He gnawed on the end of his pen, drummed his fingers on his thigh, tried like hell to pay attention to the instructor.
It didn’t matter now. He’d given up the fight and any remaining shred of dignity he had and called Blackstone’s this morning. She’d checked out. Decision final.
She was a celebrity of sorts. A published author. It wouldn’t be hard to track her down. But even as he thought it, he rejected the idea and admonished himself for even going there. Christ, you’d think he hadn’t been laid in months the way he was panting after this woman.
Truth of the matter was, though, if getting laid was all he was after, he could slip his room number to the waitress from the restaurant. It wasn’t sex he was after. Okay. Lie. It was sex, but sex specifically with Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies.
Put a restraining order on the libido, Greywolf, and get back to the matter at hand.
He looked up at the overhead projector again, just in time to see the instructor shut it off and ask for any remaining questions. Normally he’d have a list of them. Today, he just wanted to get out of there. Regroup, get something to eat, hit the roulette tables. Maybe swing by the restaurant. Normally he wasn’t much on business trip flings, but maybe that’s exactly what he needed to clear this idiot possessed gotta-have-her thing from his head.
Lost in thought, the instructor had to grab his arm to get his attention as he passed him on his way out of the room. “Mr. Greywolf?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping short. With a brief smile, he added, “Mind was elsewhere.”
The instructor chuckled. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Tucker had the grace to flush slightly. The class had been relatively small, less than two dozen people. Still, he hadn’t realized he’d been so obviously distracted. “I apologize. It wasn’t you. Normally, I—”
His grin widened. “I heard. Million question man.”
Tucker smiled. “I’m developing a bad rap apparently.”
“No, quite the opposite. Mig tells me he tried to talk you over to the dark side, have fun in the desert with us. He told me to take up where he left off.”
Tucker laughed. “A conspiracy. Sorry to let you down.”
“Who said we’re done? As a matter of fact, Mig asked if you wanted to join us later on, at the lab. We’re going over some of the evidence. You mentioned to him last night that you’d trained in crime scene photography. We’d be interested in getting your perspective on a few things.”
Tucker looked more than a little skeptical. “A few classes with no practical application hardly makes me the go-to guy here.”
The instructor—Ted something or other, Tucker recalled—shrugged. “I heard it was more than a few classes. Besides, we’re always open to fresh points of view. Sometimes those are the ones that make us look at things a different way. You interested?”
In getting an up-close look at the LVMPD’s forensic lab? Was he kidding? And what better way to divert his mind from the odd hold Misty had on his every other thought than by losing himself in a scientific playground?
“Very interested. I need to run upstairs to my room, drop this stuff off.”
Ted nodded, pleased. “Great, I’ll follow you up, give me more time to talk you into staying.”
Tucker just nodded, thinking that once again fact ruled over fiction. And that’s all his proposed adventure with Ms. Smythe-Davies was ever going to be. Fiction.
5
MISTY WAS ALMOST more nervous now, fully dressed and in charge of her surroundings, than she had been naked and oiled in that room at Blackstone’s. A room, she reminded herself, where he’d seen her in all her gleaming glory.
“Yes, well, so what if I baited him in, however unintentionally,” she muttered to herself as the elevator doors closed in front of her. She punched the button to his floor with a shaky finger. “He bloody well took that bait, didn’t he?” And isn’t that what she wanted him to do? Take her bait?
Dear Lord, yes. Repeatedly. And with great abandon.
She fanned herself and resisted checking her reflection in the mirrored walls. It was one thing to decide to do the femme fatale thing, another altogether to convince her body to play along with the game. She’d just have to hope her neck wasn’t as splotchy as it felt.
Her resolve lasted a full ten seconds, then she peeked. One tiny darted glance in the mirror, but it left her blanching. It was even worse than she suspected. The splotches only completed the look. Hair she’d somehow convinced herself looked tousled and sexy back in her hotel room, actually resembled more of a bird’s nest. After the windstorm. Her eyes, which she’d taken great pains to line and smudge oh so artistically, didn’t at all capture that bedroom-dreamy look she’d been aiming for. More like an insomniac after her fourth straight night of sleeplessness.
Her cheeks were pale, her mouth pinched in at the corners, her lower lip was red and puffy where she’d apparently been gnawing at it like a trapped field mouse.
“You’re such a loss,” she said, disgusted. “What were you thinking?”
Dulcet tones announced she’d arrived at her chosen floor. She impulsively leaned forward to punch the lobby button as the door slid open.
Too late.
“Sod it,” she uttered in miserable disbelief.
Tucker Greywolf, in all his sexy, confident, take-me-now glory, stood not three feet away.
There was a bank of at least eight elevators, with who knew how many guests staying on the thirty-fifth floor…and he had to be standing in front of hers. Right at that moment.
Her finger, frozen on the lobby button, caused the doors to slide shut again, mercifully hiding her from view. Her sigh of trembling relief lasted less than a full second.
A broad, tanned hand jammed itself between the doors at the last possible second, forcing them back open.
“Misty?”
Please Lord have mercy on my vainglorious soul and swallow me up whole this very instant, she fervently prayed. Adding for good measure that she’d never again try to pretend to be anything other than what she was. A woman meant to live vicariously through the thrills of her fictional characters.
Unfortunately God, in his infinite wisdom, apparently felt she’d learn more from staying right where she was.
There would be no pretending this was a coincidence. Caught at her worst, she simply didn’t have the wherewithal to craft the witty repartee required for such a farce. Miss Pottingham would surely demand her graduate certificate be rescinded, effective immediately.
She automatically lifted her hand toward her hair, realized it was a lost cause not worth attempting and let it drop limply to her side again. “Hello.”
Tucker pressed the doors completely open and took her by the elbow, tugging her gently from the elevator car. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
Hysterical laughter was probably not the appropriate response to such a sincere query. But surely he’d share the humor in seeing how totally opposite his reaction was to the one she’d hoped for when she’d planned this rendezvous. Mercifully, or perhaps not depending on how one looked at it, any convulsive gasp of laughter she might have let out died an instant later. The very same instant she realized Tucker was not alone.
There was a gentleman standing just behind him, and judging from the interested look on his face, he wasn’t merely another guest waiting for the next available car.
Tucker gently shook her elbow. “Misty?”
She blinked at him. “Oh. No, nothing of the sort.” She safely withdrew her elbow from his grasp. His very warm, broad-handed, confident grasp. What a pity she’d never feel those hands on her now. “I’m entirely fine.” Which was, quite possibly, the biggest whopper she’d ever told. He apparently thought so, too.
The concern didn’t leave his eyes. If anything, it intensified. Or something did. The air between them was alive to the point of being electric.
“Were you coming to see me?”
“I—” She darted a lo
ok at the man behind him, then back at him. “You’re on your way out. Don’t let me hold you up.” Clever avoidance tactic there, Misty. One her characters employed routinely and which she borrowed without guilt or shame. Anything to end this little reunion as swiftly as possible.
The other man took that moment to step up and extend his hand. “Hi, I’m Ted Strosnyder, with the LVMPD. You must be the author I heard about.”
And here she’d thought it impossible to be any more mortified. Apparently Riggins and Faulkner had felt it necessary to tell the entire department they’d interviewed the queen of smut. At least, judging from the look in his eyes, that was how he’d categorized her.
She’d come up against this kind of leering narrow-mindedness before. For that very reason she kept a pithy little arsenal of comebacks, all delivered in her stiffest Miss Pottingham accent. Very effective. However, at the moment, with Tucker standing so near and being all concerned and…so, well, male, her mind went completely blank.
Tucker, sworn to protect and defend, bless his heart, stepped in and saved the day. Or at least the moment.
“Ted, I’m sorry, but it looks like I won’t be able to head to the lab with you. I’d completely forgotten our appointment.” He sent a look her way, encouraging her to ad lib with him.
“That’s quite alright,” she said, thankful for the out, but at this point she’d just as soon leave them both to whatever it was they’d been intent on doing. This had been a bad idea all around. She should have stuck to her flight plans. “You two go on. Sounds important.”
Ted, grinning like men did when confronted with a woman who’d made a career out of hot sex, even if it was just writing about it, shook his head. “Why don’t you join us? I’ll give you a tour of the facility.” He tried to move in, take her arm, but Tucker neatly maneuvered her to his other side, away from Ted’s grasp, and pressed the button for the elevator.
“You have business,” she said, appreciative of Tucker’s attempts, but shifting away from both of them. “I’ll just be on my way.”
“Nonsense,” Ted insisted. “Come on, you never know when you might need something like this in one of your books. ‘Lust in the Lab’ or something equally kinky.” He chuckled, vastly amused by himself. “What do you say?”
She glanced up at Tucker who sent her an apologetic shrug, but said nothing. Gee, thanks, she silently messaged back. For which she was rewarded with a wicked grin.
I know what I want.
His words wouldn’t stop echoing in her mind. That smile didn’t help matters any. And apparently, right now, he wanted her to go with them.
The elevator door opened right then and he pressed that wide, warm palm between her shoulder blades and gently steered her into the empty car. Then, once they’d turned their backs to the rear wall, he slowly drew one blunt-tipped finger down her spine, letting his hand drift away just as he reached the swell of her bottom.
Her thighs trembled and she was pretty sure her panties were on their way to being soaked.
Okay, so just maybe her plan wasn’t that horrid after all.
When they stepped out into the lobby, both men looked at her expectantly. She suddenly wished she’d taken Tucker up on his willingness to forgo his plans for her. But it was too late for that. “I’d be interested in seeing the lab.” Not a total lie. But she was far more interested in seeing Tucker’s equipment than that of the local police department. “If you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”
“Nonsense,” Ted assured her again. He stepped in to direct her across the lobby, but once again Tucker stepped smoothly in and made it clear, with one look, that Ted could leer and drool all he wanted, but his hands were to be kept to himself.
For that alone Misty could have kissed him. And she planned to find a way to do just that as soon as they were alone. She wasn’t used to having anyone run interference for her, had grown used to providing her own defense. It felt rather nice, knowing he was looking out for her.
Tucker’s hand brushed softly along her lower back before settling there as he guided her out the glass doors to the curbside. She shivered at his touch. Okay, so she planned to do a whole lot more than deliver a thank-you kiss. One glance up into his amused black eyes told her they were about to have the fastest tour of the lab as was humanly possible.
She should have felt guilty about that. About interfering. Then Tucker climbed in the back of the cab and scooted over to leave room for Ted. Which meant pressing the length of his thigh along the length of hers. Suddenly she didn’t feel the least bit guilty. A girl did what a girl had to do. Certainly a Misty Fortune girl, anyway.
She kept her gaze out the window while Ted prattled on about all the latest forensic tools his team had acquired. She assumed it was for Tucker’s benefit, but another glance in Tucker’s direction led to the discovery that his attention was very exclusively focused on her.
She flashed to that moment in the hall, when he’d trapped her body between his and the wall. About the very intent promise he’d made her. Well, those promises were still alive and well and beaming down at her in a way that was impossible to misinterpret.
Ted’s babble faded into the background, forgotten, and she let herself sink into the promises being made in those eyes. He lifted one eyebrow in a silent question. She knew what he was asking. Had she come back to take him up on his offer?
With the slightest dip of her chin, she gave him her answer. Then did her best to resist the urge to scratch at her neck when he grinned and mouthed, “Thank you.”
TUCKER SHIFTED as best he could in cramped conditions, hoping beyond hope the cramped condition in his pants would subside shortly. Had it not been for Ted—who he was rapidly wishing he’d never met—he might have taken her right there in the back of the cab. In fact, even Ted’s presence might not have stopped him, as he’d forgotten all about the man the moment he’d locked eyes with Misty.
But a moment later the cab pulled to the curb and they were out and heading into LVMPD’s forensic lab. Had he been any less painfully aroused, he’d have laughed at the irony of finally getting inside a place he’d always wanted to see…and wishing he were inside something else entirely.
Ted led them into a small conference room and Tucker shook hands with Mig and Patterson. “Thanks for letting me come check out your toy box.”
“We’re hoping you’ll like it well enough to want to stick around.”
Tucker just smiled. Then Ted was ushering Misty forward. “Ms. Smythe-Davies—”
“Please, Misty is fine.”
Tucker could see from Ted’s oozing smile that he thought she was just fine, too. He shot Mig a look and the detective gave him a brief, apologetic shrug. Apparently what Ted knew about forensics made up for what he didn’t know about women, which was next to nothing if his behavior was any indication.
Tucker kept his hands at his sides, but his attention remained on high alert. He wondered if she always had to put up with guys like him. Then he swallowed a smirk of his own. Right now, the thoughts going through his mind didn’t exactly separate him from the wolf pack.
“This is Miguez and Patterson, two of our preeminent forensic’s specialists,” Ted introduced.
Mig laughed. “Right. He only sweet-talks us when he wants something.”
Just then another man entered the room. He was young, distracted, wearing a white lab coat with goggles shoved up on his head. His name tag read Dennis the Menace.
“Hey, Menace,” Patterson said. “What you got for us?”
“A match,” he said, holding up two computer printouts. “The fiber you found inside the wound matches the sportcoat fiber from the husband.”
Mig held up his hand and Patterson reluctantly slapped it. “Right again, my man,” Mig crowed. “It’s always the husband.”
Dennis cleared his throat. “Actually, the percentage of spousal conviction in cases like this is—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mig interrupted, “let a guy have his moment, will ya?”
Everyone chuckled, except for Dennis, who said, “I’ve still got two other tests to run, but I thought you’d want to know this.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
Dennis nodded and headed back out, clearly more comfortable with his microscopes and slides than he was socializing.
Mig pulled out a phone and made a quick call. “Yeah,” he said when someone answered, “pull the husband in. We got a match.” He spoke for another few moments, then clicked off. He sat down and flipped open a file folder, then motioned everyone else to sit down.
Tucker slid smoothly in front of Ted and pulled out an end chair for Misty, then planted himself next to her. He expected a brief smile of thanks for his rescue, but she was glancing at the pictures that slid from the file.
Mig hurriedly scooped them back up. “You don’t want to look at these.”
Misty merely smiled and shifted back in her seat. “Actually, despite the misfortune suffered by Ms. Denton, I’m rather fascinated by the whole thing. But I don’t want to get in the way.”
“You aren’t,” Ted assured her, a little too enthusiastically for Tucker’s taste. “As soon as we’re done here, I’ll give you that tour I promised.” He turned away, then quickly looked back at Tucker. “You, too, of course.”
“Of course,” Tucker replied mildly. Mig glanced up at him, then at Ted, smiled and shook his head lightly as he looked back down at his notes. “While we haven’t entirely ruled out the Blackstone employee who was, uh, servicing Ms. Denton at or around the time of death, we can now establish that Drew Ralston was in the room with her.”
“The jacket fiber was actually in the gunshot wound?”
Mig looked at Tucker. “Yes. She was shot pointblank. Apparently he was holding her at the time. After we found the fiber, we got a warrant, searched the house and found the jacket in the trash out back. Bullet hole in the right lower front pocket. Apparently he had the gun in his pocket, pulled her tight against him, maybe during a struggle, and shot her.”
“Any marks to indicate a fight?”
Against the Odds Page 6