Forbidden Touch

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, her expression placid, but Maddox was pretty sure she wasn’t asleep.

“Tryin’ to read my mind?” he murmured.

Her eyes opened slowly. “Just resting.”

And trying to present a pretty picture to the grubby islander, Maddox added silently. He hid his cynicism and pulled up the armchair stashed in the corner of the room. “Your cabana boy said you wanted to see me.”

Her lips quirked. “I take it Charles didn’t make a good impression?”

He ignored the question. “I hear you can’t remember how you ended up on the beach.”

“I remember nothing since transferring planes in Miami.”

“Mr. Kipler traveled with you?” He tried not to imply anything with the question.

“We had business to discuss.”

And a phone conference just wouldn’t do, Maddox supposed, getting a little clearer picture of the kind of woman he was dealing with. “What would you have done if Chuck out there hadn’t been able to make it?” Maddox asked.

“That wasn’t a possibility.”

Maddox felt sorry for Charles Kipler all over again.

“What I came here to do was business-related. I wanted Charles nearby if I needed him. That’s what he’s paid for.” Celia gave him a pointed look. “You don’t have to approve.”

The woman might or might not be psychic, but she was perceptive. He’d been trying hard not to show his distaste for her attitude. “Fair enough. Unlike Chuck, I don’t have to be here, though. So tell me what you wanted to tell me and we can be done.”

“I saw you leaving with a woman this morning at the beach. I need to know how to contact her.”

Maddox sat back in the chair, surprised. “Why?”

“I wanted to thank her for her aid this morning.”

Maddox wasn’t quite buying that excuse, but he played along. “I don’t know her that well. She’s a tourist.”

“You normally put your arm around tourists you don’t know well?” Celia arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“The heat got to her. I helped her get somewhere cool.”

“Aren’t you the Good Samaritan?” The other well-shaped eyebrow rose to join the first. “Where’d you take her?”

“I’m not at liberty to supply you with that information.”

“I can make it worth your while.”

He chuckled. “Lady, I’m not for sale. Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll try to find her for you and tell her you want to see her. Then it’ll be up to her. That work for you?”

He could tell she wasn’t entirely pleased. Probably wasn’t used to being at the mercy of other people’s whims. But she finally nodded her assent. “I’ll be released from the hospital tomorrow. If I don’t hear from you or your tourist friend by then, I’ll have Charles contact you with our location.”

“So you’re staying on the island?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. I came here for business. I intend to keep to my schedule as much as possible.”

Maddox stood. “Well, I really am glad you’re feelin’ better. I hope the police can find out what happened to you.”

“Thank you. And despite what you seem to think, I am grateful for your help this morning.” She turned her head toward the window and closed her eyes, ending the conversation. He took the hint and left the hospital room.

Outside, Charles Kipler was pacing in front of the door. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s spiffy, Chuck.” Maddox gave a polite nod and headed for the elevators.

Out in the parking lot, the Harley was where he’d left it. The guard in the kiosk gave a wave, and Maddox waved back before straddling the bike and strapping on his helmet.

He headed south toward the St. George, trying to figure out how to approach Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist with Celia Shore’s request. From what little he knew of Iris, she’d probably volunteer to camp out in the woman’s room just in case she needed help. Fortunately, he could assure her that Celia had Chuck the Cabana Boy to fetch and carry.

Maybe he was wrong about Iris. Maybe her friend had finally turned up and Iris was out on the beach right this minute catching some sun. Maybe she wouldn’t give a damn that Celia Shore wanted to talk to her.

But his gut told him he wasn’t wrong. Iris had Goody Two-shoes written all over her.

As he slowed at a crosswalk on Seville Street near the club district, he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw Claudell standing in the doorway of the Beachcomber.

“Mad Dog!” Claudell flapped a bar towel at him to get his attention.

Maddox drew the Harley to the curb. “What now, Claudell?”

“Woman come lookin’ for you. Name Iris.”

Anticipation fluttered through Maddox’s chest, catching him by surprise. Ignoring it, he pulled off his helmet. “You didn’t take any of her money, did you?”

“No, sir. I figure you wanna see a pretty girl like that. I tell her you probably at the Tropico.”

“Damn it, Claudell, you sent that girl to the Tropico?” Anxiety washed into Maddox’s gut on a wave of acid.

“You know them guys not gonna give her no trouble. She safer down there than up at the Tremaine.”

Claudell was wrong. Iris wasn’t safe alone anywhere, not in her fragile condition. “If she gets hurt, I’m comin’ after you, Claudell.”

Stomach clenching, Maddox whipped back onto the street, weaving through the haphazard traffic congesting Seville. A couple of blocks down, he took a left, heading into a seedier part of the club district.

FROM THE OUTSIDE, the Tropico looked like a dive. Flaking paint on the clapboard facade suggested that at some point, the place had been painted a lively mango-yellow, but the color had long since faded under the tropical sun. A single wood door sagged off-kilter in the storefront, about as uninviting an entryway as Iris had ever seen.

Figured a guy like Maddox would frequent a place like this.

The street was dark and growing darker, a dilapidated two-story building across the street casting shadows on the scene. A glance at her watch told her it was nearly four. She was running out of time before the cocktail party. Taking a deep breath, she opened the sagging door and stepped inside the bar.

The bar’s interior looked as disreputable as the outside. A scuffed wooden bar took up the far end. Rickety shelves lining the walls behind the serving area were laden with dusty, half-full bottles that looked to be on the verge of tumbling off the shelves and shattering on the grungy concrete floor.

Several customers—all men—turned at the sound of the door opening. Most of them wore jeans and faded T-shirts stretched over bulging muscles or bulging bellies. Tattoos darkened their arms and necks and even faces.

It was a biker bar, Iris realized with a combination of fascination and dismay. Who knew there were biker bars in the Caribbean?

A large black man with a snake tattoo coiled around his neck stepped away from the billiard table wedged into a cramped space on the left side of the bar. “You lost, missy?”

She debated asking for Maddox, but he clearly wasn’t here, and she didn’t need to be here, either. “Must have taken a wrong turn,” she murmured and backed out of the bar.

The empty feeling that had begun to fade as she approached the Tropico slammed into her chest the moment she stepped into the street. Reeling from the sensation, she groped for the wall, the rough clapboard scraping her palms. She slumped against the bar front, trying to regain her equilibrium.

“Miss?” The raspy masculine voice was tinged with a foreign accent.

She jerked upright, opening her eyes.

A pair of hazel eyes stared back at her from a craggy face only inches away. It took a second to realize she’d seen the man before. He was the sandy-haired man with the Vandyke beard she’d seen earlier outside the café, talking on a cell phone.

“What do you want?” she asked, apprehension clenching her heart.

The man bent closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I may know something about your missing friend.”

Iris stared at him, suspiciously. Had he been following her? “What are you talking about?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

“My friend Hana Kuipers was at the St. George for the conference, too,” he said. “She disappeared yesterday, just like your friend Miss Beck.”

Iris couldn’t tamp down a flutter of hope. But before she could speak, the door of the Tropico opened, and an enormous Mariposan biker emerged, his gaze moving immediately to the bearded man.

“You botherin’ the lady?” The biker towered over the man.

The bearded man shook his head. “I’m just talking to her.”

The biker stepped forward menacingly. “Go back to fancy town, Dutchman.”

Iris slumped against the wall of the bar, overcome by the fierce anger coming from the biker. The bearded man looked her way, his eyes darkening. For the first time, the sense of emptiness around the bearded man disappeared, filled in by a flutter of emotion she thought might be concern.

She looked up at him, releasing a small hiss of surprise.

The emotion cut off immediately, as if she’d suddenly run headfirst into a brick wall. The bearded man’s gaze shifted.

The biker lunged suddenly, driving the bearded man against the front wall of the bar. The impact made the clapboard rattle. As the biker reared back to deliver a punch, the bearded man rolled to the side in one nimble movement. The biker’s hand slammed into the clapboard, splintering the wood. He yelped in pain.

Iris gasped as shattering pain sped through her hand. She pressed her fist into her belly, trying not to cry out.

The bearded man delivered a pair of vicious jabs to the biker’s kidney, grunting with satisfaction at the man’s howl of pain. The biker slid face-first down the wall, landing on his knees. Iris fell with him, her back aching in sympathy.

The bearded man knelt by Iris. She stared at him, realizing he was no ordinary tourist. “Who are you?”

He didn’t answer. The door to the Tropico was opening, about to spill a dozen of the Creole biker’s comrades to join the fray. Somewhere down the street, a feral growl of a motorcycle approached, getting louder.

The bearded man gave Iris one last look and took off running.

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