Donna Kauffman - Against The Odds

“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.

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.