Forbidden Touch. Paula Graves

      “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