Against the Odds

by Donna Kauffman

  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 thei
r 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.”