Against The Odds. Donna Kauffman
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HER INTRUDER spoke with God knew who, Misty tried to get a grip on what was going on here. She’d been so…ready. This intrusion was more than mortifying, it was an unwanted jolt of reality in the middle of the fantasy she’d so doggedly immersed herself in. Dammit, she’d been ready.
She yanked her belt tighter in frustration. Well, okay, as ready as she was ever likely to be. She’d never be able to do this again. She should have known it wasn’t going to work, that something would happen. Embarrassment fueled her frustration, which turned into anger. “I don’t understand, what kind of problem? Why were the police called?” she demanded of him, even though his back was still to her as he listened to the squawk of his radio.
Gripping the fabric closed at her throat and smoothing her other hand over her thighs to keep the paper-thin robe from flapping open, she was about to demand an answer from him again when he clipped his radio to his belt and turned to face her once again. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out as she got her first good look at him.
He was rather tall, very broad across the chest and shoulders. His legs were thick and long, made more so by the straight black jeans and western boots he wore as casually as the men on Wall Street wore pin-stripes. It was too dimly lit to make out his eyes, other than they were dark. Smoky came to mind. His hair was a thick, inky black, cut short in a way that emphasized the Native American heritage clearly defined in the flat, angular planes of his cheeks and lips. Damn, she caught herself thinking, maybe she should have gone for the Warrior Abduction package after all.
“Are you sure you don’t work here?” she blurted before clamping her lips together. Yet another momentary lapse. She seemed to be cursed with them ever since she’d touched down in this godforsaken city.
“You’re not in any danger,” he assured her.
A real shame, that, she couldn’t help but think. Maybe she wasn’t quite back in the land of harsh reality after all. Or maybe clinging to the fantasy was simply less humiliating.
“Is there anything else you need to take with you? I really need to clear you from this part of the building.”
Misty sighed and unwillingly shook free of the last vestiges of the sensual fog she’d been so expertly wrapped in…and focused instead on what he was saying. “Clear out? Is there a fire? I didn’t hear any alarms or—”
“No, ma’am, nothing like that.” He stepped back and motioned to the door. “This way.”
She didn’t see where she had any choice. But now that her mortification and anger were ebbing…along with that delicious aroused state she’d been in, other questions occurred to her. Questions that needed answers before going one more step with him. She might be a transplanted Brit, but she’d quickly learned that New Yorkers adopted a wary attitude for good reason. “Who are you? Are you security here?” Then she remembered he’d said he didn’t work for Blackstone’s. “Can I see some ID?”
He’d already been moving to the door, careful not to look directly at her. She should be thankful for that, and she was, but not enough to blindly trust him just because he was being a gentleman.
He paused and she thought she saw his shoulders move a bit as if he’d sighed. Had she caught him in some kind of lie then? She tensed, suddenly realizing just how alone she was. Privacy was a great thing, unless you needed help. She surreptitiously scanned the corners for security cameras, thinking maybe she could flag some help. Certainly with all the other myriad details Blackstone had thought to include in this place, he’d included a way to monitor— That thought stopped her cold. Considering what she should have been doing in this very room, at this very moment, the idea that some security guard could be watching from somewhere deep in the bowels of the resort was not exactly a heartening possibility. Not that she spied any cameras anyway.
She rubbed her arms as he turned around to face her. Was it her admittedly vivid imagination, or did he look nothing like any kind of security detail she’d ever seen? Nor did he look like any cop she’d ever seen, undercover or otherwise. Not that she knew all that much about undercover cops. She stopped rubbing her arms and tried to quickly determine the best way of handling this. Handling him.
A Misty Fortune heroine would disarm him with her seductive charms, perhaps even seduce him, enjoy what favors he had to offer until he was limp with exhaustion, allowing her the chance to steal quietly away to safety.
As it turned out, while the idea held a great deal of appeal, she was far better writing a Misty Fortune heroine than being one.
“Your name,” she demanded, her voice almost steady.
“Tucker Greywolf,” he said immediately.
So her inner thighs twitched ever so slightly as that warrior-abduction scenario came back to her once again. She might have even had a glancing vision of him in full warrior headdress and warpaint, pulling her astride his stallion at a full gallop before—
“I’m assisting the LVMPD,” he continued. “I’m actually a fire marshal from New Mexico, here for some forensic seminars.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipping it open so he could see his badge.
“Fire marshal? But you said there wasn’t a fire.” That’s what she said, but in her mind, she was seeing Fire Marshal Greywolf, dragging her to safety from a burning building, then tearing her charred clothing off to make certain she was unharmed, only to be quite naturally overwhelmed by her obvious charms and—
“No fire,” he stated in that deep, flat way of his. “Really, ma’am—”
“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