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 and had led her here instead. Wherever here was. With all the twists and turns, she had no idea where in the resort she was at this point.
But the walk had been worth it. The room was amazing really. An amalgam that was part sultan’s lair, part Far Eastern enclave, with a little old English bordello thrown in for good measure. According to Marta, she would be the first one to…enjoy it, as this part of the resort had only recently been finished.
She wondered what he was going to look like, her tutor. Would he be Asian? Muscles like a martial arts expert, hands that had mastered arts of an entirely different sort? Or perhaps he’d have the smooth skin and bottomless black eyes of an Arab prince, with hands skilled enough to rule desert kingdoms…and her. Maybe he’d have the polished refinement of an aristocrat, with skin as pale as her own, and slender, clever fingers. A man who was an absolute gentleman in the front room, but who knew exactly what kind of wicked goings-on could be indulged in above stairs…and enjoyed them every chance he got.
Regardless, he was going to be hers, at least for the night, and together they would explore the kind of pleasures she’d only written about. She slowly pushed away the pillows she’d strategically moved to block key zones of her body—mostly the erogenous ones, though she’d already learned there were far more of those than she’d ever imagined. Which, considering her occupation, was really saying something.
She slid to what she thought might be a provocative pose, knees bent to the side, breasts thrust forward, back slightly arched. She tried what she thought might be a sultry look, but that ended on a spurt of laughter. Really, she wrote about femme fatales, but just because her inner heroine was teetering on the orgasmic cliffs of delight did not mean her outward appearance had changed any.
She was still awkwardly lanky, with legs that were too