Forbidden Touch. Пола Грейвс
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.
The closer she got to the beach, the stronger the smell of the sea, sharp and salty in the breeze that lifted her hair and dried the perspiration beading on her forehead and arms. But mingled with the sea air, an undercurrent of misery lingered. It weighted on Iris as she neared the palm-studded beach stretching for a mile around the bay.
Someone was out there. Someone in agony. Physical pain, sharp and specific, etched phantom slashes along the skin of Iris’s wrists and ankles. A throbbing pain bloomed in the back of her skull, blinding in its intensity.
Her vision blurred, the world around her beginning to spin out of control. She groped for something to hold on to, something to keep her from pitching forward into the street, but there was nothing. Nothing but the blare of car horns and a muted cacophony of voices.
And pain. Knee-buckling, back-bending pain.
She crumpled to her knees, the sting of the rough pavement on her bare flesh little more than a twinge against the onslaught of agony racing circles around her nervous system.
She tried to lift her head, tried to regain her bearings, but nothing around her looked real or recognizable. It was as if the pain itself had become tangible, a red mist surrounding her, blinding her to everything else around her.
In the heart of that mist, a man’s voice called her name.
MADDOX HELLER kept his distance behind the pale wraith of a woman who’d interrupted his morning, trying not to think too long or hard about why he was venturing out into the mid-morning heat to follow a tourist to her hotel. Sure, she was pretty enough—or would be if she didn’t look like death walking—but Mariposa was full of pretty women, more than a few of whom wouldn’t kick him out of bed for snoring. So why was he so interested in Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist and her woeful little tale?
Hell, Mad Dog, maybe you’re just bored.
Two years in paradise might seem like heaven to some folks, but there was only so much sunshine and sea air a man could take before he needed something different to occupy his thoughts.
After Kaziristan—
He stopped short. No revisiting Kaziristan. That was rule number one of Maddox’s new life. He’d wasted a year wallowing in what-ifs after Kaziristan. Damn near drove him insane.
A block ahead, Iris the Jet-lagged Tourist suddenly pitched forward, hitting the pavement hard, knees first. Maddox’s heart lurched into double time and he sprinted toward her, splitting his attention between Iris and the crowd around her. Like any tourist mecca, Mariposa had its share of thieves and pickpockets. A likely suspect was already lurking, a wiry boy in his late teens on a bicycle.
“Iris!” he called, closing the distance between them.
He saw Iris groping