Читать книгу Forbidden Touch - Paula Graves - Страница 4

Pain snaked up Iris Browning’s spine and squeezed, stealing her breath. She stumbled to a halt, her sudden stop earning a French epithet from a blonde walking on the sidewalk behind her. The woman swung her head around as she passed, glaring and gesturing.

“Sorry,” Iris murmured, moving off the sun-baked sidewalk and leaning against the warm stucco facade of a dive shop. She breathed deeply, the tangy sea air filling her lungs and beginning to clear her pain-fuzzed brain.

“Are you okay, sugar?” A man’s drawl, molasses-slow and unmistakably Southern, rumbled from somewhere to her right. She opened her eyes, squinting against the tropical sun, and found a pair of slate-blue eyes fixed on her.

The speaker was not a local, though his sun-bronzed skin suggested he’d been in the tropics awhile. He sat at a small wooden table near the front of an open-air café. His long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him, clad in a pair of denim cutoffs that had seen better days. His cotton T-shirt, though worn loose and untucked, did little to hide his broad shoulders or muscular chest.

Iris raised her eyes to meet his curious gaze. “I’m fine.”

He pushed back from the table, his chair scraping the concrete floor, and stood to face her. “You don’t look fine.”

“Gee, thanks.” She tried for sardonic but didn’t quite achieve it. Annoyed at her weakness, she pushed away from the wall. Her knees wobbled but she managed to stay upright.

Remember why you’re here, Iris.

Ignoring her instinct to run, she crossed to him and pulled a photo from her pocket. It was becoming dog-eared, thanks to her morning’s efforts. “Have you seen this woman?”

The stranger’s brow wrinkled as he studied the face. “Can’t say I have.” He looked up. “Friend of yours?”

“She was supposed to meet me yesterday afternoon. She didn’t show.” The anxiety writhing in her stomach had been building since she’d arrived by cab at the hotel to discover Sandrine missing. The concierge had told her Sandrine hadn’t checked out, but none of her friend’s things were in the room she and Iris were supposed to share. Iris didn’t want to think the worst, but the alternatives didn’t make much sense.

As the blue-eyed stranger handed the photo back to her, his fingers brushed hers. A dark sensation roiled through her, pulling her attention back to the present. It wasn’t physical pain, like the earlier sensation, but an emotional one, black and bitter like strong coffee.

She jerked her hand back, losing her grip on the photo. It fluttered to the floor, faceup.

The man’s eyes narrowed as he picked up the photo and handed it to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to invade your personal space.”

She realized how he must have interpreted her quick retreat from his touch. “You didn’t,” she assured him, her voice more gruff than she intended. The blackness swirling through her thickened, slowed to a poisonous crawl.

“You’re not used to this heat. Why don’t you sit down? I’ll buy you something to drink.”

She looked up at him, intending to refuse. But the wariness in his eyes struck a nerve. Her earlier reaction to his touch had wounded him, somehow. She found herself unable to compound the insult by rebuffing his offer.

Besides, she was tired and thirsty.

Relenting, she sat in the chair he held out for her. The stranger disappeared for a moment, returning with a chilled bottle of water, already uncapped. He set it in front of her and took the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“Name’s Maddox.” His gaze followed the bottle to her lips.

Iris began to take a sip, then stopped. How many rules of traveling alone had she just broken? She set the bottle back on the table and looked nervously at her companion.

A wry smile curved his lips, carving dimples in his bronzed cheeks. She felt a bubble of unexpected attraction pop and spread through her chest. “Sorry. Guess I should have left it unopened. I’ll get you another one.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay.” She started to stand, but fresh pain assaulted her, driving her back to her seat.

“I’ll get you another one,” he repeated firmly.

She watched him cross to the bar and order another water. He paid in cash and brought the unopened bottle back to her. She opened the bottle and took a sip.

“Had any sleep?” he asked.

She eyed him warily. “How bad do I look?”

Maddox grabbed the other bottle of water and took a swig before he spoke. “You look tired. A little pale. Not bad.”

“I just want to find Sandrine.”

“That’s a pretty name.” He gestured at the photo on the table. “Pretty girl. Maybe she met somebody here—”

Iris shook her head. “She’d have left a message.”

He leaned toward her, flashing a grin just this side of naughty. “Love makes you forget your own name, sugar.”

“She would have left a message,” she repeated firmly, forcing her gaze away from those dimples.

“Give her time. Maybe she will.” He sat back again, slouching low in his seat. One sandy lock of hair flopped into his eyes; he shook it away from his face and leveled his gaze with hers. “You have somewhere to stay, don’t you?”

She nodded quickly. “She’d already checked in for us.”

“Well, that’s good.” His voice softened, almost as if he were speaking to a child. “Maybe you should head on back to your room until later in the day. The sun down here in the islands isn’t like what you’re used to in the States.”

“I live in Alabama. I know about heat.” She immediately felt foolish for giving him even that much personal information.

“I’m from Georgia, myself,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Bet you couldn’t tell, huh? Been working on losing my accent.”

She couldn’t hold back a soft chuckle.

He smiled at her, flashing that dimple again. It had a similar effect, twisting her stomach into a knot. “That’s better. Laughter’s the best medicine, they say.”

“I’m Iris.” She managed a tight smile.

“Nice to meet you, Iris. That’s another pretty name.”

She ignored the compliment. “Are you here on vacation?”

“No, ma’am, I live here year-round.”

“Because Georgia just wasn’t hot enough for you?”

“In the summer Georgia’s hotter than here.” He slumped deeper in the tiny café chair. “It’s nice year-round here in Mariposa. Never so hot that a sea breeze can’t perk you up and never so cool that you need to wear socks with your flip-flops.”

“How does one support oneself on a tropical island?” she asked, giving in to a twinge of curiosity.

“One lives off one’s trust fund, sugar.” He laughed. “Or odd jobs. Whichever is available.”

“What odd jobs do you do?”

“Don’t think I look like the trust fund type?”

She flushed, embarrassed by her assumption. “I’m sorry—”

“I do security work. Here and there.”

Mysterious, she thought, her wariness returning. She’d grown too relaxed over the past few minutes. Not smart, dropping her guard all alone in a strange place.

“Have you talked to the police about your friend?” Maddox asked after another long swig of water.

The question disarmed her a bit. “They didn’t seem terribly concerned. They said she’s a grown-up, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet—”

“Blah blah blah,” he finished with a sympathetic nod. “How about family and other friends? Did you check with them?”

“She doesn’t have a family, and I don’t know that much about her life or who her other friends are.” She could tell her answer confused him, so she continued. “Sandrine is a friend from college. We live in different states now. We do talk on the phone now and then, but I don’t know much about her life and she doesn’t know about mine. That’s part of what this weekend was going to be about—catching up.”

“Well, maybe it still will be,” Maddox said. “In fact, I bet when you get back to the hotel, your friend’ll be waitin’ for you with some crazy story about how she got waylaid.”

Iris wished she could believe him. But the sense of unease that had hit her the second she stepped from the plane in Sebastian had grown to full-blown foreboding, as palpable as the pain still pulsing up and down her spine.

“You don’t buy that, do you?” Maddox murmured.

“Sandrine’s levelheaded. She wouldn’t go off with someone she’d just met, and she wouldn’t have blown off meeting me at the airport when she worked so hard to talk me into this trip.” Iris looked down at Sandrine’s face in the photo, the ever-present smile and the sparkle of mischief in her green eyes. “And then I think about that missing girl over in—”

“Don’t go there yet.” Maddox reached across the table and brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips. Once again she experienced a strange, dark sensation spiral up her arm from the point of contact. The emotion it evoked inside her remained frustratingly nebulous—dark, painful but undefined.

She forced herself not to pull her hand away this time.

“How about the U.S. consulate?” he asked, sliding his hand away. “Have you checked with anybody there?”

“They suggested I call the police.” She picked up Sandrine’s photo and put it in the front pocket of her purse. “What do I owe you for the water, Mr. Maddox?”

“Just Maddox. No mister. And the water’s on me.”

“Thank you.” When she stood, he stood with her, the polite gesture at odds with his scruffy appearance.

“I hope you find your friend.” He sounded sincere. “Tell you what—when she turns up, bring her down here and I’ll buy you both a drink. Just ask for Mad Dog. Everybody knows me.”

She inclined her head toward him and headed out of the café. The sun slammed into her head like a ninety-degree sledgehammer, sapping her remaining energy as she trudged toward the beach, where the Hotel St. George hovered like a pale pink jewel over the cobalt-blue waters of Cutler’s Bay.

The closer she got to the beach, the stronger the smell of the sea, sharp and salty in the breeze that lifted her hair and dried the perspiration beading on her forehead and arms. But mingled with the sea air, an undercurrent of misery lingered. It weighted on Iris as she neared the palm-studded beach stretching for a mile around the bay.

Someone was out there. Someone in agony. Physical pain, sharp and specific, etched phantom slashes along the skin of Iris’s wrists and ankles. A throbbing pain bloomed in the back of her skull, blinding in its intensity.

Her vision blurred, the world around her beginning to spin out of control. She groped for something to hold on to, something to keep her from pitching forward into the street, but there was nothing. Nothing but the blare of car horns and a muted cacophony of voices.

And pain. Knee-buckling, back-bending pain.

She crumpled to her knees, the sting of the rough pavement on her bare flesh little more than a twinge against the onslaught of agony racing circles around her nervous system.

She tried to lift her head, tried to regain her bearings, but nothing around her looked real or recognizable. It was as if the pain itself had become tangible, a red mist surrounding her, blinding her to everything else around her.

In the heart of that mist, a man’s voice called her name.

MADDOX HELLER kept his distance behind the pale wraith of a woman who’d interrupted his morning, trying not to think too long or hard about why he was venturing out into the mid-morning heat to follow a tourist to her hotel. Sure, she was pretty enough—or would be if she didn’t look like death walking—but Mariposa was full of pretty women, more than a few of whom wouldn’t kick him out of bed for snoring. So why was he so interested in Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist and her woeful little tale?

Hell, Mad Dog, maybe you’re just bored.

Two years in paradise might seem like heaven to some folks, but there was only so much sunshine and sea air a man could take before he needed something different to occupy his thoughts.

After Kaziristan—

He stopped short. No revisiting Kaziristan. That was rule number one of Maddox’s new life. He’d wasted a year wallowing in what-ifs after Kaziristan. Damn near drove him insane.

A block ahead, Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist suddenly pitched forward, hitting the pavement hard, knees first. Maddox’s heart lurched into double time and he sprinted toward her, splitting his attention between Iris and the crowd around her. Like any tourist mecca, Mariposa had its share of thieves and pickpockets. A likely suspect was already lurking, a wiry boy in his late teens on a bicycle.

“Iris!” he called, closing the distance between them.

He saw Iris groping on the ground as if blind. She found her purse and snatched it up, hugging it tight to her chest, turning her head toward his voice.

He pushed through the small crowd of people gathering around her and crouched by her side. “Iris?”

Her head jerked up, her gaze sliding toward him without quite meeting his. He touched her arm and she jumped like a frightened animal, jerking her arm away from him.

“It’s Maddox. From the café, remember?” He took her hand, holding on when she started to pull away. “You fell.”

Her eyes focused on his face, her pupils dilated. Perspiration sparkled on her forehead. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. Let me call an ambulance.”

She released his hand. “I just need to get to my hotel.”

Maddox bit back further protest, glancing at the gathered crowd around him. “Then let me help you do that, at least.” He held out his hand to her one more time.

She looked around her, color creeping up her throat and settling in the center of her pale cheeks. She let him help her up, her body swaying toward his. She smelled of heat and honeysuckle, taking him to a time and place he hadn’t revisited in years. Twin phantoms of loss and longing danced in his head.

Iris gasped softly, her steps faltering. She tugged her hand away, her face lifting to his. “It’s too much.”

He stared at her, not following.

A neutral mask settled over her face. She squared her shoulders and started walking forward at a faster pace.

It lasted only a few feet before she stumbled again. Maddox caught her up as she started to fall.

“Someone’s hurt,” Iris whispered.

Maddox frowned, even more confused. “Who’s hurt?”

“Help! Somebody call 911!” A woman’s voice, high and frantic, drew his attention. He spotted a woman in a bathing suit waving her arms as she jogged awkwardly up the beach.

The woman in the bathing suit caught sight of Maddox and Iris. “There’s a woman on the beach. She’s injured.” The woman staggered to a stop and tried to catch her breath.

Maddox looked down at Iris, the hair on his arms rising. Her coffee-brown eyes met his briefly before she dropped her gaze and lowered her chin almost to her chest.

He grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and gave a terse report when the emergency operator answered. By now, several people had responded to the woman’s cries for help. Tourists and locals alike followed as she jogged back down the beach out of sight. Iris lifted her head and started walking toward the beach, obviously intent on following.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Maddox caught up with her. “You can barely stand.”

“I can help her—”

He grabbed her elbow. “I’ve called for help. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes. You need to get out of the sun and get some bandages on those cuts.” He gestured at her legs.

Her gaze dropped to where blood from her injured knees ran down her shins in slow rivulets. Her brow wrinkled as if she hadn’t realized she was hurt. “They’re just scrapes.”

“Scrapes can get infected if they’re not cleaned.”

Her expression tightened. “I know what I’m doing.” She pulled away and headed for the wooden steps leading from the street to the beach, leaving him little option but to follow her or walk away.

Every instinct he had screamed at him to walk away.

But his legs chose to follow.

Maybe it was adrenaline or sheer female stubbornness, but Iris seemed to find a second wind, moving through the sand with long, steady strides. Maddox caught up with her, sidling a glance at her. She still looked pale, dark circles under her eyes and lines of weariness etched in her forehead, but she didn’t falter as she reached the circle of onlookers ringing a woman lying near the water’s edge.

“I need to get to her,” she murmured, looking up at Maddox.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you a doctor or something?”

“Just get me to her,” she said more firmly.

He edged through the crowd, bringing Iris with him. While she crouched by the woman, taking her hand, Maddox made a quick visual assessment of the woman’s injuries. Definitely not a local; her tan was the chemical variety, and not even the crusted sand and seawater could hide the fact that her crumpled linen suit was designer quality. Her feet were bare, with angry red ligature welts circling both narrow ankles. Similar marks marred her slender wrists.

Her face was pale beneath the tan, smeared vestiges of makeup faintly visible around her eyes and lips. Though her eyes were closed, she was making low moaning sounds, confirming that she was at least partially conscious.

The woman who’d called for help sat by the injured woman’s head, gently stroking matted hair away from her face. “Did anyone call paramedics?” she asked.

“They’re on the way,” Maddox assured her. Since it looked as if Iris was going to do nothing but hold the injured woman’s hand, he knelt and checked the woman’s pulse. Slow but strong. That was a good sign. But her skin was cool to the touch, suggesting she might be slipping toward shock. “Does anyone have a beach towel or something we can use to cover her?”

A man from the crowd offered a multicolored beach blanket. Maddox dusted off the loose sand and folded it over the woman.

She gave a swift gasp, her eyes snapping open to meet Iris’s gaze. The sudden movement caught Maddox by surprise, sending him rocking onto his backside in the soft sand.

A groan rumbled from Iris’s throat and she let go of the woman’s hand. Her face glistened with perspiration and deeper shadows bruised the delicate flesh around her eyes. Trying to rise from her crouch, she ended up on her rear in the sand.

She lifted her eyes to Maddox. “She has a concussion. The back of her head. I don’t think she has any other serious injuries.” Her voice was thin. Breathless.

He forced his attention back to the injured woman, who was trying to sit up. Maddox gently held her still. “The medics’ll be here any minute, darlin’. Hear the sirens? Just lie still.”

Her blue eyes locked with his. “I don’t remember….”

He patted her shoulder. “You may have a bump on your head.” He glanced at Iris. She was staring at the woman.

The sound of sirens died. In seconds, two Sebastian paramedics pushed through the crowd to flank the victim.

Maddox moved out of their way, heading for Iris’s side. She struggled to her feet, ignoring the hand he offered to help her up, and turned her gaze toward the pink facade of Hotel St. George a hundred yards down the beach. Her shoulders slumped.

“Just a few yards,” Maddox coaxed, wrapping his arm around her waist. Her body vibrated like a tuning fork where he touched her. He tightened his hold on her, and half carried her down the beach toward the hotel. As they neared the back entrance, her stumbling gait faltered, her legs giving out.

Maddox lifted her into his arms. She was lighter than she looked, her loose cotton dress hiding the fact that she was almost painfully thin. She made a soft sound of protest that he ignored, then settled her head against his shoulder, her breath shallow and rapid against his throat.

He carried her to one of the cedar benches flanking the walkway. She slumped in the corner of the bench and looked up at him, her gaze unfocused.

He crouched beside her, his heart pounding more from concern than exertion. “Iris? Do you have your room key?”

She struggled to sit up, reaching for her handbag. Suddenly, she pitched forward, her forehead slamming into his mouth. Pain rocketed through his lip, eliciting a soft curse as he caught her to keep her from toppling to the concrete walk.

“Iris?” He eased her head back, brushing her hair away from her face. Her eyes were closed. Her head was a dead weight in his hand.

She was unconscious.