LITMIR.BIZ

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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 was no one else waiting to be questioned. Once the detectives sat down with Mig and company and compared notes, there would be other interviews. Likely those would take place at the station, or in a lawyer’s office.

      Tucker watched her slip quietly into the hall. He’d probably never see her again. He wasn’t involved in the investigation, had no reason to contact her. In fact, he should track down Mig and see about getting that ride back to the hotel. Maybe get a chance to learn more about what was going on, what they’d found out. That’s what he should have been focused on, what he was here for. To learn.

      What he did, however, was step forward at the last possible second to catch the door before it snapped shut. He had no idea what he was going to say to her, he just knew he wasn’t okay with letting her walk away. He ducked into the hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before she turned a corner—and almost steamrolled right over top of her.

      There was a muffled thump as she tried to avoid the collision and hit the opposite wall instead. She swore something that sounded like “God’s balls,” then straightened quickly away from the wall, and him.

      “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were still right by the door,” Tucker said, instinctively reaching for her to steady her.

      She moved back, her expression making it quite clear she was steady enough thank-you-very-much. “I—uh, I was merely, um—” She broke off and pushed her fingers through her hair before dropping them a bit self-consciously and straightening her shoulders.

      Not so steady when caught off guard, Tucker noted with interest.

      “Can’t find your way home?”

      Color bloomed very becomingly on her cheeks, and not so becomingly across the base of her neck, where her hand fluttered as if aware that reaction might occur. Oddly, he was more attracted to the fluttering hands and splotchy neck than he was the rosy perfection of her English complexion.

      “I simply need to use the phone and contact my…contact the desk.” She drew herself up, but kept her hand at her neck, on the pretense of clutching her robe closed, he thought. Except that robe was so tightly belted nothing short of a hurricane was going to rip it open.

      A hurricane or the attentions of a very determined lover.

      He ducked that vision, but not the smile it brought to his lips. “I have a map of the resort layout. If you tell me your room number, I’ll be happy to escort you.”

      “That won’t be necessary.”

      “Fine. But with everything that’s happened tonight, it might take management a while to send someone. Several of the guests were— Well, let’s just say they didn’t take the news that someone had been murdered on the premises as well as you did.”

      “What exactly are you insinuating?”

      She was the oddest mix of stiff upper lip and nervous twitches. He was beginning to think both performances were a part of who she really was. How intriguing. “Nothing. In fact, I admired the way you handled the whole thing.”

      “Indeed,” she said, more to herself than to him.

      “Indeed,” he repeated. “You know, I won’t bite.” At her questioning look, he directed his gaze to the death grip she had on her robe.

      “I’m not accustomed to socializing in little more than a cellophane wrapper.”

      “But handling police interrogations are no problem at all apparently. At least, you’d never have guessed otherwise from your performance in there.”

      The slightest of smiles quirked her lips as she studied his face. “I’m not so sure I believe you. About the biting.”

      “You totally fascinate me.” He saw no reason not to just admit that up front.

      The smile faltered, the grip tightened.

      But he didn’t back down. “One moment you’re the royal queen, entertaining her subjects. The next you’re like…well, I can’t describe it really. Uncertain of yourself. Though I can’t imagine how or why.”

      She shifted the slightest step farther away from him, but didn’t directly comment on his evaluation other than to say, “Yes, well, the circumstances here are a bit far removed from the typical, aren’t they? Tends to make a person behave in ways somewhat out of step with the norm. Not all that fascinating really. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She motioned with her head to the office door, which he was now blocking.

      “Misty—”

      She shot him a look of surprise.

      “I was standing right in the room. I might not be directly involved in the investigation, but I do know your name.” And your occupation, he thought, but didn’t say. As it was, she probably thought he was another slug, interested more by what she did, and in this case where she was presently doing it, than who she was. Well, he admitted to being intrigued by all that, but his interest had been sparked long before he knew anything about her job. Of course, that might have had something to do

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