Against The Odds. Donna Kauffman

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