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Forbidden Touch
Paula Graves
He was a hardened former marine with a guarded past…until one touch from Iris Browning became his undoing. Thanks to the raven-haired beauty, reclusive millionaire Maddox Heller found himself back in the line of fire, chasing down an elusive killer who'd made Iris his next target. She claimed not to know why, and every instinct told Maddox to believe her.Still, trusting this virtual stranger seemed risky, especially as their relationship grew increasingly personal. Now, as ghosts from the past threatened to destroy the present, would one forbidden touch bring pleasure…or pain?
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 Iris.” She managed a tight smile.
“Nice to meet you, Iris. That’s another pretty name.”
She ignored the compliment. “Are you here on vacation?”
“No, ma’am, I live here year-round.”
“Because Georgia just wasn’t hot enough for you?”
“In the summer Georgia’s hotter than here.” He slumped deeper in the tiny café chair. “It’s nice year-round here in Mariposa. Never so hot that a sea breeze can’t perk you up and never so cool that you need to wear socks with your flip-flops.”
“How does one support oneself on a tropical island?” she asked, giving in to a twinge of curiosity.
“One lives off one’s trust fund, sugar.” He laughed. “Or odd jobs. Whichever is available.”
“What odd jobs do you do?”
“Don’t think I look like the trust fund type?”
She flushed, embarrassed by her assumption. “I’m sorry—”
“I do security work. Here and there.”
Mysterious, she thought, her wariness returning. She’d grown too relaxed over the past few minutes. Not smart, dropping her guard all alone in a strange place.
“Have you talked to the police about your friend?” Maddox asked after another long swig of water.
The question disarmed her a bit. “They didn’t seem terribly concerned. They said she’s a grown-up, it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet—”
“Blah blah blah,” he finished with a sympathetic nod. “How about family and other friends? Did you check with them?”
“She doesn’t have a family, and I don’t know that much about her life or who her other friends are.” She could tell her answer confused him, so she continued. “Sandrine is a friend from college. We live in different states now. We do talk on the phone now and then, but I don’t know much about her life and she doesn’t know about mine. That’s part of what this weekend was going to be about—catching up.”
“Well, maybe it still will be,” Maddox said. “In fact, I bet when you get back to the hotel, your friend’ll be waitin’ for you with some crazy story about how she got waylaid.”
Iris wished she could believe him. But the sense of unease that had hit her the second she stepped from the plane in Sebastian had grown to full-blown foreboding, as palpable as the pain still pulsing up and down her spine.
“You don’t buy that, do you?” Maddox murmured.
“Sandrine’s levelheaded. She wouldn’t go off with someone she’d just met, and she wouldn’t have blown off meeting me at the airport when she worked so hard to talk me into this trip.” Iris looked down at Sandrine’s face in the photo, the ever-present smile and the sparkle of mischief in her green eyes. “And then I think about that missing girl over in—”
“Don’t go there yet.” Maddox reached across the table and brushed the back of her hand with his fingertips. Once again she experienced a strange, dark sensation spiral up her arm from the point of contact. The emotion it evoked inside her remained frustratingly nebulous—dark, painful but undefined.
She forced herself not to pull her hand away this time.
“How about the U.S. consulate?” he asked, sliding his hand away. “Have you checked with anybody there?”
“They suggested I call the police.” She picked up Sandrine’s photo and put it in the front pocket of her purse. “What do I owe you for the water, Mr. Maddox?”
“Just Maddox. No mister. And the water’s on me.”
“Thank you.” When she stood, he stood with her, the polite gesture at odds with his scruffy appearance.
“I hope you find your friend.” He sounded sincere. “Tell you what—when she turns up, bring her down here and I’ll buy you both a drink. Just ask for Mad Dog. Everybody knows me.”
She inclined her head toward him and headed out of the café. The sun slammed into her head like a ninety-degree sledgehammer, sapping her remaining energy as she trudged toward the beach, where the Hotel St. George hovered like a pale pink jewel over the cobalt-blue waters of Cutler’s Bay.
