Against the Odds

by Donna Kauffman

  “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 surreptit
iously 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?”