Against The Odds. Donna Kauffman

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.

      3

      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.

      She turned back to the officers before taking more than a step. “Are the guests expected to check out this evening, then?”

      The detectives had been in the process of taking their seats again, but both straightened immediately. Tucker privately wondered if they’d bow and scrape, too. Probably, if they thought it would get them anywhere with her. Admittedly, he probably would, too. For the same reason.

      “No, ma’am,” the older detective, Riggins, answered her. “However, since we won’t need to question you again, you are free to leave the premises if you wish.”

      The other detective, Faulkner, younger, with a far too serious expression, shifted forward to add, “You might want to wait until morning however.”

      Misty merely raised a brow in response. Tucker couldn’t help thinking how different she was here, in this room. How much more assured she was. Made him wonder just what kind of adult camp games she’d signed up for in that other room. She’d been uncertain there, on edge. Then he recalled that she’d said she hadn’t expected to be the one taking charge. Hmmm. Maybe when men found out what she did for a living, they expected her to be the dominant one between the sheets. Maybe her fantasy was to give up that burden, have her needs catered to for a change. Or maybe the men she met felt too much pressure to live up to her image. Performance anxiety and all that.

      So, had she been acting back in that room? Those steadying breaths, the slight wobble in her tone? Had that all been part of the scenario she’d paid for?

      Looking at her now, it was hard to believe otherwise.

      “I understand the media is camped en masse outside the gates,” Detective Faulkner finished. “And we’ve sealed off the helipad until our investigation here is done.”

      “As I don’t have my private chopper with me, that won’t be a problem,” she said, dry humor surfacing for the first time.

      “We’ll be giving the press a statement later tonight,” Riggins offered. “I imagine they will head off to make their deadlines after that. By morning they’ll be onto something else.”

      Tucker thought the detective was being a bit disingenuous with that remark. He didn’t think the media was going anywhere and he doubted the detectives really did either. The murdered woman, Patsy Denton, had been a well known B-movie actress back in the fifties, known more for her teenage sex kitten body than her acting abilities. However, she’d proven to be a shrewd businesswoman, and for the past several decades had been better known as a socialite, sometime political activist and generous philanthropist. Her husband, Drew Ralston, at forty-eight was almost twenty years her junior. He was a resort developer and occasional high stakes gambler. Apparently she’d gambled with some high stakes as well. And paid with her life.

      The media would sink both claws deep into this one and it would be a while before they shook loose.

      “Thank you, gentlemen,” Misty was saying. “For the time being, I’ll be staying.”