Against the Odds
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Donna Kauffman
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19,4K
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14
1
SIN CITY.
Tucker Greywolf stepped out of the taxi and paused, intent on absorbing all of it. The bright lights, the steady stream of cars up and down the strip, the excited buzz of the crowd bustling in and out of the endless number of casinos, resorts and clubs.
“First time in Vegas?” the valet asked him, noting his fascination.
Tucker grinned. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, I’m just a small-town boy from New Mexico who lucked out on the location of some seminars I signed up for.”
The stooped older man looked up at Tucker’s six-plus height, peered into his eyes, then smirked. “Not too small a town, I’m betting.” He had a bit of an accent. Russian or Scandinavian. “What convention you here for?”
“No convention,” Tucker replied, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans to pay the cabbie. “Just some training in forensics the LVMPD has put together.”
The valet’s bushy white brows lifted. “Forensics? I was right about you then. Small town.” He shook his head on a snort, then whistled for a bellman.
“Okay, so Canyon Springs has more than one stop light, but it’s hardly a hotbed of crime. I probably won’t ever use this stuff.”
“You a cop in this town of yours?”
“Fire marshal. Just indulging my own professional interest.”
The valet winked at him. “Hopefully you’ll indulge in other more personal interests while you’re here, no? She’s not always a lady, this town.” He took the bills Tucker offered him and motioned the bellman to take his bags inside. “But she never fails to show her guests a good time.”
“I bet she does. But I’m really just here for the classes. Might play a hand or two of blackjack or spin the roulette wheel, but—”
The old man chuckled. “She’ll seduce you. The reluctant ones are always the first to fall.”
Tucker just laughed. “Maybe next time.”
“Ah, Mr. Small Town, you like your privacy.” He nodded at the newspaper Tucker had stuck under his arm. “You should try out the new place, then. Specializes in keeping things all hush-hush, you know? So no one back home will be the wiser, eh?”
Tucker could have told him there was no one back home to hide anything from, but the valet was clearly enjoying his attempts to corrupt his latest Vegas virgin. Far be it from him to deny the old guy his fun. Besides, it seemed like a suitable introduction to the City of Sin.
“Blackstone, he doesn’t listen to the County boys,” he was saying. “Trying to turn Vegas into some kind of family Disneyland with slots.” Despite being almost a foot shorter than Tucker, he leaned in with a nod and a wink. “This Blackstone, he knows the kinds of rides people are really looking for when they come here.” His laughter turned to a long wheeze that had Tucker thumping him on the back. “Thanks, thanks,” he said when he got his wind back.
“No, thank you,” Tucker said, and meant it. He enjoyed people who weren’t afraid to be themselves. Colorful, some would say. Characters. That was one of the things he liked best about being from a small town. Everyone had a name—and a personal history—to go with their face. There were no strangers in Canyon Springs. Here, he was all but swallowed up by them.
He followed the bellman to the lobby, glancing again at the newspaper while he waited his turn to check in. He’d actually already read the article on the way in from the airport. Apparently many of the Vegas resorts had spent a considerable amount of revenue trying to expand the focus of their attractions beyond the gamblers and high rollers to the families looking for a place to have a good time.
Lucas Blackstone, on the other hand, had unabashedly created an opulent adult oasis of decadence. A very private resort catering to very private desires, tucked away at the edge of the desert.
“I’m sure he won’t lack for takers,” Tucker murmured with a slight shake of his head. Mr. Blackstone would probably do very well with his posh playground, but he’d have to do it without Tucker Greywolf.
Tucker preferred to fulfill his fantasies on his own…and he didn’t require any high-priced assistance to do so. He tossed the paper away when it was his turn to step to the desk for registration. For now, his fantasies had more to do with solving the mysteries of cold flesh than delving into the pleasures of the more heated variety.
AMETHYST FORTUNA SMYTHE-DAVIES, aka Misty Fortune, as she was known to her legion of fans, peered through the tinted windows of her limo as it wound its way along the serpentine drive leading to the entrance of Blackstone’s. “What in God’s name have I bloody gone and done?” she murmured beneath her breath.
Of course, she knew exactly what she’d gone and done. She’d sold her soul, and probably a goodly part of her dignity, for the sake of a few screaming orgasms. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.
The long black sedan slid to the curb, the engine purring quietly as the driver got out and came around to open her door. Her blue-blooded ancestral lineage notwithstanding, Misty didn’t usually indulge in what she termed Spoiled Silver Spooners behavior. Normally, she’d have hopped in a cab. However, Blackstone’s prided itself on providing privacy along with pleasure, which included a personal escort from the airport in the manner of a sleek black sedan complete with a quietly efficient chauffeur. Considering that her five-day stay here would cost the lion’s share of her biannual royalty check, she figured she’d let them pamper her however they saw fit.
She waited for the driver to open her door, but not wanting to betray how shaky she was, even to him, she politely refused his offer of a hand. Once out of her plush cocoon, her nerves jangled even more. You’re a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis, she told herself. A lovely, bold monarch seeking pleasure wherever it may be and claiming it for her own.
God’s balls, but her editor would turn as purple as that prose if she ever wrote anything like that in one of her books. Besides, if her prose had a color at all, it would undoubtedly be a throbbing, molten red. Sometimes the words pulsed through her like that, an oozing lava flow, as if she were channeling them from some secret inner source. Very secret, she thought with a private smirk, as her actual knowledge was somewhat limited. Thank heaven for vivid imaginations. She’d banked an entire career on her rather active one.
Misty pushed a hand through the mess of brown curls that hadn’t stood up well to a cross-country flight. Glancing down she noticed her long, slim cotton skirt and sleeveless knit pullover hadn’t fared any better. Oh so glamorous as always, Misty, she thought with a wry smile. Nothing to do about it now, so she turned toward the sleek, black marble of the walls, the carved archway, the etched-glass entrance, and tried to swallow her trepidation.
She had to, because, as she’d recently been forced to admit, vivid imaginations only went so far. Which was why Misty Fortune, author of a string of red-hot erotic bestsellers, had done what any of her forthright and confident heroines would have done when faced with a similar predicament. “Grabbed the problem by the balls and dealt with it,” she muttered with gritted determination.
“I beg your pardon, miss?”
She glanced at the driver, privately amused at her unseemly comment, even as her cheeks pinked a bit. The downside to her fair English complexion. Her skin reflected every emotion. “The marble walls really grab your attention, don’t they?” she parried, thinking fast. Unseemly language was fine when she was alone, but never in public. Her accent, one that living close to a decade in New York City had barely muted, grew more pronounced, as it always did in moments of stress. “The whole thing is quite lovely, really,” she said, offering a smile.
Charmed, the driver smiled and nodded. “To be certain, miss. I’ll get your bags.”
Misty nodded, then quietly let out a breath when he turned away. She might not be one to tout the silver spoon that had been lodged in her throat at birth—gads, it had taken twenty long years to yank the bloody thing out and toss it back—but she wasn’t above occasionally using the years of painful etiquette classes to which she’d been subjected to smooth over a momentary lapse in decorum. Miss Pottingham would be ever so delighted to know her fervor hadn’t been entirely for naught.
Misty smiled to herself. Lapses in decorum indeed. To be expected, she supposed, as she’d become a combination of the button-down British city of her birth…and the raucous American one she’d adopted on her twenty-first birthday. To the outward eye, she was a young woman, ever so evenly mannered, suitably dressed and coiffed and well-schooled in how to handle most any social occasion with quiet dignity and panache. On the inside, however, she was nothing like that.
In her mind’s eye, she was a Misty Fortune heroine. Bold, daring; an aggressive wanton who saw the world as a ripening piece of fruit, begging her to sink her teeth into its juicy flesh and savor every last decadent drop.
Lapses in decorum, oh she’d had many. Dozens. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. Yet, all but the most minor had been enacted exclusively in the privacy of her imagination…and carefully recorded with pen and paper for the delight and stimulation of her readers.
Until now.
Now she was going to finally experience for real what she’d only ever allowed her heroines to enjoy. Now she was finally going to move beyond her limited personal experiences and indulge in the type of sexual fantasies most women—herself included—only dreamt about. She’d always counted herself lucky that she’d turned those hot, feverish dreams into an annual income that allowed her to live rather well, even by New York City standards.
But, to be honest, it was a little difficult to demand things of your lover that you weren’t quite certain you could do yourself. And exactly how did a person go about requesting such things, really? Her characters always met in wildly interesting, larger than life ways, leading them quickly down a carnal path that would never happen in real life. At least not her real life anyway. Leading her to believe that she needed to project a certain confidence in that area to attract a lover with similar preferences. But for that she needed a little help.
Which was exactly why she’d chosen the Continental Concubine package from the very select and amazingly creative menu provided to her in the sleek Blackstone brochure. Apparently her literary successes had drawn the attention of Mr. Blackstone himself, who’d personally invited her to be one of the resort’s first guests. It was an invitation she’d initially politely refused.
But the glossy brochure had lain there, silently daring her, taunting her, beckoning her. And her latest story seemed twice-told. Thrice-told. Her last lover even more so. She needed to do something…
Several glasses of champagne, sipped alone on New Year’s Eve, had found her perusing the detailed menu once again. She’d told herself it was simply research. She was merely scanning the brochure in hopes something would spark a new light in her gradually dimming imaginary world.
Which didn’t explain why she picked up the phone and actually made a reservation. It had taken another couple of glasses to come up with the rationalization for that. And she still wasn’t entirely sure she bought it. But here she was, and dammit, she was going to learn how to be a seductive, confident courtesan, skilled in pleasuring any man…therefore able to demand the same for herself. Even if it killed her. Or worse, completely mortified her.
“You’re thirty years old. You can do this,” she murmured. “Be the heroine.” Not believing a word of it, she nonetheless managed to straighten her shoulders and push through the discreet glassed entrance of Blackstone’s. Misty Fortune’s Wild Las Vegas Adventure was about to begin.
AS THE REST of the class began to stand and disperse, Tucker made several last notes, then finally slapped his notebook shut and rolled his shoulders. The seminar on the latest in bloodstain pattern analysis techniques had been fascinating. So much so that he’d knotted his neck and shoulder muscles concentrating on the instructor’s lecture while taking notes as fast as possible.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost five. He stood and collected the course materials and his notebook, thinking he’d catch dinner at one of the hotel restaurants he’d scoped out after checking in the night before, maybe indulge in a little blackjack afterward. He’d brought a small stash of play money to have a little fun with. The rule was that once it was gone, his gambling time was up.
He wasn’t much of a risk taker anyway. He had enough of that in his job. His fascination centered on the science of uncovering the truth by tying fact with incontrovertible proof. And the incontrovertible truth about Las Vegas was that the house was always going to come out on top. Sort of took the fun out of playing.
He paused by the lectern, waiting for the detective who’d taught the class to finish speaking to one of the other class members. The young woman finally left and the detective turned to him.
“Good lecture,” Tucker told him. “I’m especially intrigued by what you were saying about the new Polaroid lenses. I wondered if you had any sources for follow-up information on that.”
Detective Miguez held out his hand. “I’m glad you liked the lecture. What department are you with?”
Tucker shook his hand and grinned. “Little town in New Mexico that will probably never need their fire marshal to understand the use of Polaroid lenses in capturing accurate bloodstain pattern pictures. Or their sheriff for that matter. Did you ever work with a detective by the name of Dylan Jackson?”
Miguez’s thick brows rose. “Sure did. So you’re from…what’s the name of—Canyon something-or-other, right?”
“Right. Canyon Springs.”
“I’m sorry.” He chuckled. “How is Jackson doing? Sheriff, huh?”
“He’s great. Just got married in fact.”
Miguez’s eyebrows reached new heights. “Jackson? Married? Well, I’ll be. I guess going home again was the right thing for him to do then. A shame, he was a good detective.”
“He’s pretty content and the fine citizens of Canyon Springs sleep better with him on the job.”
Miguez nodded, though it was clear he didn’t quite understand how anyone could be happier away from the action. “So you’re a fire marshal? What got you interested in this avenue of forensics?” He returned Tucker’s grin. “Splatter patterns don’t generally survive a fire.”
“No, sir, they don’t. Generally I focus on more fire-specific investigative techniques, but I find all of it fascinating. Dylan heard about these seminars and passed the brochure on to me.” Actually, he’d done it as a joke. He’d been goading Tucker to consider moving to the big city for years. They’d always had a friendly rivalry since their high school football days. Jackson had gone to Vegas fresh out of school, but he’d eventually come back home. Didn’t stop him from urging Tucker to leave, however. Tucker usually gave it right back to him, accusing him of being worried that the town wasn’t big enough for the both of them. “I figured I’d combine a little vacation with a chance to feed my fascination a little.”
Miguez nodded, apparently finding it far easier to understand professional obsession, but then a lot of guys in his line of work probably would. “You bring the wife and kids?”
Tucker shook his head. “Don’t have either. I figure I’d find something to do to keep busy, though.”
“You think?” Miguez said with a laugh. “Well, if it won’t cramp your style, how about we catch some dinner and I can fill you in on some contacts you might be interested in following up. I can also get you some info on some other seminars coming up later this spring.”
“That’d be great.” Tucker let go of his blackjack plans without a second thought.
Miguez shook his head. “Man, you’re just as bad as the rest of us. You ever think of relocating up here? We can always use another sharpie.”
“What, and let Jackson have all the hero worship? No way,” he joked. Fact was, he’d thought about it many times, starting from the time he’d decided to shift his focus from climbing the ladder toward fire chief to the investigative side instead. But, for a number of reasons, he’d never done more than think about it.
Miguez gathered his tapes and charts. Tucker stepped in and helped him pile everything into the file boxes he’d wheeled in at the beginning of class this morning.
“I hope you don’t mind, but one of the other instructors, Bill Patterson, might hook up with us as well. He’s with the Medical Examiner’s office, specializes in crime scene post mortems.”
The evening was getting better by the minute. “I’m signed up for his class on Friday. This will give me a chance to pick his brain before the rest of the class gets a hold of him.”
“I’m sure he won’t mind,” Mig said. “Shop talk is our life.” He chuckled. “What am I talking about. What life?”
Tucker smacked the lights off on the way out, thinking he should take vacations like this more often.
SHE WASN’T CUT OUT for vacations like this. Well, a Misty Fortune heroine might be. But her inner Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies was definitely not. This was why she didn’t do book tours. She didn’t like being the center of attention. It gave her hives. So why on earth she thought being the focus of such undivided, extremely personal—intimate even—attention was going to be any different she had no idea.
“Thank you,” she told Marta, her personal attendant, as the older woman handed her the small leather binder. She did her level best to sign the guest card with an unwavering hand before handing it back to her.
“Are you sure you’d rather have your meal here in your room?” Marta asked. “I’ll be happy to set it up out there by the indoor lagoon where you could listen to the waterfall, perhaps take a dip?”
Misty shook her head, but smiled. She realized she wasn’t being the most accommodating guest. “This will be fine.” Besides, she didn’t think she could take any more stimulation. Even something as benign as the gentle sound of water cascading over rocks would likely be too much at the moment.
“I’ll be back to escort you at seven, then.”
Misty tried not to shudder in trepidation, but wasn’t sure she succeeded. It was to Marta’s credit and probably extensive training that she didn’t appear to notice. And sigh heavily at the hopeless case she’d been assigned.
She’d already determined she’d see to it Marta was tipped handsomely when this five-day ordeal was over. Or put it in her will if, in fact, she did die of mortification.
Marta left as quietly as she’d come and Misty fell heavily back on her bed. Her first day at Blackstone’s had been spent in a sort of sensory saturation zone. Who knew a person could actually overdose on sensual stimulation? And she hadn’t even done anything sexual yet. Yet. She quivered again.
This preliminary relaxation method had all been explained to her the night before, but she’d been too fatigued from the travel and the nerves to do more than nod and try to quell the panic that had threatened to rise every other minute. The registration process had been discreet, handled in a small, well-appointed lounge by the woman who was to be her personal director for the duration of her stay. If she had any problems, questions or concerns, she was to buzz Janece right away. At any time of the day or night. All of her other needs and requests were to be directed to Marta. Again, 24-7.
She wondered what a Blackstone employee got for working twenty-four hour shifts. Maybe they lived on site. “That’d be interesting,” she murmured, smiling. She was also impressed with the high level of organization that went into planning each guest’s stay. Other than the various Blackstone personnel she’d dealt with, she’d yet to see one other guest. It was as if this entire, decadent desert oasis was hers alone to enjoy, which she assumed was precisely how Blackstone’s intended she feel.
She rolled her head toward the terrace door that led to her private lagoon and briefly entertained taking Marta’s suggestion to dine al fresco after all. But that would mean moving. And for all that her nerves still buzzed along inside her, the rest of her was limp with pleasure from the expert ministrations of the most excellent Blackstone staff.
She gazed up at the batik ceiling and thought about crawling back between the silk sheets and hiding from the remainder of the day’s agenda. Her room was an amazing cocoon of silks and pillows, inviting her to climb in and sleep for say, the winter. But that was all part of their expert plan. None of the sessions she’d signed on for would take place here. This was her lair, her private retreat, an intrinsic part of their plan to seduce her into feeling completely at ease.
Her Blackstone experience had begun in this very bed last night. Her bags had been stowed, her clothes neatly hung and put away by the time she arrived in her room. Marta had run a bath for her, layering the water with a special blend of scented oils that had her relaxing despite her nerves. She’d left her to bathe alone—something Misty hadn’t thought twice about at the time—with a gentle suggestion that for the best night sleep, the silk sheets on the bed should caress bare skin only.
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.”
