Forbidden Touch. Paula Graves

Celia Shore was important.

      He’d learned long ago not to ignore his instincts.

      

      IRIS NEVER IMAGINED she’d have reason to contact “Mad Dog” again. But her search for an Internet café with computer terminals for rent was proving fruitless. Half the people she asked gave her blank stares, and the others had no clue where she could find such a place.

      At her next stop, a chocolate-skinned waitress with a Dutch accent couldn’t help with her search for an Internet café, but her interest perked up at the mention of Maddox’s name. “You want to find Mad Dog, go talk to that crazy Claudell at the Beachcomber. He knows everything. But don’t fall for his lines. Mad Dog’s, either.” The waitress gave Iris directions to the bar.

      Outside, the sun had dropped lower, shadows lengthening across the busy streets of Sebastian’s commercial district. The day’s heat was fading, cooled by the fragrant ocean breeze.

      A sudden gnawing sensation fluttered through Iris’s chest. Emptiness, as if someone had scooped out her insides and left her body hollow. She tried to sense what direction the feeling was coming from, but it was faint and fleeting.

      She looked around her, keeping her movements slow and calm. There were pedestrians moving all around her, tourists and locals alike, alone or in pairs or groups. Black faces, brown faces, people with tropical tans, people with bright pink sunburns and people with milky-white skin dotted with freckles.

      A tall redhead wearing a straw hat to hide her pale complexion approached, deep in conversation with a shorter woman with mousy brown hair tucked up under a baseball cap. They passed Iris, leaving a cloud of jasmine in their wake. A broad-shouldered man with sandy hair and a Vandyke goatee lounged against a building nearby, talking on a cell phone. The emptiness nibbling at her insides could be from any of them.

      She ignored the sensation and headed for the Beachcomber, where the waitress said she could find Claudell.

      By the time she reached the Beachcomber, her feet were beginning to hurt and the sunscreen she’d applied before leaving the hotel was nearly melted off by perspiration. Her head was pounding, her knees stinging beneath the Band-Aids, and the full spectrum of human misery surrounding her here in the throbbing heart of paradise had weighted down her aching shoulders with an invisible rucksack.

      The bartender looked up when she entered the mostly empty bar. He started to look back down at the shot of whiskey he was pouring but did a comical double take at her approach.

      Without looking, he slid the shot glass down the bar to a dreadlocked man sitting at the end and wiped his hands on his apron. “What can I get you?” he asked.

      “A bottle of water and some information,” she answered.

      

      FOR HIS TRIP to the hospital, Maddox had donned a pair of khaki chinos and a navy golf shirt picked up on his last trip to Miami, his concession to civilization, and tied his shoulder-length mop of sandy hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck.

      It had taken him five minutes to reach St. Ignacio Hospital and another five to find a parking space within sight of the tiny security kiosk. The Harley-Davidson Road King was his baby, and he didn’t like leaving it out in a public parking lot where anyone could jack it. But a twenty passed to the guard in the kiosk would ensure the Harley would be sitting there waiting for him when he got back.

      Money well spent.

      A dark-haired man in an Italian silk suit far too heavy for the tropics stood in the hospital lobby when Maddox entered, his arm lifted in the act of checking his watch. Had to be Charles Kipler, Maddox thought. He had lackey written all over him.

      He stepped forward as Maddox approached. “Maddox Heller?”

      “Charles Kipler?” Maddox mimicked Kipler’s imperious tone.

      Kipler’s lips flattened into a thin line. “Follow me.”

      “You might want to add a pretty please to that.”

      Kipler, who’d already moved toward the elevators, turned to look at Maddox. “Do you have an issue with me?”

      An issue? Maddox stared at the man. Did people really talk like that? “I’m here for me. Not for you or for your psychic friend.”

      Kipler’s expression shifted at his use of the word psychic. “I suppose this is your way of saying you want some sort of compensation.”

      Maddox bit back a laugh. “No. This is my way of saying I’d like to know what your client wants with me.”

      Kipler sighed. “I don’t know. She asked me to track you down and bring you here, so that’s what I’m doing.”

      “Don’t worry, Chuck. I’m sure you’ll get some sort of compensation.” Maddox clapped the agent on his shoulder and crossed to the elevators.

      Kipler joined him as he waited for the car to reach the lobby. Maddox slanted a look toward the manager, whose face had reddened. Most of Maddox’s irritation faded into pity for the man. It was hard, catering to the whims of someone who held your livelihood in her hands. He’d seen a lot of men and women play that role in his so-called father’s life—including his mother. There were always people willing to linger around the perimeter, waiting for crumbs to drop.

      But it wore on a fellow.

      “How’s she doing?” Maddox asked as they stepped into the elevator and began the ascent.

      “Well enough. She has a concussion and some abrasions.”

      Maddox could tell by Kipler’s tone that something else was wrong. “Did she tell you what happened to her?”

      Kipler eyed him warily. “That’s still being investigated.”

      The elevator stopped on the third floor. The door opened and Kipler stepped out, turning right.

      Maddox caught up with him, falling into step. “What aren’t you telling me, Chuck?”

      “The name is Charles.”

      “What aren’t you telling me, Charles?”

      Kipler stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to look at him. “She doesn’t remember what happened. She doesn’t even remember arriving here on Mariposa. Her last memory is of the airport in Miami.”

      “Because of the bump on her head?”

      Kipler didn’t answer right away, gazing down the hall. “The doctor doesn’t think the injury should have been enough to cause amnesia,” he finally admitted in a hushed voice.

      “Which means what?”

      Kipler’s gaze swung around to clash with his. “Are you a reporter?”

      Maddox frowned. “No.”

      “You certainly ask a lot of questions.”

      “I like to be prepared.” Maddox lowered his voice as well. “I’m here out of the kindness of my heart, because your client wants to talk to me. And because right now, I don’t have a good reason to say no. But it won’t take much to change that.”

      Kipler glanced down the hall again. “Promise me you won’t upset her.”

      “I don’t plan to.”

      Kipler’s mouth tightened again, but he didn’t respond except to motion Maddox to follow him down the corridor. They stopped in front of a closed door with a brass plaque engraved with the number 312. “She said to send you in alone.” Kipler looked queasy, obviously not happy about that directive.

      Maddox entered the hospital room. It was a semiprivate room, all the hospital offered, but the bed nearest the door was empty. He crossed to the second bed, where Celia Shore lay propped on pillows, bandages wrapped around her head and wrists. The bed sheets hid her ankles but he guessed they were probably bandaged, as well. Her eyes were closed,