Against The Odds. Donna Kauffman

had him literally tied in knots. “Hell, you started it,” he grumbled, then pushed away from the wall. He gave the door a hard stare, but it didn’t open. Nor did he go after her.

      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