sealing off the area immediately surrounding the scene. Lucas Blackstone had been completely accessible and willing to do whatever was necessary to help. But the very private nature of his business had made the very access they needed—namely to the other guests who might have heard or seen something—next to impossible to accomplish.

A handful of the guests had left the premises before the police had arrived and many of the others had contacted legal counsel, refusing to speak until their attorneys were present to insure their privacy was not abused. The media was already encamped just beyond the now-closed gates at the end of the winding drive, distanced but by no means forgotten. Mig had taken over the forensic team, while the two homicide detectives assigned to the case had taken over the investigation. Patterson was representing the medical examiner’s office, dealing with the body. Tucker had been pressed into service by the officers presently fanning out, searching for any additional guests who hadn’t been accounted for.

He didn’t mind the duty, only wishing he could do something more substantive to help out. At least he was getting an inside look at the place. And what a place it was. In his wildest dreams he couldn’t have come up with anything like this.

Blackstone had spared no expense. Not in the richly detailed layout, the lavishly appointed rooms, the training of his staff—if the security team was anything to go by—or the extent of security he was installing. Tucker had also gotten wind of the rates, and while it appeared the guests got their money’s worth, he still couldn’t get past the fact that people would pay so much for what basically amounted to sex camp for adults.

He glanced at his map again and ducked into another grotto, then around yet another lagoon toward the cluster of rooms behind it. Each room had two entrances, to ensure privacy, he was sure, but also to maintain the fire code. The man really had thought of everything.

He used the house key card he’d been given and slipped it into the first door. He opened it quietly. The room was dark, as expected. He found the pressure pad and brought up the lights, and tried not to boggle at the array of, well…toys he supposed some would call them. If you were into that sort of thing. He did a cursory check under the bed—or rack he supposed was a better term—and in a few of the leather-covered cabinets, but found nothing. Nothing having to do with the investigation anyway. To each his own, he thought, closing the door behind him…and trying really hard not to imagine what one did with a two-headed dildo on a chain. Or why they’d want to even try.

He checked the next several rooms in the same manner, each of which had a completely different decorative theme. He’d actually been sort of intrigued with the one that had its own private lagoon right in the center of the room. There had been all sorts of tub toys for that one. Ones he’d actually be interested in playing with.

Other than piquing his curiosity though, nothing was out of place. He finished the last room and clicked on his radio. “Greywolf. Sector 12 is clear.” He spoke as he ducked into the internal hallway, but noticed another alcove on his map with a door marked at the rear. “Wait, there’s one more room.”

“Copy. Report when it’s clear.”

It took a few seconds to find it, as it was behind another grotto in what initially looked like a wall of stone, but he finally found the curved entrance to a short recessed entryway. “Some people must really have some privacy issues,” he muttered, wondering how many celebrities Blackstone’s catered to. “Or government officials,” he added with a wry smile.

He was still shaking his head as he slid his key into the slot and opened the door. He automatically went to touch the light pad before he realized that the lights were already on.

He immediately stilled and shifted to the side of the open door, inside the room.

“Halloo?”

The voice was cultured, British. And decidedly female. Tucker recovered quickly, but didn’t respond. He was tucked behind what looked to be a hand-painted Japanese screen. Why hadn’t security known someone was in this sector? Unless she was hiding. But why call out then? He peered through the slit between the panels, thinking maybe she’d been detained somehow, or that it was a trap of some kind. “Sweet Jesus,” he murmured as he got a good look at the raised dais in the center of the room.

If this was a trap, it was a damn good one.

She was splayed, all dewy skin and wide eyes, across a pile of silk and satin. She certainly didn’t look like she was being held against her will. Nor did she look like a homicidal maniac. But she was most definitely dangerous. All long glisteny limbs, aroused nipples and naked skin.

Maybe vacations weren’t such a bad idea after all.

“I say, are you my…my— What do I call you?”

Turned on, was his immediate thought. Tucker cleared his throat…and the wild thoughts careening through his mind. Thoughts of what it would be like to be the man she was waiting for. Shucking his jeans and shirt and climbing over that pile of satin…and right into what she was so willingly offering.

It was clear she had no idea he wasn’t a Blackstone employee. Not that he had much experience in anything like this setup, but his instincts told him she was simply a guest who had been put in this room by mistake and security hadn’t been alerted. Now he had to come up with some way not to mortify her any more than she’d already be when he explained who he really was. He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I’m terribly sorry, but—”

“I can’t understand what you’re saying, the screen is muffling your words. It’s alright, you know, you can show yourself.” It wasn’t until she took a visibly steadying breath and pushed herself back into her centerfold position that he realized she wasn’t as confident of the situation as she’d first appeared. He also realized that he was still staring at her.

He quickly shifted his gaze, but his body wasn’t so easily diverted. “No, ma’am, you don’t understand,” he tried again. “I’m not your—whoever it is you’re waiting for. I’m—”

She interrupted him with a light, somewhat forced laugh. “Is this part of the plan then? Am I to take the upper hand? Because, I must honestly tell you that I’d been made to understand it would be quite the opposite. At—at least for this first time.” Her voice had faltered near the end. “Come, show yourself. If it’s breaking some rule, I won’t tell. But it would make things easier for me.” Another shaky breath. “Please?”

Tucker sighed, hating the embarrassment he was about to cause. “I’m not with Blackstone’s,” he said clearly. “I’m assisting the LVMPD. There’s been a problem here in the resort. I’m going to need you to cover up and come with me.”

There was a gasp, then a sudden rustle of satin. “This isn’t part of the…the plan then?” she asked weakly.

Tucker took a quick peek. She was wrapped in some thin paper silk-looking thing that was somehow almost more sinfully erotic than her nakedness. “No, ma’am. And I apologize for the interruption. I was told these rooms were empty and I wasn’t expecting to find…what I found.” He glanced through the screen again. She was tying the knot in her robe, so he stepped out from behind the screen, wishing he were just about anywhere else.

“The room I was supposed to be in wasn’t ready, so Marta, that is, my assistant, brought me here. She must not have alerted my director to the shift. What happened?”

She was obviously mortified, but he didn’t know what else to do except act as professional as possible—and deliver her to someone else’s care as soon as possible. “If you’ll follow me, I can explain on the way.”

He turned for the door, pulling his radio out. “I’ve got a guest in room—” He looked at the small plaque next to the door in the hallway. “Twelve-A. Says she was moved here from another room. She’s fine, but I need to know where to bring her.”

WHILE HER INTRUDER spoke with God knew who, Misty tried to get a grip on what was going on here. She’d been so…ready. This intrusion was more than mortifying, it was an unwanted jolt of reality in the middle of the fantasy she’d so doggedly immersed herself in. Dammit, she’d been ready.

She yanked her belt tighter in frustration. Well, okay, as ready as she was ever likely to be. She’d never be able to do this again. She should have known it wasn’t going to work, that something would happen. Embarrassment fueled her frustration, which turned into anger. “I don’t understand, what kind of problem? Why were the police called?” she demanded of him, even though his back was still to her as he listened to the squawk of his radio.

Gripping the fabric closed at her throat and smoothing her other hand over her thighs to keep the paper-thin robe from flapping open, she was about to demand an answer from him again when he clipped his radio to his belt and turned to face her once again. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out as she got her first good look at him.

He was rather tall, very broad across the chest and shoulders. His legs were thick and long, made more so by the straight black jeans and western boots he wore as casually as the men on Wall Street wore pin-stripes. It was too dimly lit to make out his eyes, other than they were dark. Smoky came to mind. His hair was a thick, inky black, cut short in a way that emphasized the Native American heritage clearly defined in the flat, angular planes of his cheeks and lips. Damn, she caught herself thinking, maybe she should have gone for the Warrior Abduction package after all.

“Are you sure you don’t work here?” she blurted before clamping her lips together. Yet another momentary lapse. She seemed to be cursed with them ever since she’d touched down in this godforsaken city.

“You’re not in any danger,” he assured her.

A real shame, that, she couldn’t help but think. Maybe she wasn’t quite back in the land of harsh reality after all. Or maybe clinging to the fantasy was simply less humiliating.

“Is there anything else you need to take with you? I really need to clear you from this part of the building.”

Misty sighed and unwillingly shook free of the last vestiges of the sensual fog she’d been so expertly wrapped in…and focused instead on what he was saying. “Clear out? Is there a fire? I didn’t hear any alarms or—”

“No, ma’am, nothing like that.” He stepped back and motioned to the door. “This way.”

She didn’t see where she had any choice. But now that her mortification and anger were ebbing…along with that delicious aroused state she’d been in, other questions occurred to her. Questions that needed answers before going one more step with him. She might be a transplanted Brit, but she’d quickly learned that New Yorkers adopted a wary attitude for good reason. “Who are you? Are you security here?” Then she remembered he’d said he didn’t work for Blackstone’s. “Can I see some ID?”

He’d already been moving to the door, careful not to look directly at her. She should be thankful for that, and she was, but not enough to blindly trust him just because he was being a gentleman.

He paused and she thought she saw his shoulders move a bit as if he’d sighed. Had she caught him in some kind of lie then? She tensed, suddenly realizing just how alone she was. Privacy was a great thing, unless you needed help. She surreptitiously scanned the corners for security cameras, thinking maybe she could flag some help. Certainly with all the other myriad details Blackstone had thought to include in this place, he’d included a way to monitor— That thought stopped her cold. Considering what she should have been doing in this very room, at this very moment, the idea that some security guard could be watching from somewhere deep in the bowels of the resort was not exactly a heartening possibility. Not that she spied any cameras anyway.

She rubbed her arms as he turned around to face her. Was it her admittedly vivid imagination, or did he look nothing like any kind of security detail she’d ever seen? Nor did he look like any cop she’d ever seen, undercover or otherwise. Not that she knew all that much about undercover cops. She stopped rubbing her arms and tried to quickly determine the best way of handling this. Handling him.

A Misty Fortune heroine would disarm him with her seductive charms, perhaps even seduce him, enjoy what favors he had to offer until he was limp with exhaustion, allowing her the chance to steal quietly away to safety.

As it turned out, while the idea held a great deal of appeal, she was far better writing a Misty Fortune heroine than being one.

“Your name,” she demanded, her voice almost steady.

“Tucker Greywolf,” he said immediately.

So her inner thighs twitched ever so slightly as that warrior-abduction scenario came back to her once again. She might have even had a glancing vision of him in full warrior headdress and warpaint, pulling her astride his stallion at a full gallop before—

“I’m assisting the LVMPD,” he continued. “I’m actually a fire marshal from New Mexico, here for some forensic seminars.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open so he could see his badge.

“Fire marshal? But you said there wasn’t a fire.” That’s what she said, but in her mind, she was seeing Fire Marshal Greywolf, dragging her to safety from a burning building, then tearing her charred clothing off to make certain she was unharmed, only to be quite naturally overwhelmed by her obvious charms and—

“No fire,” he stated in that deep, flat way of his. “Really, ma’am—”

“Misty,” she blurted, still clearing the images from her mind.

“I beg your pardon?”

Oh no, she thought a bit breathlessly, I’d be the one doing all the begging. Sweet Lord but the man had presence. “My name,” she managed. “And I’m a miss.” A miss who couldn’t be any more pathetic, she thought ruefully. Apparently the aroused and ready part hadn’t ebbed all that quickly. “Never mind,” she quickly added, corralling her wayward hormones. “Just show me how to get back to my room.” The poor man probably thought she was some sex-starved looney. At the moment, she wasn’t too sure she wasn’t living up to that assumption.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said calmly, smoothly, in that liquid-honey voice of his. “The police will want to ask a few questions first.”

Well, that last part took care of any lingering Misty Fortune heroine fantasies. Her entire body went cold. “The police? What on earth for?” It was one thing to have her sexual escapades interrupted by Warrior Marshal Man here, but quite another to even imagine parading in front of anyone else dressed like this. “I really think you must explain what is going on here.”

“You’re not in any trouble, but they’ll want to ask you some questions. They’re speaking to all the guests.” He reached for her elbow without taking it, more as a “come on” kind of gesture. “They just need to clear every guest before anyone can leave. I’m sure everything will be fine.”

She walked to the door, then stopped again. “Leave?” She spun around. “You mean they’re shutting the place down?” That was it then. She wasn’t ever going to get what she wanted. Hell, she couldn’t even pay to get it. Talk about pathetic. This was some kind of celestial sign. One she should heed if she ever got such a crazy idea in her head ever again.

“I’m not sure what Mr. Blackstone will do, ma’am. I don’t know what scope the investigation will encompass. I’m sure they’ll answer all your questions, and don’t worry, they’re being very discreet.”

She felt the splotches spring forth on her neck and chest. But she’d be damned if she went out like someone who had something to be ashamed of. With a toss of her head and a regal bearing befitting a graduate of Miss Pottingham’s School of Grace and Charm, she floated past him into the hall. Her exit was only slightly flawed by having to stop and wait for him to lead the way, as she had no clue where she was in the maze of lagoons and grottoes that made up Blackstone’s.

She stared at his broad, straight back as she followed behind him, determined not to say another word. She’d find out all she needed to know from the police. He’d used the word investigation. She wondered what kind. Drugs maybe? Whatever the case, she wasn’t asking him. But she couldn’t keep herself from imagining all sorts of possible scenarios. Occupational hazard.

What she couldn’t explain was why her scenario possibilities had a lot more to do with the man in front of her doing various things to her as he got her out of danger, than with whatever intrigue had actually brought him here.

She stepped into the elevator, moving to the back corner, thankful when he turned his back to her again. His nice broad back. She stole a few glances at his profile, mirrored in the glassy tinted walls. So, maybe this trip wasn’t a total wash after all, she thought, wheels beginning to spin. At the very least she just might have an idea for a hot new hero for her next Misty Fortune novel. She ducked her chin when he glanced toward the glassed wall…and smiled privately to herself.

My yes. He’d do.




3


TUCKER COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off of her.

She wasn’t like anyone he’d ever met. Which, of course, wasn’t saying much. Canyon Springs was hardly the crossroads of the world. By the time he left Vegas, he imagined it was entirely possible he’d have met a list of unique individuals. A long list.

But he still couldn’t take his eyes off of her.

And not just because he’d seen her naked. Actually, she was more provocative to him now, entertaining questions from the police and asking some of her own, all while wearing nothing more than that silk wrapper. Yet, no one was ogling, no one was treating her with anything but the utmost respect. Partly professionalism, sure, but he was willing to bet that only went so far. No, the reason they were handling her like a queen was that, paper-thin robe notwithstanding, she emanated a somewhat regal bearing. Gazing coolly from those amazing gemstone eyes of hers, she sat in a padded office chair like a ruler might sit in a velvet throne. The clipped British accent only underscored the whole aura. He wondered if she was aware of it, manipulating it for her own purposes when it suited her, or if it was simply second nature, something she was completely unaware of.

He studied her from across the small office in between sips of coffee. Mig and Patterson were still in the suite with the victim, collecting evidence. Tucker could have caught a cab back to the hotel, but Mig had sent word out that they’d give him a free pass through the media throng if he wanted to hang around. At the moment, there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

He would have liked to check the murder site out himself, but he was both well outside his jurisdiction and his real arena of knowledge in this particular situation. Not too many aging movie queen socialites getting murdered while involved in kinky sex games back in Canyon Springs. Besides, it gave him the opportunity to watch Misty Fortune.

Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies, to be completely accurate. Hell of a name, that. He could see why she went by her nom de plume. He’d been surprised when she’d told the officers she was a novelist. Erotica, no less. Despite the circumstances under which they’d met, he’d never have imagined her doing that. Something about that cool regal bearing of hers. He made a mental note to look up a title or two. Shouldn’t be too hard. Apparently they were all bestsellers.

He topped off his coffee and leaned against the corner of the short hall that led from the office to the door. Just out of her direct line of vision, but still able to watch her eyes, her mouth, her body language, as she asked and answered questions.

She was polite, if distant, although that might have been the uppercrust accent giving that impression. He smiled into his coffee. Anyone seeing her now, even in that wrapper, would never in a million years imagine her splayed amongst those satin pillows, all ready to accept a stranger into her arms…and between her legs. Her slender hands and elegant fingers held the paperlike silk closed at her throat and over her knees. Not a speck of pale flesh peeked out, and yet Tucker was one breath away from arousal every time her lips parted.

Surprisingly, despite her reserve, she’d asked a good many questions of her own. Of course, the detectives had been circumspect in giving out any details of the murder, but at the same time, they seemed to be a bit taken with the fact that she was a well-known author. An author whose subject matter lent itself well to the surroundings. If Tucker wasn’t mistaken, they were a bit flattered to be the subject of her research, which was most certainly what she was doing.

He wondered if that was also what she’d been doing back in the satin pillow room. Maybe her stories weren’t entirely fictional. Or even partly. Which launched a whole new train of thought that was abruptly cut off when she stood with a serene smile and thanked the detectives for their time.

Who’d been interrogating whom, he wondered, as the detectives both nodded and grinned and did everything but ask for an autograph. Tucker turned to toss his cup in the trash, hiding his own grin. Not that she’d directed so much as a blink or nodding glance in his direction since taking her seat with the detectives. But she’d have to now, since he was blocking the way out.

She turned back to the officers before taking more than a step. “Are the guests expected to check out this evening, then?”

The detectives had been in the process of taking their seats again, but both straightened immediately. Tucker privately wondered if they’d bow and scrape, too. Probably, if they thought it would get them anywhere with her. Admittedly, he probably would, too. For the same reason.

“No, ma’am,” the older detective, Riggins, answered her. “However, since we won’t need to question you again, you are free to leave the premises if you wish.”

The other detective, Faulkner, younger, with a far too serious expression, shifted forward to add, “You might want to wait until morning however.”

Misty merely raised a brow in response. Tucker couldn’t help thinking how different she was here, in this room. How much more assured she was. Made him wonder just what kind of adult camp games she’d signed up for in that other room. She’d been uncertain there, on edge. Then he recalled that she’d said she hadn’t expected to be the one taking charge. Hmmm. Maybe when men found out what she did for a living, they expected her to be the dominant one between the sheets. Maybe her fantasy was to give up that burden, have her needs catered to for a change. Or maybe the men she met felt too much pressure to live up to her image. Performance anxiety and all that.

So, had she been acting back in that room? Those steadying breaths, the slight wobble in her tone? Had that all been part of the scenario she’d paid for?

Looking at her now, it was hard to believe otherwise.

“I understand the media is camped en masse outside the gates,” Detective Faulkner finished. “And we’ve sealed off the helipad until our investigation here is done.”

“As I don’t have my private chopper with me, that won’t be a problem,” she said, dry humor surfacing for the first time.

“We’ll be giving the press a statement later tonight,” Riggins offered. “I imagine they will head off to make their deadlines after that. By morning they’ll be onto something else.”

Tucker thought the detective was being a bit disingenuous with that remark. He didn’t think the media was going anywhere and he doubted the detectives really did either. The murdered woman, Patsy Denton, had been a well known B-movie actress back in the fifties, known more for her teenage sex kitten body than her acting abilities. However, she’d proven to be a shrewd businesswoman, and for the past several decades had been better known as a socialite, sometime political activist and generous philanthropist. Her husband, Drew Ralston, at forty-eight was almost twenty years her junior. He was a resort developer and occasional high stakes gambler. Apparently she’d gambled with some high stakes as well. And paid with her life.

The media would sink both claws deep into this one and it would be a while before they shook loose.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Misty was saying. “For the time being, I’ll be staying.”

She turned again and it was only when she drew closer that Tucker noticed her knuckles were white from the grip she had on her robe. So…was the regal queen part the act then? He found that harder to believe. She was far too good at it. But the instant she noticed the direction of his gaze, her grip visibly relaxed. The slight vibration of the silk, however, told another story. Her fingers trembled.

Why? Nerves from talking to the police? She could have fooled him. Something to hide? He didn’t think so, neither did the cops. So, what then? What made Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies, aka Misty Fortune, erotica author, tremble?

“Do you have one?” he asked as she paused, waiting for him to move to one side of the short hallway so she could pass.

She finally looked directly at him. How eyes so passionately colored could come across so cool and distant he had no idea, but she managed it. There was ice in her tone as well.

“Have one of what?” she asked, the British accent so clipped now he was surprised he wasn’t left bleeding.

“A private chopper,” he asked, flashing a smile, finding himself wanting to bait her and yet protect her at the same time. “You must have sold a bunch of books.”

“No, I don’t,” she responded flatly. “And yes,” she said, her lips curving just the slightest bit, “I have.”

His grin widened and a third urge joined the others. This one decidedly carnal. He doubted she’d be flattered by any of them.

As if in silent response, her half smile disappeared. She pulled her robe a bit more tightly about her slender throat, and shifted slightly. “If you’ll please let me pass, I’d like to return to my room.”

Grin firmly in place, Tucker bowed slightly and silently shifted to one side. The path was narrow and she had to turn slightly to avoid brushing against him as she passed. He could have made it easier, probably should have. A gentleman would have. Apparently that wasn’t one of the urges she brought out in him.

Behind him, Riggins was on the phone and Faulkner had flipped on the small television set in the corner to see what the evening news was making of the situation. Because it had taken a while to find her, there was no one else waiting to be questioned. Once the detectives sat down with Mig and company and compared notes, there would be other interviews. Likely those would take place at the station, or in a lawyer’s office.

Tucker watched her slip quietly into the hall. He’d probably never see her again. He wasn’t involved in the investigation, had no reason to contact her. In fact, he should track down Mig and see about getting that ride back to the hotel. Maybe get a chance to learn more about what was going on, what they’d found out. That’s what he should have been focused on, what he was here for. To learn.

What he did, however, was step forward at the last possible second to catch the door before it snapped shut. He had no idea what he was going to say to her, he just knew he wasn’t okay with letting her walk away. He ducked into the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she turned a corner—and almost steamrolled right over top of her.

There was a muffled thump as she tried to avoid the collision and hit the opposite wall instead. She swore something that sounded like “God’s balls,” then straightened quickly away from the wall, and him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were still right by the door,” Tucker said, instinctively reaching for her to steady her.

She moved back, her expression making it quite clear she was steady enough thank-you-very-much. “I—uh, I was merely, um—” She broke off and pushed her fingers through her hair before dropping them a bit self-consciously and straightening her shoulders.

Not so steady when caught off guard, Tucker noted with interest.

“Can’t find your way home?”

Color bloomed very becomingly on her cheeks, and not so becomingly across the base of her neck, where her hand fluttered as if aware that reaction might occur. Oddly, he was more attracted to the fluttering hands and splotchy neck than he was the rosy perfection of her English complexion.

“I simply need to use the phone and contact my…contact the desk.” She drew herself up, but kept her hand at her neck, on the pretense of clutching her robe closed, he thought. Except that robe was so tightly belted nothing short of a hurricane was going to rip it open.

A hurricane or the attentions of a very determined lover.

He ducked that vision, but not the smile it brought to his lips. “I have a map of the resort layout. If you tell me your room number, I’ll be happy to escort you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Fine. But with everything that’s happened tonight, it might take management a while to send someone. Several of the guests were— Well, let’s just say they didn’t take the news that someone had been murdered on the premises as well as you did.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?”

She was the oddest mix of stiff upper lip and nervous twitches. He was beginning to think both performances were a part of who she really was. How intriguing. “Nothing. In fact, I admired the way you handled the whole thing.”

“Indeed,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“Indeed,” he repeated. “You know, I won’t bite.” At her questioning look, he directed his gaze to the death grip she had on her robe.

“I’m not accustomed to socializing in little more than a cellophane wrapper.”

“But handling police interrogations are no problem at all apparently. At least, you’d never have guessed otherwise from your performance in there.”

The slightest of smiles quirked her lips as she studied his face. “I’m not so sure I believe you. About the biting.”

“You totally fascinate me.” He saw no reason not to just admit that up front.

The smile faltered, the grip tightened.

But he didn’t back down. “One moment you’re the royal queen, entertaining her subjects. The next you’re like…well, I can’t describe it really. Uncertain of yourself. Though I can’t imagine how or why.”

She shifted the slightest step farther away from him, but didn’t directly comment on his evaluation other than to say, “Yes, well, the circumstances here are a bit far removed from the typical, aren’t they? Tends to make a person behave in ways somewhat out of step with the norm. Not all that fascinating really. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She motioned with her head to the office door, which he was now blocking.

“Misty—”

She shot him a look of surprise.

“I was standing right in the room. I might not be directly involved in the investigation, but I do know your name.” And your occupation, he thought, but didn’t say. As it was, she probably thought he was another slug, interested more by what she did, and in this case where she was presently doing it, than who she was. Well, he admitted to being intrigued by all that, but his interest had been sparked long before he knew anything about her job. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that she’d been stark naked at the time.

“Exactly how is it you came to be assisting this department? You said you were in town for a fire marshal class or something? I’m surprised they’ve allowed such familiarity.”

And here he was, wishing she’d allow him a bit more familiarity. “Professional courtesy. The classes are in forensic investigation. I was having a late dinner with two of the instructors when they were called to the scene. I tagged along.”

“And was it professional courtesy that had you lurking behind the screen in my room?”

“I wasn’t lurking.” Leering a little maybe, he thought, but hell, what red-blooded man wouldn’t have? He didn’t attempt to make that distinction, however. “And I am sorry for putting you in such an awkward situation.”

She gave him a look. “You seem to be very good at that.”

He smiled. “Yeah, apparently I am.”

“Yes. Well.” She shifted slightly. “Don’t let me keep you from whatever duty it was that sent you racing out of the door.”

“Actually, I came racing out the door to catch you.”

“Did the officers have something else they wanted?”

He looked directly at her, waited until her eyes met his. “No. But I did.”

She blinked. Several times.

“As I said before. You fascinate me. And it’s not the location, or what you’re wearing, or even what you do for a living.” He raised his hand as she raised her eyebrow. “I didn’t miss much.”

“No, I don’t believe you do.”

“I won’t lie. All of that is interesting. I’m an investigator, I can’t help being curious. But that’s not why I ran out here. I’m not all lathered up because I think you’re a hot piece looking for some action for your next book.”

Those eyes of hers widened momentarily, before her regal reserve once again settled around her like a well-worn mantle. “So, I’m not a ‘hot piece’ then? Well, that’s certainly a bit of news. I’m extremely relieved to hear it.”

Tucker felt color rise in his cheeks and tried to recall the last time a woman had ever made him blush. He’d been maybe seven. “My finesse is lacking. I was trying to explain that I wasn’t jumping to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence.”

Her lips remained flat, but the slightest of twinkles lit her eyes. The transformation from icy gem to glittering jewel was captivating. “You’re right about the finesse,” she said. “Pity.”

“You should do that more often,” he murmured.

“What? Put down men who make a habit of eating their own feet? I do that too often myself to make sport of it.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem handing it to me.”

The twinkle glistened again and her lips curved almost in spite of themselves. “It comes more naturally when I’m particularly inspired.”

Tucker smiled. “I suppose I should be flattered then.”

“Quite the optimist, aren’t you?”

Tucker leaned against the wall and folded his arms. “There. That’s what I was talking about.”

She looked about, confused.

He very tentatively reached out and touched her chin, turning her face slowly back to his.

She stiffened, eyed him warily.

“I really don’t bite.”

“I’d really rather you didn’t—”

“It’s the twinkle,” he said, quietly interrupting her.

“I beg your pardon?” She shifted her chin away from his touch.

He very purposely brushed his finger along the curve of her chin again. The finest of shivers rewarded the risk. “Actually, I think I’ll be the one doing the begging.”

Her lips quirked again and he swore she almost laughed. “Who’d have thought it,” she murmured. Then to him, she added, “You’re really—”

“Fascinating?”

“I don’t believe that was the word I was going to use.”

“Your eyes,” he said, quite seriously. “They are amazing. But I’m sure you’ve been told that a hundred times. A thousand. Such a passionate color. And yet you have this way of making them so cool and distant.” He smiled. “Like right now.”

She went to move away completely, but he turned and boxed her in against the wall. He wasn’t touching any part of her, but she could slip out to either side.

She didn’t.

She didn’t look at him directly either.

He noticed she was breathing more rapidly by the rise and fall of her chest. His own was a bit accelerated as well.

“But when you relax, let your guard down,” he went on, as if they were having a casual conversation, “they light up with this…well, twinkle. Takes my breath away.” And yet there was nothing remotely casual happening between them right now. She might be a mystery to him, one he’d like to solve. But the source of that snap, crackle, pop in the air was no mystery at all.

He knew sexual tension when he felt it. And, from the way her pupils slowly expanded when she turned her head to look directly at him…so did she.

“Will you be staying in Vegas?” he asked.

She said nothing, but kept her gaze on his.

“I’ll be here the rest of the week,” he said, then waited. Determined to wait as long as it took to get a response from her.

“Me, too,” she said finally, the words barely a murmur.

“Four days.” It was both statement…and request.

“Four.”

“Before we go our own way, back to our own worlds, never to cross paths again.”

She stared at him for the longest time, but said nothing. Neither did she move away.

He lifted a hand, surprised to find that he was the one with the tremor this time. He slowly stroked a blunt-tipped finger along the side of her face. Her skin was as fine and smooth as the porcelain he’d compared it to. So incredibly delicate he wondered how careful he’d have to be not to bruise it. “For those four days,” he said very quietly, “I’d like for our worlds to collide. A little. A lot. I don’t care. Well, that’s a lie. I know what I want.”

Her pupils exploded then, jewels flashed, sparked, and he grew hard. Harder anyway.

“But I’ll take your company any way you’re comfortable sharing it,” he finished.

“You’ll press,” she said and he wasn’t sure if it was a question…or capitulation.

“You’ll want me to.”

“You’re very certain of yourself.”

“About some things.”

“And if I say no?”

He lifted his hands, but kept his body close. “We walk away.” He grinned then, despite the fact that his heart was hammering and his body felt like a live wire had been introduced into his bloodstream. Then he let a slightly shaky finger drop to the full center of her bottom lip. “It’s up to you whether or not we’re smiling, bodies spent, heads full of fond memories, when we do.”

He let his hand drop away completely then, spent an agonizingly long moment staring at the spot he’d touched, wanting to taste it more than he wanted his next breath, before finally moving away from her. It took every ounce of willpower he owned, and a few more he had to take out on loan.

She took a moment to steady herself, then moved past him and put her hand on the office doorknob.

Was she really going to just walk away? he wondered. Just like that?

He wasn’t used to the sudden sense of desperation he felt. Which was probably why he blurted, “Can I call you then?” He’d never been in this position, of having to beg for attention. Maybe it was good for him. He wasn’t so sure. He only knew that in that moment, he’d willingly sacrifice his ego and just about anything else on the chance she’d say yes. He didn’t analyze why that was, why she was different. He saved that sort of deep thinking for crime scenes. Passion was supposed to be easier.

She stepped halfway through the door and he realized she really was going to leave without answering him. He wasn’t sure what his next move should be. Walk away? Or continued pursuit?

But she turned then, and looked at him. “I’ll think about it.” Then she shut the door in his face.

He let his forehead drop until it thunked on the wall next to the door. “She’ll think about it, she says.” And then what? he wanted to yell through the door.

She had him literally tied in knots. “Hell, you started it,” he grumbled, then pushed away from the wall. He gave the door a hard stare, but it didn’t open. Nor did he go after her.

Not yet.

He turned and headed down the hall instead, thinking he’d find Mig and Patterson. Immerse himself in a good crime scene. Those he understood.

Women on the other hand…? Maybe murder was easier.




4


APPARENTLY EVEN MURDER didn’t keep the Blackstone staff from their duties.

Misty had been half hoping her long cold dinner would still be in her room when she finally wound her way back to it. But the table was clear, her sheets had been turned back and the only food awaiting her was the chocolate rose on her pillow.

She was surprisingly ravenous. It would seem that police interrogation spiked her appetite.

She closed her eyes against the immediate image that took shape in her mind…and it wasn’t either of the intrepid Las Vegas P.D. detectives. No, as intimidating as the entire procedure had been, as admittedly fascinated as she’d become by the macabre turn of events, as worried as she should have been by the fact that a killer was on the loose…none of those things were responsible for the sudden hunger that filled her.

Tucker Greywolf.

The way he’d looked at her, the words he’d spoken, the way he’d touched her… He was like a subconscious inquisition that wouldn’t leave her alone.

I know what I want.

His words echoed inside her. As did her instinctive response. She knew what she wanted, too. Couldn’t stop thinking about it, imagining what it would be like. Those large hands on her body, that mouth of his, so smug, so certain. He’d do things to her…he’d let her do things to him. She knew it. It had been so clear when she’d looked into his eyes. She didn’t need to pay someone here at Blackstone’s. She could simply take him up on his offer. Take him. Period.

She would learn everything she wanted to know and more. He wouldn’t even have to teach, he’d only have to set her loose on his body. She’d take it from there. He was quite…inspiring.

She smiled and shook her head. And here she thought people never met like they did in her books. The entire situation had been the perfect Misty Fortune set up. Two people in a place out of time, out of sync with their day to day lives. Tossed together in circumstances so beyond their normal experience that anything seems possible. Probable. And all of it at a resort that catered to fulfilling sexual fantasies.

Food. Not sex. With Tucker. Food, that’s the only hunger she should worry about appeasing at the moment. She debated calling Marta back and asking if she could still get something to eat at this late hour, but ultimately decided against it. She was more unsettled than hungry anyway. Besides, Marta had been unnaturally subdued when she’d come to escort her back to her room. Misty imagined murder in the workplace would do that to a person, but she had to wonder if Marta hadn’t also been called on the carpet for not reporting what room she’d ultimately put Misty in.

Lucas Blackstone, whom she’d only met briefly, didn’t strike her as the type to let something like that slide, even in the midst of a murder investigation.

Work. That was always a good panacea for whatever ailed her. She dug out the small journal she kept in her purse. Which was more satchel than purse, actually, but while she’d grudgingly followed Blackstone protocol and left her laptop behind, her cell phone turned off and her Palm Pilot in hibernation mode, she never went anywhere without paper and pen. Inspiration had a way of sneaking up on her at the oddest moments.

Too many times she’d come up with the perfect snippet of dialogue, devised the most stunning descriptive passage, only to lose it during the interim between thought and locating something to write it down on. She’d initially tried a mini recorder, but the sound of her own voice was always at odds with how she heard things in her head, so she’d reverted to the timeless reliability of pen and paper.

She curled up on the bed, mindless now of the luxury surrounding her. Her focus was entirely inward. All the stimulation of her sensually drenching day, coupled with the sudden tension of the investigation, then Tucker’s intrusion right into the middle of it all, might have been overwhelming in reality…but she had no problem turning the chain of events into fantasy. Images in her mind became words on the paper. The scenes unfolded swiftly, so detailed, one after the other, she couldn’t write fast enough. By the time she reached the climax of the story, she was squirming for release herself.

Always a sign she’d accomplished what she’d set out to deliver.

But when it came to finishing the scene, somehow the flow of words dried up as if turned off by the handle of a faucet. She didn’t push. Instead she tossed the journal on the bed and headed to the bathroom, thinking a shower might offer some solace. And maybe some release, she thought guiltlessly, remembering the hand-held unit attached to the shower head.

But as she stood beneath the pulsing spray, it quickly became clear that a jet of hot water, no matter how cleverly manipulated, was not going to bring her relief. Much less the release that was now like a nagging throb between her legs. Only now it had nothing to do with the ministrations of anyone on the Blackstone staff…and everything to do with the dark-eyed warrior of a fire marshal who’d stalked into her life a few hours ago.

Wrapped in a towel, she went back to the bedroom, thinking sleep would simply have to save her. But one glance at the journal tossed amidst the silk, with its freshly entered story so torridly taunting her, and she knew bed was the last place she’d find peace. Alone anyway.

Her gaze drifted beyond her patio door to her private indoor lagoon. The detectives hadn’t said anything about staying in her room. Besides, the lagoon was accessible only through her room. Though, now that she thought about it, there was likely another entry somewhere in the jungle foliage that surrounded it for maintenance purposes. She moved to the French doors, then beyond them.

If it wasn’t safe, surely the police would have evacuated the resort. They seemed pretty certain the killer was no longer on the premises. She shivered, but continued to draw closer to the lagoon, lured by the tendrils of steam drifting off the surface.

She chose the first bottle of scented oil from the small basket by the stone stairs that led down into the sprawling pool. A few drops and the misty air took on the spicy allure of vanilla. She dropped her thin robe on the chaise and stepped into the heated water. She swam to where a thin waterfall poured into the deep end with a quiet thrum. Standing beneath the gentle stream, Misty felt each and every water droplet splash and bounce off her skin. Her eyes drifted shut as she tipped her head back and let the clear water stream through her hair.

In her mind’s eye, he came through the French doors, across the patio, stopping amidst the fronds and foliage, captivated by the look of her, welcoming the feel of the water as it cascaded over and caressed her every naked curve. She didn’t open her eyes, merely felt his presence, let the idea of his watching her take hold, enhance the primal pleasure she’d already immersed herself in.

Back arched, her hands slid over slick skin, slipped over breasts that ached for a firmer hand, between legs that begged for something more substantial than her slender fingers. Her climax was a raw thing, leaving her panting and a bit shaken. When she finally stopped trembling, she blinked her eyes open, almost surprised to find the spot by the pool empty. He’d felt so incredibly real to her, in her fantasy.

That fantasy could be incredibly real, she taunted herself as she slipped beneath the surface and willed the echoing throb between her legs to diminish. With long, slow strokes, she swam back to the steps. She didn’t bother to dry off, just plucked her thin robe off the chaise and went back to her bedroom. She tossed the journal aside, knowing she wasn’t going to share what she’d just experienced with pen or paper, much less with her readers. She couldn’t even let herself think about it too clearly in the privacy of her own mind.

It hadn’t been too private out in the lagoon, she thought. In fact, it was the very public nature of the fantasy, with her audience of one, that had driven her to such a strong climax. She’d been alone, and yet not alone. And her solitude right now felt amplified because of that paradox. You don’t have to be alone.

He was likely long gone by now. Besides, you’ve built him up to a fantasy now. He’d never match up, and then there’d be disappointment all around. Best to leave him to her fantasies. He’d certainly more than fulfilled his potential there. She closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and take her, release her from thinking about him, from what to do about him, or whether there was anything to be done about him.

Four days. Before we go our own way, back to our own worlds, never to cross paths again.

His words, so clear in her mind, chased away sleep. He’d been so confident that he could give her what she wanted. And yet, he didn’t know her. Answers to questions, a police interrogation, that’s what he knew of her. How could he know what she wanted?

I know what I want.

She shivered, remembering the look in his eyes when he’d said that. And maybe that was all that was important. That he understood his own wants. She wished she were so confident. She wasn’t sure she could fulfill her own wants, much less any of his.

She rolled to her back, forcing her thoughts to the real world. What was she going to do tomorrow? Regardless of whether Blackstone intended to fulfill his obligation to his guests, she felt that her interlude here was over. She didn’t want to stay here now. Her thoughts were too corrupted by everything that had happened, her fantasy bubble burst.





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