Forbidden Touch. Paula Graves

      PAULA GRAVES

      FORBIDDEN TOUCH

      TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

       AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

      For Gayle Wilson, whose wonderful stories made me

       want to be a Harlequin Intrigue author in the first place.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      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