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Against The Odds
By Donna Kauffman Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Copyright © 2003 Harlequin Enterprises Limited
All right reserved. ISBN: 0373790732
Chapter One
Sin city.
Tucker Greywolf stepped out of the taxi and paused, intent on absorbing all of it. The bright lights, the steady stream of cars up and down the strip, the excited buzz of the crowd bustling in and out of the endless number of casinos, resorts and clubs.
"First time in Vegas?" the valet asked him, noting his fascination.
Tucker grinned. "That obvious, huh? Yeah, I'm just a small-town boy from New Mexico who lucked out on the location of some seminars I signed up for."
The stooped older man looked up at Tucker's six-plus height, peered into his eyes, then smirked. "Not too small a town, I'm betting." He had a bit of an accent. Russian or Scandinavian. "What convention you here for?"
"No convention," Tucker replied, pulling his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans to pay the cabbie. "Just some training in forensics the LVMPD has put together."
The valet's bushy white brows lifted. "Forensics? I was right about you then. Small town." He shook his head on a snort, then whistled for a bellman.
"Okay, so Canyon Springs has more than one stop light, but it's hardly a hotbed of crime. I probably won't ever use this stuff."
"You a cop in this town of yours?"
"Fire marshal. Just indulging my own professionalinterest."
The valet winked at him. "Hopefully you'll indulge in other more personal interests while you're here, no? She's not always a lady, this town." He took the bills Tucker offered him and motioned the bellman to take his bags inside. "But she never fails to show her guests a good time."
"I bet she does. But I'm really just here for the classes. Might play a hand or two of blackjack or spin the roulette wheel, but -"
The old man chuckled. "She'll seduce you. The reluctant ones are always the first to fall."
Tucker just laughed. "Maybe next time."
"Ah, Mr. Small Town, you like your privacy." He nodded at the newspaper Tucker had stuck under his arm. "You should try out the new place, then. Specializes in keeping things all hush-hush, you know? So no one back home will be the wiser, eh?"
Tucker could have told him there was no one back home to hide anything from, but the valet was clearly enjoying his attempts to corrupt his latest Vegas virgin. Far be it from him to deny the old guy his fun. Besides, it seemed like a suitable introduction to the City of Sin.
"Blackstone, he doesn't listen to the County boys," he was saying. "Trying to turn Vegas into some kind of family Disneyland with slots." Despite being almost a foot shorter than Tucker, he leaned in with a nod and a wink. "This Blackstone, he knows the kinds of rides people are really looking for when they come here." His laughter turned to a long wheeze that had Tucker thumping him on the back. "Thanks, thanks," he said when he got his wind back.
"No, thank you," Tucker said, and meant it. He enjoyed people who weren't afraid to be themselves. Colorful, some would say. Characters. That was one of the things he liked best about being from a small town. Everyone had a name - and a personal history - to go with their face. There were no strangers in Canyon Springs. Here, he was all but swallowed up by them.
He followed the bellman to the lobby, glancing again at the newspaper while he waited his turn to check in. He'd actually already read the article on the way in from the airport. Apparently many of the Vegas resorts had spent a considerable amount of revenue trying to expand the focus of their attractions beyond the gamblers and high rollers to the families looking for a place to have a good time.
Lucas Blackstone, on the other hand, had unabashedly created an opulent adult oasis of decadence. A very private resort catering to very private desires, tucked away at the edge of the desert.
"I'm sure he won't lack for takers," Tucker murmured with a slight shake of his head. Mr. Blackstone would probably do very well with his posh playground, but he'd have to do it without Tucker Greywolf.
Tucker preferred to fulfill his fantasies on his own ... and he didn't require any high-priced assistance to do so. He tossed the paper away when it was his turn to step to the desk for registration. For now, his fantasies had more to do with solving the mysteries of cold flesh than delving into the pleasures of the more heated variety.
* * *
Amethyst Fortuna Smythe-Davies, aka Misty Fortune, as she was known to her legion of fans, peered through the tinted windows of her limo as it wound its way along the serpentine drive leading to the entrance of Blackstone's. "What in God's name have I bloody gone and done?" she murmured beneath her breath.
Of course, she knew exactly what she'd gone and done. She'd sold her soul, and probably a goodly part of her dignity, for the sake of a few screaming orgasms. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time.
The long black sedan slid to the curb, the engine purring quietly as the driver got out and came around to open her door. Her blue-blooded ancestral lineage notwithstanding, Misty didn't usually indulge in what she termed Spoiled Silver Spooners behavior. Normally, she'd have hopped in a cab. However, Blackstone's prided itself on providing privacy along with pleasure, which included a personal escort from the airport in the manner of a sleek black sedan complete with a quietly efficient chauffeur. Considering that her five-day stay here would cost the lion's share of her biannual royalty check, she figured she'd let them pamper her however they saw fit.
She waited for the driver to open her door, but not wanting to betray how shaky she was, even to him, she politely refused his offer of a hand. Once out of her plush cocoon, her nerves jangled even more. You're a butterfly emerging from your chrysalis, she told herself. A lovely, bold monarch seeking pleasure wherever it may be and claiming it for her own.
God's balls, but her editor would turn as purple as that prose if she ever wrote anything like that in one of her books. Besides, if her prose had a color at all, it would undoubtedly be a throbbing, molten red. Sometimes the words pulsed through her like that, an oozing lava flow, as if she were channeling them from some secret inner source. Very secret, she thought with a private smirk, as her actual knowledge was somewhat limited. Thank heaven for vivid imaginations. She'd banked an entire career on her rather active one.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Against The Odds by Donna Kauffman Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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