Читать книгу Forbidden Touch - Paula Graves - Страница 7

Maddox wasn’t sure what he’d find when he reached the Tropico. Iris playing Florence Nightingale certainly wasn’t it.

Yet there she was, kneeling next to Jacob Massier’s crumpled body on the street in front of the biker bar, her hands moving over the biker’s back while a small crowd of bar regulars gathered in a restive semicircle behind her. She didn’t look up as Maddox pulled the Harley to a stop nearby.

He took his helmet off and started to ask what the hell she thought she was doing when he realized he’d seen the glassy-eyed look on her face once before, on the beach when she’d held Celia Shore’s hand while they waited for the EMTs to arrive.

Jacob Massier stirred suddenly, pushing up on one elbow. Iris dropped her hands away from his back and fell sideways, slumping against the front wall of the bar. A murmur of confusion broke out among the gathered bikers, as if they weren’t sure if they should go to her aid or leave her alone to recover from whatever was ailing her.

Maddox pushed past them and crouched by Iris, lifting her chin to check her eyes. They focused slowly on him, a soft breath escaping her lips. “I was looking for you,” she said.

“So I hear,” he responded, lifting his fingers to her throat to check her pulse. She flinched at his touch, as if it hurt her. He dropped his hand away, satisfied that her pulse was strong and steady, and rocked back on his heels. “I thought you were going to take a long nap and let yourself recover.”

“I was feeling better,” she answered.

“Obviously not better enough.” He offered her his hand.

She eyed it warily.

“I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

She rewarded the hoary joke with a lopsided grin that went a long way toward easing the knot that had settled in his belly seconds after Claudell had told him where she’d gone. She took his hand, trembling as he closed his fingers over hers.

“Is he okay?” Her gaze slid past him to settle on Jacob, who’d made it to a sitting position.

“You okay, Jake?” Maddox asked the biker.

“I’m good,” he answered gruffly, his expression betraying a hint of embarrassment. “Lady got the mojo.”

Considering the way his stomach was fluttering just from the feel of her soft hand in his, Maddox couldn’t argue.

“ARE YOU SURE you shouldn’t be back in bed, resting?” Maddox scooted his chair closer to Iris, the spicy smell of him mingling with the chicory aroma of the coffee at her elbow. As she’d figured, he’d known where to find the only place in Sebastian with Internet-wired computers for rent.

“I want to know more about this Cassandra Society.” Iris typed the name into the search engine, hoping she’d have better luck than Lily had.

“I want to know more about the guy with the beard,” Maddox muttered. “Tell me what he looked like.”

She looked away from the computer. “Sandy blond hair and hazel-green eyes. His beard was trimmed Vandyke style, and a little darker than his hair.”

“How old?”

“Late thirties, maybe older.”

The Internet café was nearly empty, though with the dinner hour approaching, a few more people were beginning to filter in. Iris was glad they were mostly alone. The relative isolation had helped her recover from her experience at the Tropico. Only a twinge remained in the general vicinity of her kidneys, and the stinging sensation in her right knuckles was nearly gone.

“You said he had an accent?”

“Yes. Dutch, maybe. Or German.” She turned back to the computer, glancing over the listings. As Lily had indicated on the phone, the Cassandra Society didn’t appear to have a Web site, but the search engine had come back with a few links. She tried the first one and found herself on a self-help page full of paranormal psychobabble.

Great.

“When I showed Claudell a photo of your friend—”

“Where’d you get a photo of Sandrine?” she interrupted, looking up at him.

He pulled a cell phone from his pants pocket, aimed and pushed the button. A bright flash made her blink. “I took a picture of her photo while you were unconscious.” He scooted closer, showing her the photo he’d just snapped of her.

She grimaced at the deer-in-the-headlights look on her face in the photo, not liking the idea of him going through her things while she was unconscious.

“The picture was sticking out of your purse. I just grabbed it, took a quick snap with the phone and put it back in your purse.”

“Why?”

“I figured I could show it around, see if anyone had seen her.”

“I just don’t understand your interest.”

His silence drew her gaze again. This time, he was looking at the computer screen.

“You didn’t finish what you were saying,” she murmured. “Did your friend recognize Sandrine?”

He looked up at her slowly, his eyes narrowing. “No. But he’d heard about people going missing from the St. George.”

Dread curled inside her. With growing alarm, she realized that at least some of the cold, clammy sensation she was experiencing was coming from Maddox.

How bad did a situation need to be to scare a man called Mad Dog?

“How many people?” She tried to read his expression, see if she could discern any more of what he was feeling, but his expression was shuttered. And she wasn’t a mind reader.

“Claudell said more than one. And the man who approached you at the Tropico mentioned a missing friend.”

“If he was telling the truth.” She couldn’t shake the memory of the empty sensation emanating from the bearded man. He’d given off nothing. No fear, no pain—except for one brief moment when he’d looked at her with a quiver of concern that had quickly fled.

“Why do you think he wasn’t? Because he ran?”

She shook her head, unable to explain her instincts without going into details about her gift. “I just got the sense he was hiding something.”

Another wave of darkness washed through her, as if her words had opened a floodgate of anxiety inside him. She forced herself not to move away, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to reach out to him, either.

She’d always felt it was her duty to relieve pain where she could. Otherwise, what meaning was there in having a gift that took such a toll on her body and her spirit?

All she had to do was take his hand and the darkness of his fear would flow out of him and into her. But she couldn’t do it. She felt too fragile right now. All her energy had to be focused on finding Sandrine.

“I’ll see what I hear at the party tonight,” she said. “Surely if other people have missing friends, there’ll be talk.” She looked back at the computer and tried another link.

“I’ll come by tonight, hang out and talk to some of the hotel staff, see if they have any stories to tell about the conference,” Maddox suggested. “If you need me at the party, I’ll be around. Just holler.”

To her surprise, the familiar cadence of his Georgia accent seemed to have a soothing effect on her rattled nerves. For the past twenty-four hours, she’d felt as if she were navigating an alien world. Hearing the inflections of home in Maddox’s slow drawl eased her growing sense of isolation.

But letting herself become too accustomed to having Maddox around was its own kind of folly, she knew.

She sneaked a quick glance at him. He’d cleaned up better than expected, she had to admit, the khaki slacks and crisp navy shirt a definite upgrade from the faded T-shirt and denim shorts he’d been wearing when she first met him at the café that morning. His overlong hair was pulled back neatly, revealing the full impact of his masculine features and the dimples that appeared whenever he smiled.

But she knew enough about bad boys to know that Maddox was a lousy bet. He might be a fun fling—she’d put money on it—but he’d end up breaking her heart.

She didn’t have much heart left to spare these days.

“I almost forgot why I was lookin’ for you in the first place,” he murmured, leaning closer to her. His breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “I went to the hospital to check on that lady on the beach.”

She gave a small start of surprise. She should have checked on the woman herself, she thought, dismayed that it hadn’t even crossed her mind. “How is she?”

“Doing well. You called it—mild concussion.”

“Did you talk to her? Did she know what happened to her?”

He shook his head. “She doesn’t remember anything after gettin’ on the plane in Miami.”

Iris shuddered at the thought. How horrible, to wake up in such a state and remember nothing about how it happened. “What’s her name?”

He pointed to the computer screen. There, on the list of hits from her computer search, was a link to the official Celia Shore Web site. “Celia Shore, psychic healer,” he intoned, obviously not impressed. “She wants to see you.”

Iris frowned. “Why?”

He shrugged. “To say thanks, I guess.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“She seems to think you did.”

A phantom memory of the injured woman’s pain buzzed through Iris’s nerves. “How long will she be in the hospital?”

“They’ll probably let her go tomorrow if there aren’t any changes in her condition.”

Then maybe I won’t have to see her, she thought, and immediately felt guilty. No matter what else Celia Shore might be, she was a woman who’d been assaulted and left on the beach to die. She was in pain, both physical and emotional, and Iris didn’t have the right to judge whether she was worthy of comfort and relief.

But she didn’t for a moment think the woman was actually a psychic. Iris knew what a real psychic looked like, how she behaved and the toll her special gift took on her. She’d seen it in her sister Lily’s retreat from the world and the migraines she’d endured just to fight the visions that tortured her. In Rose’s despair when the death veils had foretold the death of a friend. In her own ever-worsening pain whenever she tried to use her empathic healing gift to ease the suffering of others.

Real psychics didn’t go to Hollywood and make a fortune holding the hands of overpaid, emotionally immature celebrities.

She forced her attention back to the Web search, clicking through several of the links. As Lily had mentioned, the references to the Cassandra Society were generally in passing, but clearly the Cassandra Society was an organization dedicated to paranormal research. Of the self-consciously serious type.

Lovely.

“Guess that’s why Celia Shore was in town,” Maddox murmured, reading over her shoulder.

“Must be.”

“Your friend too, huh?” He sounded almost apologetic, as if he pitied her for finding out her friend was involved with “those” kind of people.

“Sandrine is interested in the paranormal,” she said noncommittally.

“So.” He looked at her, trapping his lower lip between his teeth for a brief moment. “You goin’ to the seminars tomorrow?”

She should. She’d find out a lot more about Sandrine and the Cassandra Society that way. But right now, the thought of it was more than she could bear. “I don’t know.”

“I could take you to the hospital to see Celia before she’s checked out of there tomorrow. If you want.”

“Only if you have a second helmet.” The ride from the Tropico to the Sand Dollar Café had been one of the scariest experiences of her life.

He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll drive the Jeep.”

Her cheek tingled where his fingers brushed her skin.

He dropped his hand and looked away, but not before she caught a hint of consternation on his face, as if he realized he’d overstepped some sort of line by touching her that way.

Good. That meant he knew there were lines in the first place. It made it easier to take him up on his offer of help.

She spent another fifteen minutes reading through the links without learning much more about the Cassandra Society. Sipping the last of her coffee, she turned to Maddox, who sat draped over the chair beside her, watching her with lazy blue eyes that made her breath catch.

She licked her lips. “Thanks for showing me this place. I should head back now. The party’s in a couple of hours.”

“Sure you don’t want a ride?” His cheeks dimpled with a slow smile.

“The walk will be good for me.”

“Okay.” He stood when she did. “I’ll walk you back.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“I’ll walk you back,” he repeated firmly. He put his hand between her shoulder blades, nodding toward the door. He stopped to say something to the guy at the cashier’s stand, handed him some cash and then led her outside.

“What about the Harley?”

“I paid that guy an extra ten to make sure it’s here when I get back. Let’s go.”

THE DAY WAS WANING, the sun already low on the western sky, gilding the Caribbean Sea as it stretched toward the horizon. The sun was warm on her cheeks, and the air was fragrant with the tang of the sea. For a moment, Iris could almost believe she was on a tropical vacation with nothing to worry about but where to go for dinner.

Almost.

“Hungry?” Maddox asked as they neared the main drag. “There’s a fish-and-chips stand just over there.”

She was hungry, she realized. She took him up on his offer, waiting while he dealt with the street vendor and returned with two cardboard boats full of fried fish and crispy French fries.

“Careful, it’s hot.” He handed her one of the boats.

She gingerly plucked off a piece of hot fish ad popped it in her mouth. The blend of spices on the breading and the delicate flavor of the fish made her hum with satisfaction.

“Good, huh?” He nudged her with his shoulder, motioning with a nod of his head for her to follow him. They set off down the main street toward the beach, mingling with the other tourists strolling the boulevard.

BY THE TIME THEY REACHED the beach road, Iris proclaimed herself stuffed and handed off the rest of her meal to Maddox. She’d eaten less than half, he noted with some consternation, but the meal and the exercise had seemed to do her some good. There was a little more color in her cheeks and she didn’t seem as weak as she’d been when he’d found her outside the Tropico.

“You must love living here in Mariposa.” Iris turned to look at him, her eyes alight. He felt a tug in the center of his chest, as if she’d pulled a string wrapped around his heart. “Do you ever get homesick?”

“I used to.” He tossed the remains of their dinner in one of the public trash bins lining the walkway. “I got over it.”

Iris laughed. Maddox found his gaze drawn by the low, throaty sound. Her eyes sparkled, lighting up her whole face from the inside. He found it hard to take a deep breath.

Why had he insisted on walking her home? Or hell, if he really wanted to ask a tough question, why had he followed her out of the café that morning in the first place?

A combination of curiosity and boredom could explain some of his interest. But not all of it.

“How’d you end up in Mariposa, anyway?” she asked.

“Took a right turn at St. Croix.”

“Seriously.”

“Seriously. I was heading toward Trinidad for Carnival and took a detour on a whim. I liked it here and decided to stay.”

“How long ago?”

“A little over two years.”

She looked surprised. “I would have thought you’d been here longer. Everybody seems to know you, and you seem to know everything about this place.”

“I’m very adaptable. Who knows, I may decide next week to head on down to Trinidad after all.”

“A real rolling stone, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Never gathering any moss?”

“Nasty stuff, moss.” The words came out as a warning. One he hoped she’d heed.

Silence fell between them, not an entirely comfortable one, as they moved ever closer to the St. George’s pale pink facade.

He broke the silence. “What about you, sugar? What do you do up there in Alabama?”

“I own a plant nursery and I also do some botanical research on medicinal herbs.”

“Botanical research,” he echoed. Little Miss Jet-lagged Tourist had layers to her, didn’t she?

“I have a master’s degree in botany,” she explained. “Maybe one day I’ll finish my PhD. Too busy for it right now. What about you? What did you do before you took a right turn at St. Croix?”

“This and that. Nothing special.”

“It must be nice living in paradise year-round.”

“Mostly,” he agreed. “The weather’s great.”

As they reached the entrance of the St. George, Iris turned and looked up at him.

“Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t follow. “Doing what?”

“Helping me out.” Her dark-eyed gaze grew wary. “Do you expect something from me in return?”

He didn’t know whether to feel insulted or mortified. “I don’t expect anything from you, sugar. I’m just helpin’ out a tourist in need.”

“You make a habit of that?”

“You caught me on a good week. I’m between jobs.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips. “I don’t have a lot of money with me, but I can get some from my room—”

He grabbed her hand. She made a soft sound of surprise. “I don’t need your money. What do you think I am?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” Her brow furrowed. “I just thought—”

“I know what you thought.” He released her hand, looking away from her.

“I really am sorry,” she said again, catching his hand with hers. He tried not to look at her, but the feel of her fingers, soft on his skin, drew him in. Her gaze was full of remorse. “You’ve been good to me today. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You just did. Don’t worry about it.” He withdrew his hand, wishing he were anywhere but here with this woman.

“I should attend the seminar tomorrow, shouldn’t I?” Iris asked.

“Maybe you’ll find your friend there.”

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t really think so.”

She released a shaky breath. “She would have left me a message if she knew she was going to be away overnight.”

“Are you sure she didn’t?” he asked, wanting to smooth the frown from her pretty forehead. “Maybe it got misplaced.”

Her expression shifted. “Maybe they sent the note to the wrong room. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Her sudden look of excitement made his stomach hurt. “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s just something to look into.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She started up the steps to the hotel entrance. “Thanks again for everything!”

He tamped down the urge to follow her inside. His good deed for the day was done, and then some. He’d told her about Celia Shore. He’d helped her find a computer so she could look up the Cassandra Society. Hell, he’d even tucked her into bed when she’d fainted on him.

And besides, he’d see her tonight at the cocktail party.

BY 7 P.M., Maddox had taken his second shower of the day, dressed in a pair of black trousers and a white dress shirt, and headed back to the Hotel St. George to put his plan for the evening in motion. And a big part of the plan had just pulled into the St. George’s employees’ parking lot.

“Milo!” Maddox pushed away from the wall and walked toward the barrel-chested waiter parking his scooter a few slots down from Maddox’s Harley.

Milo Maroulis looked up cautiously. “Mad Dog. What you up to?” He kept moving toward the kitchen entrance.

Blocking Milo’s path, Maddox pulled a pair of twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. “I need you to call in sick. I need inside the cocktail party going on tonight.”

“Why?” Milo asked, his voice wary.

Maddox flashed the waiter a sly grin. “Why do you think?”

Milo looked surprised. “You’re not gonna hit on one of them crazy people, are you?”

Maddox stood in the doorway to keep Milo from going inside. “I’ll make it sixty. You can use my cell phone to call in.”

Milo pursed his lips. Maddox could tell he wouldn’t put up a real fight; his eyes gleamed with unconcealed eagerness to take the money and run. Maddox added an extra twenty to the two bills in his hand and waved them in front of Milo.

Milo grabbed the bills from Maddox’s hand and stuffed them in his pants pocket. “Go talk to Thomas. He knows you. Tell him I’m home with a sore throat and I asked you to take my place.” Milo headed for the parking lot, a spring in his step.

Maddox entered through the kitchen, ignoring the curious looks from the staff already assembling appetizers for the party. He snagged a spiced shrimp off one platter, flashing a smile at the pretty Creole sous chef, and went to look for the wait staff manager to talk his way into the cocktail party.

THERE HAD BEEN no note waiting for Iris in her box when she returned to the hotel that afternoon. She’d asked the desk clerk about the possibility of a mix-up, but the clerk had told her that nobody had mentioned getting the wrong note, so far.

She hoped the Cassandra Society cocktail party would offer more information about her friend’s disappearance.

The Paradise Room didn’t quite live up to its name. Though live potted palms dotted the room and the walls were painted in a gradation of red, coral and saffron in an attempt to capture the colors of an island sunset, the room was small and windowless, rendering the attempt at setting a mood kitschy.