Against the Odds

by Donna Kauffman

  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 sh
aring 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.