Against The Odds

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 their 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.”

“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 surreptitiously 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.