Paula Graves - Forbidden Touch

"No, I haven't."

"I need to find out more about who they are and if they're somehow connected to what's happened to Sandrine. You got a minute to do an Internet search for me?"

"Don't start playing Nancy Drew with this. Iris. Take the next flight home and let the police handle it."

"They're not handling it, and I don't think they will unless there's someone here to push them into it, I have to stay, at least a few more days. I'll be careful, I promise."

"No, you won't. You never are."

Iris couldn't blame Lily for thinking so, she'd always had an impetuous streak to go along with her insatiable curiosity. But the last couple of years had taken a toll on her impulsive tendencies. She couldn't afford to take too many chances; her body wouldn't hold up.

But Lily didn't know that. Iris hadn't told either of her sisters just how bad the pain had become. Her younger sister. Rose, was still a newlywed who deserved a little uninterrupted happiness, and Lily was eight and a half months pregnant with her first child and didn't need any added stress. Iris couldn't burden either of them yet. Not until she figured out how to stop the pain from rendering her an invalid.

"Lily, please. I just need you to do a quick Web search."

Lily exhaled audibly. "Cassandra Society, you said?"

"Thanks. I'll call you back in ten minutes."

TEN minutes later, Lily told Iris all she'd found, which was next to nothing. "It's mentioned on a few paranormal Web sites, but none of them really say much about the society and what it's about. Do you want me to read what the pages say?"

"No, thanks." Iris said, hearing weariness in Lily's voice. "How's Mc Bride Junior?" The baby Lily was carrying was a boy.

"Playing soccer with my bladder as we speak."

The joy in her sister's voice brought tears to Iris's eyes. She didn't begrudge Lily a minute's happiness-God knew, she'd earned it-but she couldn't help feeling sorry for herself at the same time. Her sisters had found something she'd begun to fear she could never have in her own life.

She cleared her throat. "Lily, I'd better go-"

"Please reconsider catching the next flight out of there."

"Just a few more days. Lily."

Lily sighed. "All right. I'll see if McBride has ever heard of the Cassandra Society, Okay?'

"Okay."

Her brother-in-law was a policeman. If the Cassandra Society wasn't legit, he might know about it.

"Just stay safe, okay?" Lily said, "It's bad enough that Rose has gone all crime fighter on us-"

"Love you, Lily. Talk to you soon."

Iris rang off, tucked her phone in her purse and slumped on her bed, glancing at her travel alarm clock. Almost two. Still plenty of daylight left if she felt like venturing out for another round of "Have you seen this woman?" Or maybe she could start looking for an Internet cafe and look up more on the Cassandra Society herself.

Maddox slumped back against his desk chair, his eyes narrowing as he read through Celia Shore's bio and a rundown of her claim to psychic fame. She listed several mid-tier actors as satisfied clients, and her photo page included images from television and red carpet appearances.

What the hell did a woman like that want from him?

He glanced at the clock over the piano. Just after two. He'd been in Mariposa long enough to adjust to living on island time, but somehow, he didn't think the same could be said of Mr. Charles Kipler. If he wanted to reach the hospital by two-thirty, he had to get moving.

He was tempted to call back and blow it off. But he couldn't shake the feeling that meeting Celia Shore was important. He'd learned long ago not to ignore his instincts.

Iris never imagined she'd have reason to contact "Maddox" again. But her search for an Internet cafe with computer terminals 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 cafe, but her interest perked up at the mention of Maddox's name.

"You want to find Maddox. Go talk to that crazy Claudell at the Beachcomber. He knows everything. But don't fall for his lines. Maddox'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 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 dread locked 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 upon 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. lgnacio 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."