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 h
er 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.
Replaced by a whole new fantasy. One that had nothing to do with what the resort had to offer.
Blackstone would likely refund her money or allow another stay at a later date. She rolled to her side, staring sightlessly into the darkness. Would she come back? She kicked at the silk sheets, damp from her swim, until she lay bare. Did she still want what this place had to offer?
Yes. And no.
Yes, she still wanted to experience her fantasies, the things she wrote about. And she wanted the freedom to do so safely, with no judgments, no strings, no repercussions. But did she want some nameless, well-trained Blackstone employee to teach her how to reach those dizzying heights of carnal delight?
No. Not anymore.
Maybe it was the fact that murder had been committed here. Such a brutal reality in a place where only fantasy was supposed to reign. And yet, her other option was what? Go back to New York? Back to her private fantasies, written in seclusion amidst the frenzy of a very public city?
A city that was a world away from a sexy fire marshal who spent his days keeping people safe in a small, southwestern town.
I’d like for our worlds to collide.
He’d offered her no strings. No repercussions. Left it up to her to dictate what they did with each other, to each other, how far they’d go. He’d push. And he was right, she’d want him to.
Four days. Four nights. She wasn’t due back in New York for another six. That would give her two days to detox, deal with whatever she’d done—or wished she hadn’t—and move on.
She rolled over and picked up the phone, pressed the button for her director before she could analyze all the reasons why this was a bad idea. Beginning with the safety issue—yeah, he was a public servant, but he was in a distant town, serving his own needs at the moment, a stranger to her without any privacy or satisfaction guarantees.
Yet, when Janece’s calm, soothing voice picked up on the other end, asking if she needed anything, Misty heard herself say, “Yes, have the detectives left yet?” She held her breath, felt her lungs ache from the pressure, even though it couldn’t have been more than a second or two before she got her answer. The breath left her in a crushing whoosh. Too late.
“No,” she said, feeling an unreasonable anger surge inside her. As if it had been all his fault she’d taken this long to figure out what it was that she wanted. “That’s alright. Thank you anyway.”
She hung up the phone, very carefully, then gave into the now self-directed rage and beat up her pillow. “Sod it. Always a day late and an orgasm short. You’d think you’d have learned by now to take life by the balls, instead of letting it kick you there instead.”
It was hours before sleep rescued her.
SHE WOKE EARLY, unrested, feeling edgy because of it. At least, that’s where she laid the blame. She made the decision to leave right after breakfast. No point in belaboring things any longer. She informed Marta as soon as she arrived. The older woman took the information in stride and left to see to the details. Misty refused her offer to send someone to do her packing, too irritable to feel worthy of that kind of pampering today.
After a session in Janece’s private office, where she’d so recently checked in, full of apprehension about what she would do while inside these plush walls, Misty went out front where a limo awaited to take her directly to the airport. She’d turned down their offer of another stay at a later date, deciding she’d simply chalk this whole thing up to an interesting weekend diversion and be thankful for the new flow of ideas it had brought to the surface—and not just sexual ones.
The edginess and neediness that refused to go away, well, she’d lived with those for years. She’d live with them again.
The driver was already stowing her bags when she came out front. She got into the back without waiting for him to assist her. Maybe she would take something else back with her as well, she thought. The determination to push a bit harder when it came to matters of sex, not to be afraid when opportunities presented themselves, to risk looking the fool, if it got her the experience she wanted to have. She leaned her head back on the soft leather and closed her eyes, trying to imagine asking any of her recent dates to do such things to her…or allow her to try things on them. Her smile was both dry and weary.
The downside of working alone. It made it that much harder to meet men. The ones she did meet, at museum functions, charity benefits, the corner coffee shop, all seemed to ultimately fall into two categories. Those who tried too hard to be what they thought a Misty Fortune hero would be. And those who were hoping she’d teach them how to be a Misty Fortune hero.
In fact, she’d long since stopped telling her dates what she did for a living. Saved them both from a great deal of strain and tension. Not to mention the possibility of a trashy tabloid story detailing how woefully inadequate the famous erotica author was in private. She laughed at herself.
Maybe she should try the club scene again, look for that dark stranger. She shuddered, and not in carnal anticipation. The reality was, she’d never once met a man in a crowded sweaty nightclub that made her want to get naked and have wild, uninhibited, no strings sex. She supposed it was the Brit in her. A part of her staid upbringing that even New York City hadn’t been able to subvert.
The driver clicked the door shut and glanced in the rearview mirror. “To the airport, miss?”
Yes, she thought with a disappointed sigh. To the airport. To New York. To her tastefully decorated apartment, in her tastefully decorated life. To her fantasy world with her fantasy lovers who would forever be the only ones who truly knew what she wanted.
No.
One-night stands with sweaty lounge lotharios would never appeal to her. But there was a four-night stand offer on the table. Made by the only stranger she’d ever considered letting take her up against the nearest wall. No questions asked.
So what if it was location and circumstance, decadence and a day spent heightening her own awareness to aching extremes, that had made him seem so perfect for her purposes?
She asked the question before she could second guess herself into safe silence. “Do you happen to know what location the forensic team was called in from, before they came out here last night?”
She saw his perfectly smooth brow furrow slightly. “I beg your pardon, miss?”
“Several men on the forensic squad had been teaching seminars in town. Do you happen to know where they are holding these classes?”
It was clear on his face that he knew. After all, what else had the drivers, all employed by Blackstone’s, had to talk about
last night while waiting to be interviewed? It was also clear that he was uncomfortable revealing anything that smacked of a confidence. He was trained to drive and keep his mouth shut—at least to paying guests and the prying eyes of outsiders.
She was, at the moment, a bit of both. “Never mind,” she said after his hesitation had dragged out an uncomfortable second too long. “But there’s been a change in plans. Could you take me into town instead?” She had the full refund of her trip weighing down her bank account. She could easily afford a night’s stay at even the nicest resort. Or four nights as the case may be. She named the first one that came to mind. If they didn’t have a room, she’d look until she found one that did. “The Bellagio, please.”
The driver, once again smooth of brow and unreadable of face, merely nodded and pulled silently away from the curb.
Empowered by her impulsive decision, pleased that she’d acted on it, Misty didn’t look back at Blackstone’s. She was too busy devising her plan. After all, writing wasn’t entirely imagination and fantasy. Her characters had backgrounds and occupations, her stories had locations, all of which were grounded in reality. For those facts, she did research. Lots of research.
Certainly she could find out where the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department was holding a few forensics classes.
TUCKER STARED unseeing at the grisly photographs that flicked by on the overhead. Bullet exit wounds and the corresponding splatter marks on walls, floors and furniture were the subject of the moment. Yet all he saw were those dark violet eyes, debating, deciding and ultimately shutting him out.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d spent the remainder of the night trying to talk himself out of going back for her. It had just been the unusual way they’d met, the city of sin seducing him as the hotel valet had predicted, making him think it was perfectly normal to offer four days of sex to a woman he’d just met. Under circumstances that could hardly be described as social.
Against the Odds Page 5