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.”
2
MISTY SHIFTED on the sultanlike raised dais and dragged a satin pillow in front of her breasts, wondering if she could be any more humiliated. “Certainly. You could have actually climaxed on the massage table.” She shuddered and would have blushed again, if her skin wasn’t already burnished and gleaming from the expert hands of her masseuse. Celandra. A woman.
Misty was more forward thinking than most, but really…a woman? That wasn’t even a Misty Fortune fictional fantasy, much less a personal one of hers. Not that Celandra had given any indication she’d noticed her client’s highly aroused state, her mission had only been to prepare her for Concubine 101. Misty was pretty certain she wasn’t supposed to come during the prep phase. But Christ, the woman’s hands had been bloody everywhere. Every. Where. It was a miracle really that she hadn’t climaxed half a dozen times.
“Except damn Celandra moving her hands away just at the last possible moment,” she grumbled. Every single time. No tip for her, Misty decided, rubbing her oiled thighs against the renewed twitch between them.
On the other hand, maybe she owed the nimble Celandra a coveted spot in her will after all. Because God only knew she’d succeeded in her mission. Misty felt like she was teetering on some monumental sexual precipice. Every inch of her skin was both relaxed and exquisitely hypersensitive. One particular inch was screaming for release. In fact, it might be a rather short tutorial session. Her partner had only to brush against any part of her and she’d likely dissolve into long moans of ecstasy.
She rubbed her thighs together again and shuddered in almost-there pleasure. “I should be so lucky.” She sighed.
She looked around the chamber Marta had led her to after Celandra had finished with her. It wasn’t the one she should have been in originally. Marta had mentioned something about it not being ready
