Читать книгу Forbidden Touch - Пола Грейвс - Страница 6

“Welcome back.”

Iris blinked, her vision slowly clearing. Over her head, rattan ceiling fan blades slowly circled, stirring the air around her. The light was off, but muted sunlight filtering through the curtains cast a saffron glow over the white walls.

She was in her hotel room. In her bed.

And sitting next to her, his elbows propped on his knees, was the sandy-haired stranger she’d met at the open-air café.

She bolted upright, scooting back toward the wicker headboard of the hotel bed. “What are you doing here?”

He sat back, his expression shuttering. “Just sittin’ here wonderin’ if you were ever going to wake up. I was about to call a doctor.”

Memory seeped into her foggy brain. The woman at the beach. Her missing friend. “Sandrine,” she murmured.

“Sorry, sugar. She’s still not here.”

She leaned back. “How long was I asleep?”

Maddox lifted one dark eyebrow. “You weren’t sleepin’. You were out for the count.”

“How long?” she repeated, fear blooming in her chest. It was getting worse. Discomfort had always been part of her gift, but in recent years, the intensity of pain had increased, her recovery periods extending from minutes to hours to days.

“About ten minutes. I got your room key out of your purse. Hope you don’t mind.” Maddox handed her the slim card key. “You got a first aid kit around here? We should check your temperature, make sure you’re not hyperthermic.”

Hyperthermic? She slanted a look at him, surprised he’d use such a fancy word for sunstroke. He didn’t look the type. “I’m not overheated,” she said.

“You sure?” He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, frowning. “You still look awfully pale. Maybe I should call that doctor after all.”

Iris shook her head. “There’s nothing a doctor can do.”

He stared at her, his expression queasy as he apparently jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

“No—no. It’s not fatal,” she assured him quickly.

Just crippling, she added silently.

“Glad to hear it.” A smile dimpled his cheeks, but his gaze remained wary, and she could feel him retreating from her.

She quelled a sense of disappointment and tucked the bedcovers more snugly around her. “I’m okay now. Really,” she added, not missing the skepticism in his expression. “I’m going to rest a little and get something to eat.”

“Then what?”

“Then I guess I’ll call the police again and see if I can get them interested in Sandrine’s disappearance.”

He nodded slowly, watching her through narrowed eyes. For the first time, she noticed his lower lip looked red and puffy.

“What happened to your lip?” she asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to say anything else.

“You’re a hardheaded woman.”

That explained the pain in her forehead. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged off her apology. “No worries, sugar. The bleeding didn’t even last that long.”

“You don’t have to babysit me. I’m all right now.”

“At the beach—do you remember—?” He paused and started again. “You told me someone was hurt. And then a few seconds later, a woman ran up the beach calling for help because another woman was hurt. How did you know?”

The answer would only lead to more questions she didn’t want to answer. Not now. Not to a stranger. “I guess I heard the woman calling before you did.”

He pressed his lips together but didn’t ask anything else. He stood up, towering over her bedside. The light from outside cast him in shadow, hiding all but outlines of his strong, square features. He touched her shoulder. “It was interesting meetin’ you, Iris. I hope you find your friend.”

Fire licked her skin where his fingers lay, spreading heat over her collarbone and into her chest. Pain, thick and black, trembled under the surface of his touch, a reminder of the sensation she’d felt when Maddox first touched her at the café. He was as much in pain as the woman at the beach, though his pain came from somewhere inside him.

If she were stronger, she might risk what she called a drawing, a deliberate attempt to ease the distress she could feel festering inside him. But whatever was eating at him was big and strong and old. She didn’t know if she could bear it.

“The offer stands. You find your friend, bring her to town and I’ll buy you both a drink.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, almost sagging with relief when he removed his hand from her shoulder and walked to the door. The tightness in her chest receded, the blackness ebbing from the edges of her vision.

He turned in the open doorway, his head slanting as he gazed back at her. “If the police don’t help you, let me know.”

“What can you do?”

He smiled. “I know people who know people.”

“Are any of those people private detectives?”

His only answer was a widening of his smile as he closed the door behind him.

“MAN COME lookin’ for you, Mad Dog.” Claudell Savoy looked up from behind the bar when Maddox entered the Beachcomber, a tiny hole-in-the-wall dive that catered more to locals than the tourist crowd. “Seem real interested in where you at.”

Maddox shot the grizzled Creole bartender a wary look. “You tell him anything?”

“Not me, man.” Claudell didn’t sound convincing.

“For enough cash, you’d sell out your mama. What’d you tell him?” Maddox slid onto a bar stool in front of Claudell. He was the only one around; the bar wouldn’t open for another hour, but Claudell never minded the company.

“I jus’ say I see you around here sometime.” Claudell grinned, looking proud of himself. “He give me twenty dollars.”

Maddox frowned. “Thanks, buddy.”

“You ain’t nobody’s buddy, man. We both know that.” Claudell set a tumbler in front of him and pulled out a bottle of rye whiskey. “Here. On the house.”

Maddox put his hand over the glass. “Rain check.” The temptation to drown his chronic dissatisfaction in liquor was getting a little too strong these days.

Claudell shrugged and put the glass back in a rack behind the bar. “Say, I remember somethin’ else ’bout that man.”

Maddox met the bartender’s expectant gaze. “I ain’t givin’ you twenty bucks, Claudell. Good try, though.”

Claudell shrugged, smiling. “Bah, I tell you for nothin’. He say someone name Celia lookin’ for you.”

“I don’t know any Celia.”

“He say she wanna talk to you. Real important.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. “What’d he look like?”

Claudell grimaced. “You know. Tourist.”

Great, that narrowed it down. “Did he say where I could find him if I happened to want to talk to this Celia?”

“Didn’t say. Give me this, though.” Claudell reached into the chest pocket of his stained white uniform shirt and retrieved a business card.

Maddox took it from him. “Charles Kipler Management,” he read aloud. An address in Beverly Hills, California. The cell phone number listed might be a place to start.

He pulled out his own cell phone and started to dial the number, then stopped, remembering why he’d come here in the first place. While looking for Iris’s hotel room key, he’d come across the photo of her friend in the front pocket of her purse. He’d snapped a shot with his phone, figuring he could show it around, help her out.

Not as if he had much else to do these days.

He showed Claudell the image. “Ever seen this woman?”

Claudell peered at the photo. “Not me. Pretty, though. You meet you a girl, Mad Dog?”

Maddox ignored the bartender’s salacious grin. “She’s gone missing from the Hotel St. George.”

“St. George?” Claudell’s smile faded. “No good. I hear bad thing about St. George.”

Maddox pocketed his phone. “What bad thing?”

“People gone.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

“What do you mean?”

Claudell picked up another glass and started polishing. “A man go into the Tremaine yesterday. Say his friend missing from St. George. Gone, nobody know where.”

Maddox hadn’t heard about it. “Did he talk to the police?”

Claudell made a face. “They want it go away.” He lowered his voice, as if imparting a deep, dark secret. “There more.”

“More disappearances?”

Claudell nodded. “Bad thing happen at St. George. You smart, you stay away.” The telephone sitting at the end of the bar began ringing. Claudell went to answer it.

Maddox looked down at Sandrine’s image on his cell phone. Where’d you go, darlin’?

The bartender wasn’t what he’d call a reliable source; his integrity was questionable, and he was a sucker for a spooky story. But if Iris’s friend Sandrine wasn’t the only person to go missing from St. George—

His cell phone vibrated against his palm. The display panel popped up, showing an unfamiliar number. Maddox slid off the bar stool and headed outside, pushing the connect button on the phone. “Yeah?”

“Is this Mr. Heller?”

Well, hell. “Who’s askin’?”

“My name is Charles Kipler. My client Celia Shore wants to thank you for your aid to her this morning.”

“I think you must have the wrong guy.”

“You weren’t the man who gave aid to an injured woman on the beach earlier this afternoon?”

He ought to deny it. Save himself the headache. But there were a lot of unanswered questions about the woman on the beach, or more specifically, Iris’s connection with her, that piqued his curiosity. “That was me. How did you get my number?”

“I’ll explain later. Ms. Shore wants to see you. She’s at St. Ignacio Hospital. I’ll meet you in the lobby and take you to her room. How soon can you get here?”

“You expect me to drop everything and come visit your client, and you won’t even tell me how you got my number?”

“Yes.”

Frowning, Maddox tightened his grip on the cell phone. “Isn’t she a little busy undergoing treatment or something?”

“She’s been released to a room to recover. She’s doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

Maddox quelled the urge to ask just what those circumstances might be. This guy might be a jerk, but he’d known just what buttons to push to make Maddox too curious to resist the request. He could poke around for answers once he was face-to-face with this Celia Shore. “I need to change clothes. I can be there around two-thirty.”

“I’ll be in the lobby waiting.”

“How will you know it’s me?”

“I have a photo of you.” The man hung up before Maddox could respond.

He snapped his phone closed and rubbed his forehead, where the day’s tension was beginning to form a painful knot right between his eyes.

Where had the man found a photo of him? He didn’t make a habit of posing for snapshots. Although it was possible, he supposed, that someone on the beach had used a photo phone just as he had in Iris’s hotel room.

The more important question was, who was Celia Shore and why did she want to talk to him?

THE PHONE on the hotel bedside table rang while Iris was dressing after a long shower. She grabbed the receiver, hoping Sandrine would be on the other end of the line with a crazy explanation for where she’d been.

But it was the hotel front desk. “There’s a letter at the front desk for Miss Beck,” the concierge explained in his crisp British accent. “Shall I send a porter with it?”

“Please.” Iris finished dressing in a hurry and dug in her handbag for money to tip the porter. He arrived within five minutes and traded a creamy linen envelope for the cash. Iris locked the door behind him and opened the envelope, hoping the contents would give her a clue to Sandrine’s whereabouts.

A rectangular card with embossed edges lay inside the envelope. “You and a friend are invited to a cocktail party in the Paradise Room at Hotel St. George,” she read. The date listed in shiny silver ink was today’s date. Eight o’clock.

The invitation requested an RSVP and listed a cell phone number. Iris picked up the phone and dialed the number.

A woman with a Midwestern accent answered on the first ring. “Cassandra Society.”

Iris paused. Cassandra Society? What was the Cassandra Society?

“Hello?” the voice repeated.

Iris cleared her throat. “Hi. I received this invitation to a cocktail party tonight in the Paradise Room.”

“Will you be able to attend?”

“Do you mind telling me how many people you expect to attend?” Crowds in close quarters were a nightmare for her these days.

“Sixteen invitations went out. We’ve had twelve people confirm so far.”

A maximum of thirty-two people. In a private hotel meeting room, a number that size should be bearable, she decided. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Your name?”

“I’m calling for my friend. Sandrine Beck.”

There was a brief pause on the line, punctuated by the sound of papers rustling. “You must be Iris Browning.”

Iris dropped onto the edge of the bed, surprised. How did this woman know her name? “Yes.”

“Sandrine mentioned you’d be here today. I hope we’ll see you at the seminar tomorrow, as well?”

Seminar? What in the world had Sandrine gotten her into? She licked her lips and took a plunge. “I’ll be there.”

Wherever there was.

She hung up the phone and stared at the balcony door across from the bed, her mind racing to catch up with the chaos of clues she’d just received about her friend’s whereabouts.

Seminars meant a conference of some sort. That would be easy enough to establish. She picked up the phone and called the front desk. The concierge answered.

“This is room two-twelve. I believe the Cassandra Society is holding a conference of some sort in this hotel, correct?”

“That is correct. Is there a problem?”

“No. No problem. Can you tell me anything about the Cassandra Society? What’s its focus?”

The concierge hesitated before answering. “I believe that information is covered in their conference brochure, madam. Shall I have someone bring you a copy?”

“Yes, thank you. That would be very helpful.”

“You are most welcome. I’ll send someone presently.”

She thanked the concierge again and rang off. Within a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door, and a bellman handed over a tri-fold brochure printed on dove-gray paper. The title was printed in clean black type: Expanding Horizons: The Third Annual Conference of the Cassandra Society.

Iris opened the brochure and scanned the contents. Most of the language was carefully chosen to portray the Cassandra Society conference as scientific inquiry, but the bottom line was, the conference catered to people interested in psychic phenomena. That made sense, given the organization’s name. Cassandra obviously referred to the heroine of Greek mythology whose prophecies were fated never to be believed.

The conference was exactly the sort of thing that would interest Sandrine. She was a medium herself and liked to study paranormal phenomena. It also explained why she’d have signed Iris up without giving her any forewarning. Sandrine knew Iris’s ambivalence about going public with her abilities. She’d probably guessed—correctly—that Iris would’ve refused to come had she known about the conference.

She read through the brochure, looking for more information about the organization, but most of the text inside outlined the conference schedule and speaker bios. There was almost nothing about the Cassandra Society itself.

She sat on the edge of the bed, wishing she’d brought her laptop computer from home. If there’d ever been a time for a Web search, it was now. There had to be more detailed information about the Cassandra Society on the Internet than she was finding in this oh-so-uninformative brochure.

She finger-combed her damp hair away from her face and crossed to the closet where she’d deposited her luggage without unpacking yesterday afternoon. The second luggage rack in the closet sat conspicuously empty, reminding her that wherever Sandrine had gone, she’d taken her bags with her.

Pushing away a wave of despair, Iris unzipped the garment bag that contained the two dressy outfits she’d brought with her. The cinnamon-red silk dress was a little longer than the natural linen sheath and would hide her skinned knees. She pulled it from the bag and smoothed the sleek skirt. It would work for the cocktail party.

Meanwhile, she had just a few hours to research the Cassandra Society before the party.

MADDOX STARTED undressing as soon as he stepped inside his squat little bungalow nestled at the outer edge of the rain forest north of Sebastian. The house wasn’t much to look at, but the view from his back veranda was worth every penny he’d spent on the place. Mount Stanley, the dormant volcano that had formed the island of Mariposa centuries ago, had long since transformed to a lush, blue-green peak towering over the tiny Caribbean island. Its southwestern face filled his panoramic view of the rain forest that spread, thick and teeming with wildlife, as far as he could see.

He didn’t let many people in town know about this place. It would raise too many questions about where he got the money to buy a decent-sized house with a spectacular view on an island where land and housing were at a premium. Even inland places such as his cost a small fortune, a fortune a jack-of-all-trades beach bum like Mad Dog Heller shouldn’t have at his disposal.

He’d created his life from scratch on the island. Well, from scratch and occasional dips into a massive trust fund that had sat in a bank accruing interest from when his father had died and left him his fortune eight years ago.

The old man hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him before that. Married, rich and successful, he probably would never have admitted paternity if he hadn’t gotten sick of his legitimate kids and their profligate spending and left Maddox half his fortune to spite them.

The money was still there, for the most part. Maddox had spent some of it, early on, taking care of his mother. But she’d died two years after his father, and he’d left the money mostly untouched since then.

When he decided to make the move to Mariposa, he’d brought nothing but the clothes on his back and the ancient Steinway upright piano that had been his mother’s.

He showered quickly, taking time to shave the shadowy thatch of beard darkening his jawline. Toweling dry his hair, he booted up his laptop computer and typed in a search for “Celia Shore.”

Scores of hits came up immediately. The first link read Celia Shore—Official Web site. He clicked it and the Web site loaded a splash of vibrant pinks and teals. Across the top of the page was a photo of a beautiful blonde in her thirties. A radiant glow of pearl pink edged the image. To her right, her name was written in looping cursive, with a line of narrow, straight type below: Psychic Healer.

Well, hell.