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.”
She turned again and it was only when she drew closer that Tucker noticed her knuckles were white from the grip she had on her robe. So…was the regal queen part the act then? He found that harder to believe. She was far too good at it. But the instant she noticed the direction of his gaze, her grip visibly relaxed. The slight vibration of the silk, however, told another story. Her fingers trembled.
Why? Nerves from talking to the police? She could have fooled him. Something to hide? He didn’t think so, neither did the cops. So, what then? What made Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies, aka Misty Fortune, erotica author, tremble?
“Do you have one?” he asked as she paused, waiting for him to move to one side of the short hallway so she could pass.
She finally looked directly at him. How eyes so passionately colored could come across so cool and distant he had no idea, but she managed it. There was ice in her tone as well.
“Have one of what?” she asked, the British accent so clipped now he was surprised he wasn’t left bleeding.
“A private chopper,” he asked, flashing a smile, finding himself wanting to bait her and yet protect her at the same time. “You must have sold a bunch of books.”
“No, I don’t,” she responded flatly. “And yes,” she said, her lips curving just the slightest bit, “I have.”
His grin widened and a third urge joined the others. This one decidedly carnal. He doubted she’d be flattered by any of them.
As if in silent response, her half smile disappeared. She pulled her robe a bit more tightly about her slender throat, and shifted slightly. “If you’ll please let me pass, I’d like to return to my room.”
Grin firmly in place, Tucker bowed slightly and silently shifted to one side. The path was narrow and she had to turn slightly to avoid brushing against him as she passed. He could have made it easier, probably should have. A gentleman would have. Apparently that wasn’t one of the urges she brought out in him.
Behind him, Riggins was on the phone and Faulkner had flipped on the small television set in the corner to see what the evening news was making of the situation. Because it had taken a while to find her, there
